Everything She Forgot (27 page)

“Well, I'm sure you can, but he said he'd be round midday and I don't like to say no—it was a done deal, after all—thanks all the same.”

The man tried to close the door, but George held out his hand.

“I
really
like the look of it,” he said, persisting with his smile
although it was difficult, looking down on the pale hairless-legged man who barely reached George's chin. “How about you fire it up and let me hear it, just for the hell of it, like? Me and the missus were looking for something similar.” George placed a hand on Moll's shoulder. “He's one of five and how else are we to get a holiday? If the engine sounds OK, I can throw in an extra twenty or so . . .”

The man's face crumpled, as if George had suggested a huge inconvenience, but he picked up a set of keys from the telephone table, slipped on a pair of slippers, and followed George out to the VW, the poodle in tow, sniffing at Moll and causing her to cling to George even more.

“It's George, by the way,” he said, through the open van door, as the man tried to start it.

“John,” said the small man, shaking the gearshift.

The camper van sounded throaty, as if there was a small hole in the exhaust, but otherwise started without trouble. George took a look at the engine, which was at the rear of the van, casting an eye over it that Tam Driscoll had bestowed on him after many days of patient teaching. The engine was old and dirty, but George thought not too bad. The van had more than eighty thousand miles on the odometer.

“You got around in this baby, then?” said George to the man.

“Oh, we've had it for years. Been all over the country in it. Wales mostly we'd go to, but we even took it to France a couple of times.”

“I'll take it,” said George, hands in his pockets and chin up. The small man ran his fingers through the curly gray hair on the poodle's head. “She's a beauty, but like I said, I made a deal. The guy'll be here any minute.”

“How much d'you want?” said George, taking out his wallet.

Moll let go of George's hand and, with some effort, opened the back door of the van, exposing the small camper kitchen with its cooker and tiny sink. “It smells like cabbage,” she said, turning to them both with her head cocked to one side.

George peered inside. It was perfect. Moll was opening and shutting the cupboards. It was all set up with utensils: plates, knives and forks, even blankets.

He poked his head out and sat down in the doorway, so that he was looking up at John in his sandals and shorts.

“He's right, it does smell a bit of cabbage.”

John leaned down toward Moll, who was squatting at the van door. “I'm sorry, are you a lad? I thought you were a little girl.”

“Robin!” said Moll, folding her arms.

“Sensitive,” said George, whispering sarcastically to John. “So now you've offended my child, are you prepared to sell me this cabbage-smelling rust bucket with a dodgy exhaust for three twenty?”

“It
does
smell of cabbage,” said Moll, pursing her lips to hold in a smile.

“An astute judge,” said George, offering up one of his best smiles. “What can I say?”

“Oh, to hell,” said John, pulling the waistband of his shorts over the curve of his abdomen. “Never know, he might not come back. Bird in the 'and, I always say . . .”

“Bird in the hand indeed,” said George, placing three hundred and twenty pounds in John's outstretched palm.

They shook hands.

“You 'ad one before? The roof goes up to give you more space and I can show you how to put the table up and put down the bed.”

“Don't you worry, we'll work it out,” said George.

George helped Moll up into the passenger seat, rolled down the window and waved at the man.

“Do you know what this is, Moll?” said George as he lit a cigarette.

“A van.”

He tutted. “Don't be daft. This isn't just a van. This is a hotel on wheels! Do you like it?”

She smiled up at him, her head cocked to one side. “You got a pale blue one just like I said.”

“What can I say, button? What the lady wants, the lady gets.”

G
eorge felt better once they had the van. The VW had no link to the abduction and the police would not be looking for it. It wasn't stolen. The van would allow them to drive to Penzance, camping when they felt like it and driving when it was safe. When they arrived in Penzance, the van would give them somewhere to live until he got the cottage set up. While he lived in Hanley, there was no need to draw attention to themselves by driving to the supermarket. It was perfect.

He spent the next few days working on the engine and getting supplies for their journey. His hands and arms blackened with car grease, George squinted at the wiring in the old engine. He wished he had listened more carefully to Tam. George had spent his life around cars, but he had no interest in them. He was no more a mechanic than his mother had been.

When the van was as ready as he could make it, George began to stock up on food and necessities to last them for their journey and the time in Penzance before the cottage was ready. He had no idea how long that would be. His mother had inher
ited the house, but had never had a chance to return. The way she had spoken of it, it might be a ruin by now.

In Hanley, they were only five and a half hours' drive from Penzance if they took the motorway, but George had decided to stick to the quieter roads. It meant that the drive might take them eight hours. He had checked the calendar and hoped to set off in the afternoon or evening of Wednesday, October 9. Bernie was due home on the Saturday. George had the idea of spending the night halfway down, somewhere between Swindon and Bath, and completing the journey the following day.

Moll was content while they were at the house. Bernie had teddy bears in her bedroom and Moll gave them all names and lined them up on the couch, where she would stand facing them, pointing at the wall and lecturing them as if they were her pupils. The largest teddy was continually given punishment exercises for not listening, and George wondered if this was supposed to be him. She was creative in her play and he admired her for it. When he had been little, he had been lost without his brothers and sister and the other children in the neighborhood, but Moll was an only child.

On their last evening, they ate a special dinner of fish and chips from the local chip shop. When they were finished, Moll sat licking the vinegar off each of her fingers. George kicked his feet up on the end of the sofa again, but soon became aware that she was staring at him.

He looked over at her. She was kneeling on the floor, her hands on her hips and her head cocked to one side. She had a smile on her face; her good eye was fixed on him while her left eye was looking out of the window.

“We should practice your reading and writing,” she said to him.

