Caravan of the Lost and Left Behind

by Deirdre Shanahan

  They moved off onto the main road to town. ‘I could go far. Could go anywhere in this. God, the road is rough, all lumps, they never bother making them up. The corporation does nothing but make a fuss over the likes of us. This car gives us a great run.’

  ‘This seat’s wonky.’

  ‘Never mind, so long as you can still sit. Is your mother all right in the back, there? The main thing is, it’ll take us places.’

  ‘I am. I’m grand. It’s great to be getting a lift and not relying on the old buses,’ his mum said.

  ‘It is. And I’m looking forward to going out to this bit of the country I’ve not been in before.’

  Held up behind tractors, slowing for bikes, his grandad hunched over the wheel, peering out the window. Reaching the town, he headed for the square and dropped them off.

  ‘I’ll see you here later,’ his grandad said. ‘I’ll be taking a good look around myself.’

  ‘We’ll take a look this way,’ his mum said, setting off.

  Torin trailed after her. Shops spilt out bright yellow plastic pails and red spades, sticks of rock and sunhats: leftovers from the summer, remnants from other people’s holidays. Her lavender blouse and red scarf were too obvious. He did not want to be seen with her, partly because of the smudges of mascara around her eyes but mostly because she was his mum. A policeman strolled ahead. They were out to get him. Searching. Asking in all the shops. He had to steer out of their way.

  ‘It’s a fine day. A breath of the sea air in it. Are you pleased with them trainers? Though they don’t look strong.’ She glanced down. ‘Useless and dainty, like a woman’s shoe. They’ll never last.’

  He slowed, wanting to run back the way they had come.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, dawdling? Come on.’

  The policeman had paused, talking to two old ladies weighed down by shopping. This was it. He could run for it or…or…What the hell could he do, only keep going and walk past? The policeman broke into a huge laugh with the two old ladies.

  ‘If they’re what you want for your birthday, fine by me. Seventeen. A lovely age. I remember the night you were born. Four in the morning in the Whittington.’

  He hung behind while she walked on, full of the past. ‘And I’d a party when you were three, at the back of a pub in Harland Street. It had a patch of a garden and the woman at the bar arranged balloons tied to the chairs. D’you remember?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’ He checked over his shoulder. The policeman was still talking and one of the old ladies had grasped his arm and was laughing as well.

  He recalled more clearly the year before, when he and his mates got out of their heads in the cemetery at the back of Kensal Green, trying to keep out of the way of the cops. They would be out, roaming. Going up the city. Knocking around, journeying over to Tottenham or further, at the snooker hall or arcades, making the city and playing it the way they wanted.

  ‘Come on,’ she called. ‘We’ll take a stroll around a few more shops.’

  Neat windows and shop-fronts ranged: cafés with Formica tables, gift shops, clothes shops with reduced items, newsagents and bars. Outside Maguire’s bar, she paused. If she wanted to go in, he wouldn’t.

  ‘I won’t be long.’ She rummaged in her battered fake leather bag, dragging a compact from the depths. She flicked it open, fixed a wedge of eyeliner across her lids and brushed on light blue eye shadow. He could not work out why she bothered. It only made her look worse. Or if not worse, older. In London, she slept most of the morning, before going out along the High Road in silky shawls, high heels, her nails painted, alert to the possibilities of the coming evening. She did not fit in there, and did not fit in here. ‘Good. That’s better.’ She snapped shut the compact.

  As they walked past a row of houses she pointed out hotels, Cushlawn and Moy Plain. They had iron balconies, flower pots, and fancy porches with neat doors and lace round the windows.

  ‘I’d a friend, a maid in a big hotel in Kensington. She used to serve tea in a silver pot on a little cloth and was always saying I must call in and she’d treat me like all them other fancy ladies, but I never did and then she moved on to a place out the country…’

  They passed shops selling clothes, shoes, a hairdresser and a luxury upholsterers. She peered through the large glass windows, smoky with reflection.

  ‘Isn’t it a wonder? The style of the chairs. I’d love a one like that.’

