Jam (3 page)

‘I doubt it. I doubt their brains work fast enough.'

‘Max, please. I'd be worried sick if it was my child.'

‘Well, you're not exactly known for your level-headedness.'

‘Perhaps we should try and borrow someone's phone.'

‘Whose phone?'

‘I don't know. One of the people in the other cars. We could offer them a couple of quid.'

‘I'm not going to embarrass myself by begging,' said Max. ‘Because that's what it amounts to. Begging.'

‘It doesn't. It's paying for a favour.'

‘It's begging.'

‘I'll do it,' said Ursula. ‘I don't mind.'

‘You don't mind begging?'

‘It's not begging.'

‘I thought you had more self-respect than that.'

‘It's not begging.'

‘I'm not having you embarrassing yourself.'

‘What difference does it make to you?'

‘We're married. You're my wife. What embarrasses you embarrasses me. I'm not having you beg.'

‘It's not begging.'

‘You'll make a fool of yourself.'

‘Why do you care what I do? I'm not embarrassed by what you do. When you make a fool of yourself, I don't feel embarrassed.'

‘That's because I don't tend to make a fool of myself,' said
Max. ‘Maybe I should make a fool of myself for once, just so you can see what it's like.'

‘Ha ha ha,' said Ursula. ‘What about the other day, when you told that poor guy on the Tube to turn his music down? That was embarrassing.'

‘Why should I be embarrassed by that? I didn't find it embarrassing. He should have been embarrassed by that, not me. Stupid twat.'

‘All he was doing was minding his own business, listening to his iPod, and you had to go and bloody interfere. The poor sod thought you were about to mug him.'

‘He was being anti-social. It was disturbing everyone in the entire carriage.'

‘It wasn't disturbing me.'

‘That's because your head's in the clouds half the time.'

‘It was embarrassing, Max. You were embarrassing.'

Max sighed. ‘You can't do any better than that?'

‘What about when you served dessert wine with the fish when Bob and Laura came round? Or when you fucked the tyre up by clipping that wall on the way to Surrey? That was expensive as well as embarrassing.'

‘Why was that embarrassing? That wasn't embarrassing.'

‘It was embarrassing because of your careless driving. Your carelessness was an embarrassment.'

‘You know full well my driving had nothing to do with it. That wall was nigh on invisible, by the side of the road like that. Behind the turn. Under the bush. We could have sued.'

‘This is so typical, Max. You just can't ever accept that you've made a mistake.'

‘I'm perfectly willing to admit when I've made a mistake. But I don't see why I should say I've made a mistake when I haven't made a mistake.'

There was an acrimonious pause.

‘You know what
is
really embarrassing, Max?'

‘I've got a feeling you're going to tell me.'

‘The fact that you've never once in your life admitted that you've done something wrong. And it's even more embarrassing that you never get embarrassed when you make a fuck-up. That I find truly embarrassing. And so would you, if you had even a modicum of self-awareness. Which you don't.'

Max, as their conversation gathered animosity and momentum, had started to feel like a spectator. Here was the globe, scarred by war, fouled by inequality, blemished by the ugliness of industry, modernity, technology, and the cruelness of nature underlying it all; here were the little chips of land called Britain; here was the seething bearpit of London; here was the M25, cobbled with vehicles; here was the jam; here, his own car; beside him was his wife; behind him two children. Here was the magic tree, dangling from the mirror. Here was the logo, coined in the centre of the steering wheel. Here was the car seat. Here was his body. And within that he crouched, confused and tiny and alone, looking out.

Why was he behaving like this? He, who prided himself on his high-mindedness? And how could he explain this visceral hatred he felt towards his wife? He had long admitted, to himself at least, that he no longer wanted her. They shared the bonds of circumstance – they had a joint mortgage, joint car, joint child – and once, before the darkening mists of time descended, they had experienced something that could be called love. But now it was duty, nothing else. It came in two parts. Number one: he had promised never to leave her. Number two: the responsibility for Carly was on his shoulders. His own father had worn his responsibilities lightly, and shrugged them off the first time they were tested. And the decades that followed had proved beyond doubt his mistake. Max would never do the same. Number three: despite everything, he was determined to be a good man.

