Jam (30 page)

‘It's so lovely to finally make your acquaintance,' he said, ‘it really is.'

‘Likewise,' said Hsiao May. ‘So do you spend much time in here? I mean, do you go on long holidays or anything?'

‘From time to time,' Harold replied. ‘It's a lovely feeling to be able to carry your house with you, like a wee snail.'

‘Yes,' said Hsiao May, ‘I can see that.'

‘I have been known on occasion to do a full circuit of the M25,' said Harold. ‘Sometimes more than once.'

‘Really?'

‘It's a topic of especial interest to me. The M25. It is one of my passions.'

‘Of course, sorry, you did mention.'

‘Not at all.'

‘How many circuits have you completed in one go?'

‘Oh, I don't know.'

‘You must know.'

‘Without counting stops for petrol? Toilet breaks?'

‘Without counting them.'

‘I don't know. Four? Five?'

‘That's a lot, Harold.'

‘I know.'

‘It must have taken a long time.'

‘Sometimes I can spend a whole afternoon just driving round and round. Other times, if the weather's good, I find somewhere to park the old van, have a little nap perhaps, then get out and explore the environs at a leisurely pace. I find it . . . very therapeutic. Goodness, that must seem terribly odd.'

Hsiao May thought for a moment. ‘You know,' she said, ‘I think I understand.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes. It must be . . . well, therapeutic. As you say.'

‘Yes.'

‘A living history.'

‘Exactly.'

‘A microcosm. A cross-section of millennia of life.'

‘Precisely. That's very perceptive of you.'

‘Do you have a favourite section?'

‘Of the Orbital?'

‘Yes, of the M25.'

‘Oh, I don't know. I'm a bit embarrassed about it.'

‘Why?'

‘I don't know. Um, I suppose it's just a bit nerdy.'

‘Of course it's nerdy. You're an academic.'

‘I suppose so.'

‘I'm just as nerdy as you. More so.'

‘Well, I don't know what to say to that.'

They laughed, filling the camper van with the sound for which it seemed to have been designed.

‘There are just so many fascinating bits,' said Harold after a time. ‘Take Junctions 7 to 9. There you have the top of Reigate Hill, the highest point on the Orbital, at 700-odd feet. And to the west you have the village of Merstham. Limestone from there was taken to build London Bridge, Windsor Castle, and Henry VII's chapel in Westminster Abbey.'

‘What else?'

‘Well, Junctions 1 and 2 are good. Dartford Tunnel crossing, you know. Cyclists used to be taken across in a specially adapted London bus, but these days they're ferried over in a police Land-Rover, free of charge.'

‘Seriously?'

‘Aye, it's one of those last vestiges of good old British eccentricity. Then there's the QEII Bridge. It's absolutely wonderful. In each of the concrete pylons is a two-man lift used for the sole purpose of replacing the light bulbs. And from the centre, you have a marvellous view. There's a redbrick packaging factory, piles of containers owned by Eldapoint and Maintainer, which are supposed to be for sale or rent. On a clear day you can see the roofs of the Lakeside Shopping Centre, and the huge pink Proctor & Gamble detergent factory, fully automated. And in the shadow of that vast thing is the ancient church of St Clements.'

Hsiao May reached into her cool bag and brought out a can of Diet Coke, but she did not open it.

‘And then, further round, from Junction 3 onwards, you have Lullingstone, with its late second-century Roman villa, complete with bathhouse, central heating and mosaics. And then you have the deer parks, and the Henry VIII tiltyard, you know, which was used for jousting . . . And it was the site of a fake airfield during the Second World War, with aircraft made of wood and canvas, intended to take the heat away from Biggin Hill. Rumour has it that at one point, a solitary German bomber flew overhead and dropped a wee cardboard bomb on it. And they say the Germans don't have a sense of humour.'

‘A cardboard bomb?'

‘Exactly! Exactly! You know, the heir to Lullingstone Castle is the most wonderful chap by the name of Tom Hart Dyke. He's a plant hunter, and has created an extraordinary garden of rare plants in the grounds. Once he was captured by guerrillas on the Panama–Colombia border. You may have seen it on the news?'

‘It rings a bell . . .'