  The men’s shop across the street had a display of jackets and trousers. He crossed to it. Special offers. Three pairs of jeans for the price of two. As good as ones in Shepherd’s Bush market. He would come back when he had got the money. He crossed back. He could not see her. He ran down the street but she was not in any of the shops. He ran up and turned right, coming down the other side. He looked through the door of two bars but she was not in there. He glanced up an alley between two shops. Shadowed and narrow, it caught him. A tall man stepped out of a doorway. He pulled on his jacket. Big Ian. Had to be. He had lost weight. It had to be him. He opened a packet of cigarettes and checked his phone. His thick quiff of blonde hair gave him away. Not Ian. Could not possibly be. Torin shivered and turned back to the street, oily with fear. He had lost time as well as his nerve. She could be anywhere.

  She could not get far in high heels. Perhaps she had fallen. She might be lost. She might have asked a cop for help. He ran on.

  A woman appeared in the distance sitting by the gates of a park. His mother.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he gulped, out of breath, reaching the bench where she sat, full of contentment.

  Knotted and tight with anxiety, he was pleased to see her and angry.

  ‘What’s the hurry? I was taking a walk.’

  ‘What are these?’ He dug at the bulging plastic bags.

  ‘A few things, only.’

  He pulled out a tiny soft pink baby-grow. A yellow jumpsuit had a little pocket at the top in the shape of a horse. Pale green trousers dangled from his hand.

  ‘What’ve you been doing?’

  ‘Watch those things.’ Her voice was worn. Whatever it was she had been up to had tired her out. She bent down and held a lemon fleece jacket up to her cheek. Tears had dried stickily on her cheek. ‘I was only thinking.’ She wiped her eyes with her cuff.

  ‘Thinking of what, for Christ sake?’ He bent to gather the rest of the dainty garments but the arms and legs of the baby-grows were rebellious and difficult to control. ‘Let’s get this tidied.’ He gathered coats the size of his arm, a pair of mittens, a white cap and bootees into a bag. He had never seen clothes so small. He wanted to shove them in the plastic bag and dump them.

  ‘You’ll get nicked. We’ll both be had,’ he said.

  Months back, Marcus had passed him stacks of mobile phones from warehouses, packs of cigarettes, silk ties, and once one of his mates rang him to look at a lorry-load of leather jackets and shoes from Spain. Marcus had been quick on his feet. The phones were scattered before questions were asked. They made a small pile of money out of the lot, but what was the point of these?

  ‘Nobody saw me. You’re making an awful fuss. And you’re giving me a headache. Leave off. All my lovely things spilt.’

  ‘Why’ve you got them?’

  ‘I need them.’

  ‘Need them for what?’ He pushed a lemon jacket and pink leggings into another bag. She was getting more stupid the longer they stayed. ‘We don’t know anyone who needs these.’

  A middle-aged man made his way along the gravel path towards them. He was dapper, his movements quick and neat as his goatee beard. He peered through thick glasses and raised his hat. Torin had never seen anyone do this before.

  ‘You all right there, Missus?’ the man called.

  ‘Look at what you’ve done,’ she hissed.

  ‘It’s your fault. Those bags’d make any one suspicious. He’s probably a
store detective.’

  ‘He is not. They don’t have them here.’ She kicked a bag under the bench.

  ‘How d’you know? He must’ve seen the load on the floor. He’s not blind.’

  Stiff with anxiety, Torin did not know why she took such risks. Surely she had put this caper behind her? He had hoped she was too busy and too sensible. The truth he knew was, she was not like the mothers of his mates who stayed in and cooked meals, there for them. He bent to gather in clothes which strayed out of the bag.

  ‘They didn’t used to have them. Shut up. He’s nearly on top of us.’

  ‘You’ve a big load. Would you like a hand?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No,’ Torin tried to edge her away.

  ‘It’s happy for you, shopping for wee things,’ the man continued.

  He was too polite. They had to get away before he became suspicious.