What would Ursula say if he were to just turn away and pull out a book? He should do it. He should simply pull out a
paperback and begin to read. But he didn't have a paperback. Either way, he wished he was the sort of man who, cognisant of his wife's anger, could concentrate on a paperback. He had tried it in the past, not with a paperback but with a magazine, managed it for one sentence, for two. But he had never even made it to the end of the paragraph. No, his emotions were not his own.

How long could he live with this conflict inside? How many more nights would he have to endure before he could lay his head on the pillow knowing that he would sleep easily, and through the night? Ursula was talking to him now. He could hear her as if from a great distance, as if through a wall of water. She was trying to return them to the conflict. To their natural state. Had she really suggested that they borrow a phone from a stranger? Why was he so resistant to the idea? Was it simply because Ursula had come up with it? Perhaps his reaction had been knee-jerk. Perhaps it demonstrated his lack of trust in humanity. He had to admit, if only to himself, that should some poor soul knock on the window of his Chrysler asking to borrow something – a phone perhaps, or something equivalent given the fact that his phone does not have a signal – that he would, out of hand, refuse. And that Ursula, in contrast, would be magnanimous. Perhaps she was, as he had suspected all along, simply the better human being.

Now that he had started a confession, he might as well admit, to himself at least, that he was quite relieved to have missed the marriage guidance session. Would it be going too far to suggest that he was glad of this traffic jam? Perhaps. But only just. Either way, his chances of avoiding the next one were slim.

And of course, he was aware that underpinning it all was a single issue. No, not a single issue; a single woman. That was wrong – the games words play! A
married
woman. She was on his mind all the time, from the moment his eyes peeled open in the morning until they lowered at night. And throughout the night. He confessed to himself that he missed her terribly, even
though they had met, in secret, only last week. And the married woman's name – the name that was driving him crazy – was Nicole.

Night had fallen profoundly now. All ambiguity had faded from the sky. Ursula rested her head against the window, feeling numb and dead like a puppet.

Waitrose Jim

Max slammed the car door behind him and looked around. He was trembling. He took a deep breath; the night air had cooled, it entered his lungs like a balm. Another deep breath, a third, and he was better composed. He made his way along the long lines of traffic, negotiating wing mirrors and half-open doors with awkward rotations of his hips. Most of the engines were quiet now, and the few that still grumbled were sending wispy smoke signals into the atmosphere. He glanced into cars as he passed them, hoping for a friendly face. Everybody seemed to be groping their way towards sleep. Many dozed already; many gazed listlessly into space, trying to make themselves vulnerable to sleep's approach. All were emotionless. He walked on.

At times like these, it was his habit to remind himself of his wedding speech, as if to conjure up the love that had expressed itself then. He still knew parts of it by heart: how they had met through a mutual friend, all those years ago. How he had fallen head-over-heels almost overnight, how he had even given up a trip to Spain with the lads for her. They had loved it, the wedding guests. And now he tried to remember it, as if, like some ancient amulet, the recollection of that previous man's emotions could ease his suffering now.

The previous night, Carly had been unable to sleep. After more than an hour of comforting – for Ursula had given up – he had lain beside her on her bed, his hand on her fragile shoulder, and waited as the room darkened, its shadows multiplying into a smothering thicket, and her breath slowed into
that particular rhythm of sleep. And he had been struck, all at once, by the imperfections of the days of his life, of everyone's lives, all sullied by concerns about the past, about the future, insecurities and angers and unrequited passions, while the moon shone on and the breeze passed unheard above the trees overhead. And he had remembered the members of his family who were gone, realised how rarely he thought of them now. And he had thought that his heart would break.

