from the interior, engulfing her.
The silence was complete. She had a feeling of being an intruder. She squeezed in through the passenger door and sat on the bench seat. It was hard and upright. Knurled black knobs protruded from the wooden dashboard on metal stalks. Two round, white dials were mounted in the middle, the speedometer on her side. The large spoked steering wheel was almost touching her right arm, the tiny column change gear lever sticking out from it like an antenna. She pulled the door shut with a dull clunk and felt very enclosed, the roof inches above her head, the screen just in front of her nose.
She pushed herself further down in the seat and sat for a moment, uncomfortably aware of the silence. She could see the outline of the bonnet through the dust on the windscreen and the radiator cap at the end. She touched a knob on the dashboard, then gripped it in her fingers and twisted it; it was stiff and for a moment would not move. She twisted it harder, and the windscreen wiper blade lifted an inch and broke several strands of the spider’s web. She let go of the knob, startled, and the blade dropped down. The spider ran up the screen and she could almost sense petulance in the motion. She put her hand on her lap guiltily.
She was trembling. The seat creaked, crackled, a spring twanged.
A spring released itself somewhere inside her too.
She knew this car. Not just from seeing one in thetelevision series. She had been in one like this before, travelled in it. She was certain it was the same make of car in which she had made love in her regression.
She could remember everything: the roughness of his tweed jacket, the gruff roar of the engine, the wind thrashing her hair, the harsh ride on the uneven surface, the engine straining, the biff of the exhaust as he changed gear, the minty taste of the gum in her mouth.
She remembered the erotic sensation of the finger inside her. The car slithering to a halt. The smell of burned rubber, fresh leather, the rumble of the exhaust, the knocking rattle of the engine, the bonnet shaking, vibrating, the tweed of his sleeve brushing her face, his mouth over hers, their lips pressed together, kissing hungrily. The rubbery ball of chewing gum she had plucked out of her mouth and pushed under the glove locker.
There was a crack like a pistol shot.
She sat up with a jerk, dripping with perspiration, a deep feeling of fear in the pit of her stomach. She shook her head but her hair, matted with sweat, barely moved. Rivulets ran down the back of her neck, her armpits; she was shaking. The car seemed to be shrinking around her, the air getting scarcer as if something was sucking it out.
She scrabbled for the door handle and as she did she realised she was holding something in her hand, something small and hard.
She stumbled out, grazing her leg on the top of the sill, but barely noticing. She stood and stared at the small hard object in her hand, took it over to the window, but it was too dark to see.
She hurried through the barn and outside, squinting against the dazzle of the brilliant light. She looked down. About half an inch across, dark grey and pitted like a miniature shrivelled brain. A tiny strip of wood veneer was stuck to one side.
It was an old dried piece of chewed gum.
Her hand shook, making the gum dance like spittle on a griddle. Then it fell. She looked down, tried to spot it, knelt, sifted through the gravel, rummaged her hands backwards and forwards. Over by the house she heard a shout, the sound of metal banging, the scrunch of feet; a laugh. She carried on rummaging, making a widening arc, but it had gone, swallowed by the pebbles the way the sea swallows a footprint in the sand.
A voice called, ‘Mrs Witney? Hallo? Need to know where you want these packing cases!’
‘Coming!’ she shouted.
Hundreds of people chew gum in cars. Thousands. Millions. There was nothing special about finding gum in a car.
Nothing special at all.
Chapter
The silence was complete. She had a feeling of being an intruder. She squeezed in through the passenger door and sat on the bench seat. It was hard and upright. Knurled black knobs protruded from the wooden dashboard on metal stalks. Two round, white dials were mounted in the middle, the speedometer on her side. The large spoked steering wheel was almost touching her right arm, the tiny column change gear lever sticking out from it like an antenna. She pulled the door shut with a dull clunk and felt very enclosed, the roof inches above her head, the screen just in front of her nose.
She pushed herself further down in the seat and sat for a moment, uncomfortably aware of the silence. She could see the outline of the bonnet through the dust on the windscreen and the radiator cap at the end. She touched a knob on the dashboard, then gripped it in her fingers and twisted it; it was stiff and for a moment would not move. She twisted it harder, and the windscreen wiper blade lifted an inch and broke several strands of the spider’s web. She let go of the knob, startled, and the blade dropped down. The spider ran up the screen and she could almost sense petulance in the motion. She put her hand on her lap guiltily.
She was trembling. The seat creaked, crackled, a spring twanged.
A spring released itself somewhere inside her too.
She knew this car. Not just from seeing one in thetelevision series. She had been in one like this before, travelled in it. She was certain it was the same make of car in which she had made love in her regression.
She could remember everything: the roughness of his tweed jacket, the gruff roar of the engine, the wind thrashing her hair, the harsh ride on the uneven surface, the engine straining, the biff of the exhaust as he changed gear, the minty taste of the gum in her mouth.
She remembered the erotic sensation of the finger inside her. The car slithering to a halt. The smell of burned rubber, fresh leather, the rumble of the exhaust, the knocking rattle of the engine, the bonnet shaking, vibrating, the tweed of his sleeve brushing her face, his mouth over hers, their lips pressed together, kissing hungrily. The rubbery ball of chewing gum she had plucked out of her mouth and pushed under the glove locker.
There was a crack like a pistol shot.
She sat up with a jerk, dripping with perspiration, a deep feeling of fear in the pit of her stomach. She shook her head but her hair, matted with sweat, barely moved. Rivulets ran down the back of her neck, her armpits; she was shaking. The car seemed to be shrinking around her, the air getting scarcer as if something was sucking it out.
She scrabbled for the door handle and as she did she realised she was holding something in her hand, something small and hard.
She stumbled out, grazing her leg on the top of the sill, but barely noticing. She stood and stared at the small hard object in her hand, took it over to the window, but it was too dark to see.
She hurried through the barn and outside, squinting against the dazzle of the brilliant light. She looked down. About half an inch across, dark grey and pitted like a miniature shrivelled brain. A tiny strip of wood veneer was stuck to one side.
It was an old dried piece of chewed gum.
Her hand shook, making the gum dance like spittle on a griddle. Then it fell. She looked down, tried to spot it, knelt, sifted through the gravel, rummaged her hands backwards and forwards. Over by the house she heard a shout, the sound of metal banging, the scrunch of feet; a laugh. She carried on rummaging, making a widening arc, but it had gone, swallowed by the pebbles the way the sea swallows a footprint in the sand.
A voice called, ‘Mrs Witney? Hallo? Need to know where you want these packing cases!’
‘Coming!’ she shouted.
Hundreds of people chew gum in cars. Thousands. Millions. There was nothing special about finding gum in a car.
Nothing special at all.
Chapter
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