‘He's recently made a wee volcano too. In the grounds.'

‘A volcano?'

‘Aye, a wee one. With a smoke machine that blows scented fog.'

‘Scented?'

‘I know! You see, it's all so fascinating. He is the most charming man. And it's all so beautiful too, with the constant drone of the Orbital in the background. Like a continual stream of transience, permanent and primordial, like a river. Only made by man, that's the thing.'

‘It sounds magical.'

‘Aye, it is. And there's the site of the old Saxon burial ground at Junction 7. Two hundred graves had to be moved when the Orbital was built. The ground in that area is Gault clay, which, when it dries, cracks to reveal rainbow-coloured fossils. Their colour fades when they're exposed to air, you know.'

Hsiao May was starting to feel a little dizzy.

‘Further round you have the Clackett Services. Those monstrous lorry parks? Modernity itself, so ugly. But they're crossed by a Roman slave road, which used to run from London to the great ironworks in the Sussex forest. Just north of the Services they found a Roman temple. You see, the whole gamut of human history's brought together in the Orbital.'

‘I do see.'

‘And junction six – goodness, junction six is special. Most people miss it, but if you keep your eyes open you'll see a wee cutting across the road, which indicates the very point where it is intersected by the Greenwich Meridian. A brass rod in the grounds of Waltham Abbey nearby places it exactly. It is almost spiritual.'

Hsiao May nodded, opened her Diet Coke and took a sip. The bubbles, the flavour, in this unfamiliar context, were a sweet, old-fashioned infidelity.

‘But I suppose my very favourite spot is just north of Junction
6. The Godstone Vineyard. It lies at the mouth of an enormous disused quarry, hidden by trees. In summer one can sit with a drink on the veranda and watch the traffic stream past a Bronze Age tumulus.'

‘I'd . . . I'd love to join you,' said Hsiao May. ‘One day. Not necessarily soon or anything, but . . . one day. If that's all right. It really does sound fascinating.'

‘Would you? Would you really? Goodness, that would be special. To have a companion would be lovely.'

Hsiao May noticed that her hands and feet were trembling.

Harold stopped now, a strange expression on his face, as if he had just caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. ‘Goodness gracious,' he said, ‘I should apologise. I've been rambling.'

‘You haven't at all. It's your passion.'

‘I'm embarrassed now. Christ, I've lifted the lid.'

‘On what?'

‘On my nerdy, lonely life.'

Hsiao May leaned forward. ‘It's not nerdy and lonely,' she said. ‘It's magnificent.'

Suddenly, over Harold's shoulder, framed in the rectangle of the window, Hsiao May saw something. She put down her can of Diet Coke. ‘What's that?' she said. ‘I think something's going on.'

Harold followed her gaze. Shouts could be heard now. Then figures came into view, and something struck the side of the camper van.

‘Christ almighty,' said Harold.

‘Are the doors locked? Are the doors locked?'

With some effort, Harold squeezed through to the front again and made sure that they were.

‘What on earth are they doing?' said Hsiao May. ‘Do you think they'll come here?'

‘Get down low,' said Harold, drawing her back onto the sofa. ‘Let's try not to draw attention to ourselves.'

‘Shall we call the police? Shit, I left my mobile in the car. We're so exposed.'

‘Mine is somewhere in the glove compartment,' said Harold. ‘But I have no idea if it works.'

‘Shall we try?'

‘Someone else surely will have alerted the police. Let's leave it. I think we should lie low. And what I need to do is protect you.'

Squatting awkwardly on the floor, he put his arm around her. And she did feel protected. As if nothing could possibly defile the charm of this camper van. And even if it did, as if nothing could possibly get past Harold.

Over the hill

Monty and Shauna sat on the bench, legs stretched out insouciantly, gazing up at the night sky in easy companionship.

‘So you like your wine,' said Monty.

‘You noticed?' Shauna replied ironically. ‘I keep meaning to cut down. Not supposed to be healthy.'

‘I never know what to think about all that. Seems like there's always a new health warning coming out. And they usually contradict each other. Red wine, for one.'

‘I know! You're so right. I think it also depends on your lifestyle too. My colleagues booze all the time. And my friends. It makes it completely impossible to give up. The peer pressure. Don't you find?'