Night clung to his shirt in the sour streetlight. The people in their vehicles seemed so remote; they might as well be waxwork dummies, seated there for effect. He was just about to return to the car, when he caught somebody's eye. It was a delivery man, clad in a uniform, skirting the Waitrose van. The man paused, looked about to bolt, then smiled weakly. Perhaps it was his obvious consternation that infused Max with a sudden courage.

‘Awful, isn't it?' said Max. ‘I've never seen anything like it.'

The man nodded, sweeping his eyes along the cars and into the distance. ‘We're all going to be late now, like,' he said. ‘Thousands of us. Hundreds of thousands, like. Think there's a million here?'

‘No. Not a million.'

‘Think it's solid the entire way round the M25? The whole sort of ring?'

‘Doubt it.' Max sighed. ‘The volume of frustration that's building up, it's enough to fuel a rocket to the moon.'

The man laughed nervously. ‘I was just checking that the back doors are locked,' he volunteered, as if trying to slip an explanation in under the radar. ‘I'm like that, me, having to check things all the time.'

‘I know what you mean,' said Max. ‘I'm a bit like that myself.'

They fell awkwardly into companionable poses.

‘Do you know what the problem is?' said Max.

‘The radio said it was flooding, I think,' said the man.

‘Flooding? But it hasn't been raining.'

‘Don't know, mate. There hasn't been much on the radio. Difficult to get reception here, like. Bit of a black spot. I've buggered all my timing anyway. I'm supposed to be doing three more drops tonight. But instead I've just got to sit here and stew.'

The man was short, much shorter than Max, with the kind of face that seemed to cling to its skull, as if in a strong wind. His uniform hung sacklike on his frame, and his eyes were two sparkling pebbles; the voice was high-pitched, constricted. Max thought he must be forty; a bachelor, probably, for he wore no ring. Imagine, sitting in a jam like this for the sake of someone else's shopping.

‘Sorry,' said the man, ‘didn't offend you, did I?'

‘Offend me?'

‘Christ, I did, didn't I?'

‘What? How?'

‘When I said . . . you know . . . the b-word, like.'

‘What b-word?'

‘Black spot. God, I'm cringing.'

‘Black spot? Why should I be offended by that?'

There was a difficult silence.

‘What time is it?' said the man.

‘Nine,' Max replied. ‘I hope this isn't going to last all night.'

‘No way,' said the man. ‘It'll clear in an hour, max.'

‘How did you know my name?'

‘What?'

‘My name. Max.'

‘Oh, I see. No, I meant it will clear in an hour, max. Maximum, like.'

‘Ah. Sorry.' Max chopped his heel into the tarmac. ‘I just want to ask you a favour. My wife and I have somebody else's little girl in the car, and we need to tell her parents about the hold-up. But neither of us have any signal.'

‘Somebody else's little girl,' the man repeated.

‘It's completely above board. Completely,' said Max, aware
that his protestations were implying the opposite. ‘She's a friend of our daughter's. We've taken them out for the day.'

‘I see,' said the man. ‘So what do you want from me?'

‘Just to . . . to borrow your phone. Just for one minute. It was my wife's idea. I'll pay you. Sorry. This wasn't my idea. Sorry.'

The man turned and climbed into the cab of the van, where he slid across to the passenger seat and began to rummage in the glove compartment.

‘I do have a mobile, somewhere,' he said over his shoulder. Max peered into the cab and saw that the door of the glove compartment had broken, and needed to be propped open.

‘Do you want me to hold it for you?' said Max.

‘If you wouldn't mind.'

Slowly, and without expertise, Max levered himself into the van. Instantly he found himself surrounded by a familiar fug of bodily odours, stale exhalations, and the suggestion of fried food and beer.

‘Can't seem to find the bugger,' the man said, as Max held the glove compartment open. ‘I was sure it was in here somewhere, like. Work's not going to like this . . .'

‘Oh, don't worry,' said Max, ‘please. Don't go to too much trouble.'

The man continued to search, cursing with frustration. Max asked him to stop – then implored – but no. This had become a matter of honour. In the end, however, the man had no option but to admit defeat.