  ‘They’re for a friend.’ She pulled at the bags, drawing them in.

  ‘Whenever the happy day is, I’m sure the child will bring great joy. My sister has six and though it’s hard work, she never lets a day pass without thanking God he blessed her.’

  ‘Thanks, but we must… be on our way.’ She adopted a rare politeness as she struggled to gather the bags and the man walked off.

  ‘Come on.’ Torin took her arm.

  ‘All right. What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘Look at what you’ve got us into. He might go to the police,’ Torin said as he pulled her along.

  ‘He would not. He’s too nice.’

  ‘How do we know? Hurry.’

  She slumped glumly onto the narrow seat in the shelter at the bus stop. No one came. His grandad must have forgotten. Or got lost, if he hadn’t been here before. Or he might be in a bar. He might even have gone without them. Worry niggled and strained in his chest.

  ‘How are you? Did you have a good look around?’ His grandfather slowed to a halt and wound down his window. ‘Hop in sharp-like, or there’ll be a pile of cars behind. Did you get the things you wanted, Eva?’

  ‘I did. Thanks.’

  Freed from the tight knit of roads, they were on their way. Torin sank in the front seat. His mum used to nick things when he was young, but not as much as this and not stuff she couldn’t use. She couldn’t even sell them on. They went around bends at speed without any heed for oncoming traffic.

  ‘Are you all right in the back, Eva?’

  ‘I am, Dad. Fine out.’

  They hurtled along but the road looked different. The houses were not the ones they had passed earlier. They had not passed the school with the mural on the wall. Or the parade of shops with the tattoo parlour on the corner.

  ‘Where’s this?’ Torin asked.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ his grandfather said.

  ‘Are we lost?’ Torin asked.

  ‘Course we’re not. Did you never want to take a good look at a place and drive around it?’

  ‘We want to get back, Grandad’

  He did not want to be on the road a minute longer than was needed.

  ‘I might’ve taken a wrong turning. Only the one. You’re hanging on like a scared pup. It’s great to be out, looking around. I do never usually get the chance to see towns. What do you think of round here, Torin? Reckon you’ll stick it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s hope your mother does, because she can’t be forever roaming the globe. I hope she doesn’t go wandering off, getting lost the way she used. You see yonder? The mountainy parts. The kind of place, when she was younger than yourself, she’d be out on, whatever bit of the county we landed up in. We never knew where she was. Most often I’d find her, hours later. And I could, for I was the same, with a love of the open space. You wouldn’t know what bit of a field she would be on or whether she would be scaling the rocks high up. She’d make my heart burst, the places I’d have to go after her.’

  On a more familiar road, Torin relaxed. A straight run back. Until. A knock. A low, rumbling thunder against the side of the van.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ his grandfather said.

  ‘Like something is dragging or fallen off.’

  ‘It’s nothing. Probably only the exhaust.’

  ‘Something’s come off,’ Torin said.

  ‘I don’t know how. Everything was fine when we started.’

  A heavy smell. Petrol. A dog ran in front of the car. They had surely hit it. Yet in the mirror, the dog barked and jumped in the middle of the road.

  ‘Slow down,’ he yelled.

  ‘Jesus,’ his mum said. ‘I feel awful giddy.’

  ‘Look at the speed. You’re doing over eighty,’ Torin said.

  ‘Nothing at all. Them dogs are always in the way.’

  He drove with a force.

  ‘Stop,’ Torin shouted.

  Over his shoulder, a tall black girl with a head of tight curls jumped onto the verge, a flurry of a skirt swirling around her long legs. The car slowed, swerved into a bend. She raised her head, her smooth skin glowing as she frowned.

  ‘The girl,’ he said.

  She stared after them, her hand raised to her brow, shading out the light.

  ‘What are you makin’ a fuss about? There’s nothing wrong with my driving. It’s herself who should’ve been looking out. I’m only trying to give you a good time. Amn’t I tellin’ you the girl must’ve jumped out from the edge of the road. She should’ve been looking where she was going. I slowed right down,’ his grandad said.