‘Yeah, I know what you mean,' said Monty, with feeling.

‘I still don't completely understand what you do actually,' said Shauna. ‘What was it again?'

Monty glanced at her sidelong, saw her lit dully by the early dawn, grey upon grey upon grey. What to say? If he told her he was a manual worker and left it at that, he would be selling himself short. Couldn't he just tell the truth for once? What harm could it possibly do? Nobody could hear them. It wasn't like they were under surveillance or anything. So far as he knew.

‘I'm a labourer,' he said.

‘OK . . .'

‘But I'm also, um, I'm in a sort of organisation.'

‘Sort of organisation?'

‘Yeah. But at the same time, I'm not really part of it at all.'

‘What's that supposed to mean? Are you in the Territorial Army? A few of my school friends ended up doing that.'

‘No. Not the army.'

‘So what is it then? You have to tell me, Monty, otherwise it's not fair. I've been telling you about myself all bloody night.'

‘Well, OK. Where shall I start? I'm involved in a kind of . . . in an international organisation. Um, that sounds like I'm an arms dealer or something. God.'

‘It does sound pretty dodgy,' said Shauna gaily, and Monty thought he saw a flicker of excitement in her eyes. ‘It's delicious. Tell me more.'

‘Do I have to?'

‘Yes, Monty, you do jolly well have to.'

‘Well, if you put it like that. Right. So, basically what I do is travel to foreign countries and meet other members of the organisation, and we organise things. Meetings and suchlike.'

‘Oh my God, you're a terrorist.'

‘Don't be stupid.'

‘But not an Islamist terrorist. You're something horrible and left-wing. You're a Marxist terrorist.'

‘Nothing as exciting as that.'

‘You're a radical animal rights campaigner.'

‘Nope. I'm allergic to horses for a start. And cats. And badgers, probably.'

‘You're a militant gay-rights activist.'

‘Do I look gay?'

‘What's wrong with looking gay?'

‘Nothing, but are you saying I look gay?'

‘I'm not saying that. Don't be so paranoid. But you've got a dodgy job. I can tell.'

‘God, can we change the subject?'

‘You see? You have got a dodgy job.'

‘All right, all right. Let's talk about something else. Let's talk about this traffic jam.'

‘Yes, now that would be an exciting thing to talk about. That would be riveting.'

‘When do you think it's going to move?'

‘Fucked if I know. I can't imagine it moving an inch. Ever.'

‘It'll move sooner or later, don't worry. They're probably clearing the road as we speak.'

‘It feels to me like we're going to be here for ever. For ever and ever. In which case, I'm glad we bumped into each other. You're a good person to chat to, Monty. Even if you won't tell me what you do.'

‘Thanks. So are you. But you know, speaking of the jam, maybe we'd better walk up to the top of the hill. So we can see the traffic when it moves.'

So they got up to go, Shauna with her big bottle of water and paracetamol. The fog had cleared completely now, and had left a patina of dew clinging to the grass, which darkened their shoes, their ankles, as they climbed. Before long, they were out of breath and speaking in short bursts.

‘Fucking hell, this is knackering,' said Shauna. ‘Can we take a break?'

‘Come on, we're almost there. We'll take a break at the top. Maybe we'll be able to see what's up now the fog's cleared.'

‘Taskmaster.'

‘Come on. You can do it.'

‘Bloody hell. I'll have to spend a week in a spa after this. And I don't mean the grocery shop. Anyway, I know what job you do.'

‘What's that?'

‘You're in the police. You're one of those undercover cops. Aren't you?'

There was a silence.

‘If I give you an answer to that,' said Monty, ‘will you promise not to ask me any more details? At least, not until I've quit?'

‘OK.'

‘Then the answer is yes.'

*

They neared the brow of the hill. This evening had taken a turn that Monty never would have expected; he had never seen himself as someone who would stumble into a friendship with a stranger. It was actually comical, in a way. No doubt about it, tonight the rudder had fallen off his life. But how beautiful this girl was! How funny. How characterful her smile, how bright and perceptive her eyes. Fuck me, he thought. I'm behaving like a teenager. Here he was, almost at the top of the hill, and he didn't know what his next step would be.