“Not now, button.” He was tired.

“We have to. If you don't practice, you won't get any better.”

“I think I'm a lost cause.”

“You're not a lost cause but you need to do a little bit every day. I'm the best reader in my class and that's because I always do my reading when I first get home. In fact, I read ahead . . .”—she frowned and pursed her lips—“although you're not supposed to do that.”

George sighed deeply. He could have argued with her but he knew that she would win, so he swung his feet back on to the floor and surrendered to her teaching.

She was thrilled with the idea, so much more so than George. She pulled the largest of a nest of tables over and set it in front of him like a desk. She stormed up the stairs and came thundering back down with her satchel.

“Dear God, you're like a fairy elephant,” he said.

She stooped over the wastepaper basket and sharpened two pencils for him and placed them on the desk with her exercise book—carefully folded to a fresh page.

“Hmm,” she said, head in her satchel, her voice muffled by the leather. “I think we should do
reading
tonight. We only did writing last time.” She fished a book out of her bag, then stood, a finger on her lips, looking upward. “I can't remember, but I think I learned to read before I learned to write . . .”

“Well, you're the teacher,” he said. “I'm in your hands.”

She placed the book on the table in front of him and slid a fringed leather bookmark from the margin. It looked not unlike the belt Sister Agatha had used on him.

“It's called
Charlotte's Web
,” she said, then looking worried, sucking in her lower lip, “but it's for the group-one readers, so it might be a bit hard for you.”

“I'm sure it will be,” said George, furrowing his forehead, trying to smile.

Moll came to his side, and pointed to the first word. “We can take our time and spell them out,” she said, sounding suddenly older than seven, “but unfortunately the first word is a hard one.”

George raised his eyebrows at her.

“It's OK.” She was speaking very close to his face, so that he could smell the sweetness of the chips she had eaten and the vinegar from her lips. “I'll help you.”

Her skin was so flawless and soft, and for a moment he couldn't believe he had made something so beautiful.

She pointed at the first word, and so George made an attempt.

“I don't know,” he said, beginning to feel impatience, no longer so keen to indulge her.

“It's all right,” she said. “It is a hard word. What is the first letter, do you know?”

George did. It was a
W
.

“Good, and what is the next letter, do you know?”

“
N
?”

“Nearly. It's an
H
. Now, an important thing to learn is that when
W
comes before an
H
it makes a special sound, not a
wuh
sound like normal . . .”

George frowned.

“It makes a
whhh
sound, for words like
where
and
what
and . . .”—she screwed her face up as she considered—“. . .
when
. So this,” she said to George, “is
where
.”

“
Where
,” he repeated, nodding, feeling fatigued already.

“The next word you can manage, I'm pretty sure,” said Moll.
Again, her voice was strange, as if she was mimicking someone else. George wondered if it was her teacher, or Kathleen.

He surrendered to her once again and tried to read the word she was pointing at.

“Puh, puh, pa-pa.” He had barely finished when she exclaimed with joy.

“You're right.” She flashed him a gummy smile. “
Papa
. . . like you.” She kissed his cheek and George felt strange, humbled before her.

She curled up on the sofa beside him, book in hand.

“I think it's a bit too hard for you,” she said, nodding. “Do you want me to read you a bit of it? I'm a good reader.”

“I know. You've proved that already,” he said, putting an arm over her shoulder.

She read quickly and with confidence, her elbow digging into his stomach.

“Where's Papa going with that axe?” said Fern to her mother as they were setting the table for breakfast.

“Out to the hoghouse,” replied Mrs. Arable. “Some pigs were born last night.”

“You see,” said Moll, looking up at him, “the daddy is going to kill the little pig, 'cause it's a
runt
. That means it's not as good as the other piglets.”

“Aye, I think I've heard this story,” said George, standing up and stretching. “It sounds like my house.”

B
ERNIE HAD A
guitar in the corner, and just to halt the onslaught of letters George picked it up. He settled down on
the armchair with it and strummed. It was almost in tune. He wasn't a skilled player, but he had learned a song or two. Bernie had taught him how to play. He had met her in a bar when she was doing a turn on an open-mike night and getting heckled because she was the only woman. He still called her Joan Bernie Baez for a joke sometimes.

“It's nearly time for bed,” said George, strumming, as she curled up on the sofa and put two hands under her face. “Maybe you should have a bath and get to bed. We're going to hit the road in our hotel on wheels tomorrow, and we won't have a bath handy for a while.”

“Where are we going tomorrow?”

“We'll travel south and then camp somewhere that we fancy on the way. When we get halfway to Penzance I'll tell you and then you can choose where we camp.”

“What will happen when we get to Penzance?” she said, frowning. “After that, will you take me back home?”

“I said I'd take you back when we were settled, and I always keep my promises.”

Her face was serious, and just to distract her, he began to sing, strumming the tune he had learned but getting some of the chords wrong.

And I love you so

The people ask me how . . .

When he glanced over to her, she had fallen asleep, curled up like a kitten.

T
hey took baths in the morning after breakfast and then tidied up the house together, before taking their things out
to the van. They made a big box of sandwiches and filled flasks of sweet tea and coffee and put them in a bag under the seat behind the driver's.

George dictated, and Moll wrote a letter to Bernadette.

“Dear Bernie,” said George.

“I can do joined-up writing if you want?” said Moll, her face deadly serious. “I can do it and that's how grown-ups write.”

“However you want to write it will be fine.”

            
Wednesday 9th October

            
Dear Barnee

               
Thank you very much for your lovly house. We had a nice holliday here. I am sorry that we had to leef before you got back but we were in a huree. I hope you had good fun abrod and that you got a good sun tan.