New Australian Stories 2 by Aviva Tuffield Page A

sky behind them. The car radio continued to play.
    â€˜You’re all right?’ asked David, but that was obvious. He opened his door and stepped out onto the road. Mr Ronald’s car reminded him of a cartoon dog, excessively punched, whose nose had folded into its face for a brief and hilarious moment before relaxing out again, essentially unhurt. He watched Sarah run towards it and then ran after her. The driver’s door had opened in the crash, and Mr Ronald sat, his legs pinioned, but his right arm rested against the doorframe as if he were about to casually lean out and make a comment on the weather. He wasn’t moving.
    â€˜He’s alive,’ said Sarah.
    She kneeled beside the car and held Mr Ronald’s wrist, and when she released it she wiped her fingers against her skirt. David stood by the tree and passed his hand across his face. He felt the air press in around him and he wanted somehow to press it back. Sarah had found Mr Ronald’s wallet on the front passenger seat.
    â€˜His whole name is just three first names,’ she said, inspecting his licence. ‘Ralph Walter Ronald. He’s seventy-six.’
    Sarah looked at Mr Ronald reverently, acknowledging his age and misfortune. She felt that his awkward name had lifted him out of a past time in which she played no part and deposited him here, in his crushed car.
    â€˜Which way to the nearest house?’ asked David.
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    â€˜Forward or back?’
    â€˜I don’t know.’
    â€˜This is your drive to work. You drive this way almost every day.’
    â€˜It’s dark. I haven’t been paying attention.’
    â€˜All right, all right. Should I try the car? Otherwise I’ll have to walk for help. It seems like ages since we saw a house.’
    â€˜Nothing in England is ever very far apart.’
    â€˜Maybe I should cross the fields. Do you see lights to the left?’
    â€˜I don’t see anything.’
    It began to rain, very lightly. The rain seemed to rise out of the ground and lift up into their faces, a cheerful mist.
    â€˜All right, try the car, quickly,’ said Sarah. ‘I’ll sit with him. His car won’t blow up, will it? Or is that just in movies?’
    â€˜It would have blown up by now. Right?’
    They stood helpless in their combined ignorance, considering Mr Ronald’s car and Mr Ronald trapped within it. The passenger’s seat was whole and healthy, although the accordion-fold of the front of the car left almost no leg room. Sarah brushed glass from the seat and slid in beside Mr Ronald, tucking her legs beneath her.
    David pulled himself away from the tree with great effort and crossed to the car with mid-city caution. It wouldn’t start; it would never start when he was late for a seminar or a critical train; it required tender solicitations after particularly steep hills. Of course it wouldn’t start now, when his need was desperate. Perhaps it was finally beyond repair — and then there would be the panic of finding money for a new car. David tried again. It wouldn’t start and wouldn’t start. He ran back to Sarah.
    â€˜No good,’ he said. ‘Fuck it. I’ll run. I’m sure I’ll find someone. Another car.’
    â€˜Go forward, not back,’ said Sarah. ‘Keep following the road forward. I think there’s a service station. God, I have no idea of distances on foot.’
    â€˜Baby,’ David said, leaning farther into the car. ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
    â€˜I know,’ she said. ‘It was his fucking fault. But, darling, I’m a little drunk.’
    She watched him comprehend this. He was drunker than she was. His eyes filled briefly. There was a scar above his right eye, half hidden in the eyebrow, left over from childhood chickenpox. He often walked through their apartment on his toes, adding to his height, bending down over her as she lay on the