  ‘Not till it was too late,’ he said, fear shivering through.

  ‘You’re exaggerating. You’re a keen boy but you’re not so smart over your old grandad.’

  ‘What’s going on there?’ His mum pulled the plastic bags onto her knees.

  His grandad jabbed on the brake, hard, and held it down. The air spun with speed as the car slid to a startling halt. The car was off the road at an angle, on the verge. If anything had happened. If.

  Torin pushed open his door and got out.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he snapped in at the window on his grandfather’s side.

  ‘I am.’ His grandad’s voice was thin and whispery as he leant forward, rubbing the length of his right leg. ‘If you get out, Eva, I can get the car on the road again.’

  Torin’s heart raced. If they had been a second faster… If the police had been called… Either the girl had been quick enough to dodge out of the path of the car or his grandad had seen her in time. He breathed hard with relief. Shit. No sooner here than getting involved with the police. His grandad might be the undoing of him.

  He opened the door for his mum and they stood on the grassy verge as his grandad edged the car up and onto the road. The engine growled. He was hot and cold. Sweating all over. He looked over his shoulder. She had gone. Fled. Must have thought the driver was crazy. She had slipped from them as easily as she might have gone under the wheels, but he saw her face. The questioning gaze.

  4

  Gone midnight, light from other windows shone through the flimsy curtains, keeping him awake. Girls from the trailer next door passed by, wearing necklaces which glowed. If he was out there, it would mean being with his mum. A thud. The old woman from next door, making her way from the toilets, or the man with stringy grey hair in the trailer across the path. He slept most of the day and rambled around at night, knocking into things or cursing the water pipe for its poor flow. Footsteps in the dark. Someone after him. Following. Waiting. But the footsteps passed into the night and away.

  A voice approached: ‘Far away from the mountains, far away from the foam… This step’ll kill me. Let me in, can’t you?’ She pushed the door open. Droplets of blood flowered on her hand.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing bu
t a graze on my knee.’

  ‘You’ve been out nearly every evening, since we arrived. And drinking.’

  ‘I have not. I’ve only had a wee drop to wet my lips.’ She loosened the stole from her shoulders. ‘Blast it and a hole in my tights as well. Have we a plaster? Give a look in the tin.’ With her foot she pushed a rusty biscuit tin from under the bed towards him. Over the last couple of weeks she had slept late in the day, livening up in the evenings, determined to go out.

  ‘Here,’ he said.

  ‘Them high heels. Not a one’d help.’ She kicked off the shoes. He supported her and managed to get her to sit. ‘You’re like your grandad, all fuss.’

  ‘You’ll probably be ill in bed with a cold.’

  ‘Suits me fine out. Would there be a man with it?’ she said with a low, gutsy laugh.

  ‘D’you think grandad’ll find us a bigger trailer?’

  ‘I don’t know. This isn’t so bad. It’s done us so far. We have to be grateful. And what harm is it, anyways, living here? It’s warm and we’re looked after. But I must be quiet or I’ll wake the old fella. He’ll be roarin’.’

  ‘He isn’t back yet.’

  ‘He must’ve got stuck into a good night of it, then. Fair do’s to him. I wish I could’ve, and not to be coming along wounded.’ She struggled out of her dress, her arms stretching up as she wriggled and fought the arm-holes.

  ‘Put out your arms.’

  He let slip the zip. A bruise, a purple cloud on the thin pale skin of her thigh showed when she yanked up the dress. Her face twisted with pain, from the fall or remembering, he could not tell. She removed her tights and loosened her underclothes.

  ‘I ran into a fella from Dingle, nice looking with fair hair. He lent me ten euros, said he was a plumber and thinking of building a house. Do they have plumbers in Dingle? I never heard of one. He’d lovely brown eyes and an earring on him.’ Underarm hair fuzzed as she pulled a nightdress over her head. ‘I’d have had an easier time if I’d headed for America. The gadgets there do save a woman’s body. Put on a bit of music, for there’s nothing else to make me feel better.’