by Shawna Lewis
“Righto. We passed the Ladies’ on the way in. I’ll show you.”
Taking her elbow, she helped Dorothy to her feet and steered her towards the café’s exit.
“I need to get something from the van,” she muttered as she walked away.
Minutes later Dorothy reached the front of the queue in the Ladies’ and settled herself in a cubicle. She became aware of a conversation by the washbasins; one of the voices sounded like Belinda Lowe’s. Then there was silence, except for the sounds of running water and super-fast hand driers.
Eventually, she emerged from her cubicle, washed her hands and slid them between the blowers. Turning, she noticed the blue and yellow placard on its broomstick handle leaning against the wall.
Her gasp caught the attention of a young woman at the front of the queue. “A woman with short hair left it there. She said someone would know it was hers…” she trailed off.
Dorothy’s palpitations returned. She grabbed the broom handle to support herself and tottered out muttering, “I need some air.”
The women in the queue tutted at one another before silence returned. Dorothy struggled past the café to reach the exit. On the concourse, her placard caught the wind and the eyes of a few people as they scurried past, but no one stopped.
Hundreds of vehicles were parked in front of her, but few motorhomes were apparent. Belinda must mean her to proclaim her message to the travellers, she surmised. Lifting the placard higher, she began in a wavering voice,
“Rejoice with Jesus! Let him take your burdens from you so you may be born again into righteousness!”
The comers-and-goers gave her a wider berth as her tone became more desperate. Where was Belinda? Where was she?
Bel was in the driver’s seat of the Safari Supremo, considering her options. Decided, she started the engine and revved around the car-park, giving the aged evangelist a toot on the horn as she sped past, en route for the westbound carriageway. The toot attracted Dorothy’s attention as the motorhome disappeared from view.
Veined legs buckling beneath her, the old woman sank slowly onto the damp, grey flagstones. She could only wait for Jesus to take her home.
*
As the Safari Supremo rejoined the motorway, a dark grey Honda which had seen better days entered the service area from the eastbound carriageway. The three travellers, all wearing dog collars beneath their casual jackets, were returning to their circuits in the eastern counties from a Vocation course on Safeguarding near Wigan. In the back seat, the Reverend Michael Batty was bursting to share wonderful, personal news with his fellow clergymen, but for fear of intruding, waited patiently for a suitable pause in the discussion of the course’s relevance.
Having been persuaded by his wife that every modern clergyman must possess an up-to-date, mobile electronic multi-function device, Michael had recently become a fan of the text message, deeming them, he considered, more cost effective and less intrusive than actual calls. This day, as the Honda travelled eastwards past the outskirts of Manchester, Michael’s phone had beeped. He knew just enough of the device’s workings to appreciate that the sound signalled receipt of a text message, and after pressing several wrong buttons, managed to open it.
“DONE A PREGNANCY TEST. POSITIVE. HALLELUJAH! M XX.”
A few days earlier, Marina had commented that she was putting on weight, but neither of them ever dared hope that they would be blessed with a child at their time of life. They had never spoken about it. It would have been greedy to want more than the love and fulfilment they had found so tardily. Yet there was no mistaking the meaning of the text.
Michael was almost afraid to rejoice; memories of the loss of Sylvie and their child swirled in his head at the same time as joy and thankfulness at this second chance of parenthood. As the driver of the Honda searched for a space to park, conversation in the car paused just long enough for him to say,
“I’ve just heard that my wife is pregnant!”
Before leaving the vehicle, the colleagues shared a prayer of gratitude before walking inside, past the Rejoice with Jesus! placard leaning against a wall. A small crowd had gathered round something on the concourse, but in their excitement at the wonderful news and the proximity of tea and cakes, the clergymen paid scant attention.
*
She took a break at Birch Services, then kept her foot down all the way to the North Wales coast road.
As the traffic eased, she began to reflect on Dorothy’s story. It was sad, without doubt. She was touched by Mum and Dad’s kindness to their friend in her grief; by the way her father had faced up to the thuggish Wilf. How could anyone threaten to beat up Dad? He was kind. He was gentle and long-suffering. He knew right from wrong. He had not run away when threatened. Like Doug, who had not run away when his business was struggling. Like Aidan, who had taken pity on an abandoned woman and brought her into their own home… or tried to. But she couldn’t be like them. She had no more strength left. She had to keep driving.
The smoke-grey sea on her right, patched with charcoal and navy, glinted and sparkled as the clouds scudded across the sun. The further west she went, the more she anticipated the embrace of the mountains on her left until, leaving the main road at last, she found the lane that led up high to the special place, the place where the treecreeper lived its quiet life, where the water flowed damply over the moss-blocked mill-race and the stones whispered the message, “Welcome home!”
She pulled the vehicle into a clearing until it was invisible to passers-by on the track. Cutting the engine, Bel lay back, closed her eyes and inhaled deeply.
They would never find her here.