HCE received a lot of high-quality submissions for The Green Issue – sadly, too many to fit inside the magazine! So we offered some writers and artists who’d sent in work the chance to be published here on the website. Keep an eye on our social media for more great work like this, now that The Green Issue print magazine has been released! (For more information or to purchase your copy, visit our shop.)
Janet Howcroft
We May be Daft
We’re hitching in Brittany, trying to get to Cherbourg for the midday ferry. It’s already ten o’clock and after two hours we’ve only travelled thirty kilometres. Our second lift, a Renault, stops to let us out then turns off to a village.
‘This is a disaster,’ says Lynne. ‘We’re never going to make it.’
I drop my rucksack. The road smells tarry in the heat; it’s far too warm for jeans. I rub some sun oil on my peeling nose, then grease my shoulders and the back of my neck. My sister doesn’t need it: she’s deeply tanned already, her legs nut-brown in shorts.
‘Can I have that pastry now?’ she asks.
The verge buzzes with insects. I throw the bag and watch her eat the last pain au chocolat; I’m hungry but I’ve already eaten mine.
In the distance, there’s a lorry so I stand to hold the sign we wrote hastily this morning with biro on a paper bag from the patisserie: ‘CHERBOURG’ in big but barely discernible letters. Lynne jumps up to thumb the driver. We turn as the engine changes pitch, thinking that it’s slowing but it’s not, and soon it’s out of sight between the poplars. I lower the sign and wonder what we’re going to do if we miss the ferry.
‘Now promise me you won’t hitch,’ our mother said as we set off for Plymouth. ‘It’s not safe.’
‘We’re not that daft,’ I said; and waved until she couldn’t see us anymore.
This is our first holiday together. My sister left home when I was eleven so there’s a lot of catching-up to do. She’s in charge because she’s twenty-two but I have to do the speaking because she won’t open her mouth. I don’t mind, I’ve just taken my French ‘O’ level. So, when we can’t find the youth hostel in Quiberon (Ou est l’auberge de la jeunnese?) and when my sister loses her watch in Concarneau (Ma soeur a perdu sa montre), we’re not happy but at least we’re understood. We’ve even met some boys.
‘Parlez-vous Anglais?’ says a broad Yorkshire accent. We’ve just come off a beach with sand too hot to walk on. One’s blond and the other’s dark and before I know what’s happening, we’re sharing a table. I let my sister do the talking; I don’t know what to say to boys. I sip my coke and play with my plaits while my stomach ties itself into a knot. My sister’s worldly wise, she’s been to university; she laughs a lot and cracks a lot of jokes.
When she disappears to the toilet all conversation stops. I stare into my glass and push the ice round with the straw, feel the colour rising in my face and wish I was invisible.
‘Well, what do you think then?’ says dark hair to blond hair.
‘Mine’s alright,’ says blond, ‘but I don’t think much of yours.’ He’s talking about me.
When Lynne comes back, they empty their glasses and leave.
‘That’s a shame,’ she says. ‘They were nice.’
‘Yeah,’ I say and let the knot unravel.
We hear the car long before we see it and take up our position by the kerb. It’s an old Citroen 2CV. I hold out the sign trying to look eager and harmless. It goes past and we’re about to sit back down when the tyres skid to a halt fifty yards further up the road. We shoulder our rucksacks and run, laughing because he’s wearing a stripy shirt and beret.
‘All that’s missing is the string of onions,’ says Lynne.
I put my head to the window: ‘Cherbourg, monsieur?’
He gestures at the road in front of him and we get in, Lynne in the front and me in the back.
‘Merci, monsieur,’ I say, and we rattle off down the road.
Mum would have a fit if she could see us but we’re not hitching out of choice. We tried to buy train tickets at seven o’clock this morning but it was first class tickets only and we didn’t have the money.
There’s a sour smell in the car that’s making me feel queasy so I open the back window a fraction; then glance at the driver’s mirror to see if he’s noticed; he’s looking at me. At the next junction, there’s a sign for Cherbourg to the right, but instead, he takes the road opposite which narrows and winds between high hedges, for such a road, he’s driving much too fast. Through the gap between the seats, I watch the needle creeping up to eighty. We’re swerving horribly, my sister’s knuckles are white from holding on; he’d do better with both hands on the wheel. His head is tilted and the sound he’s making doesn’t sound like French. I wonder if he’s having a seizure.
Lynne turns around: ‘When I tell you, get out of the car!’ she orders and then proceeds to vomit. This can’t be. I’m the one who gets travel sick and always had to sit in the front when we were kids while she sulked and accused me of making it up. There’s something she’s not telling me. I rack my brain for a phrase:
‘Arretez! Arretez! Ma soeur a mal de coeur!’
The Frenchman swerves to the side of the road, stops and we’re out of the car in seconds, my sister off through an opening in the hedge and into a field. I’ve never seen her run so fast. I don’t know what we’re running from. I wonder if we’re not being a bit rude, after all he did offer us a lift. Behind the hedge, we squat and wait.
The car door opens and through a gap I watch him stumble out and weave his way towards us, clutching at his lap. He’s so close I could grab him round the ankle through the hedge. I wonder what he’s doing, then I hear the stream of pee against the grass; the smell comes sharp between the branches. There’s a dull rustling as he rearranges himself then we hear the zip, but he doesn’t leave, his shoes are swivelling on the gravel like he’s looking around. My leg’s gone to sleep; I need to stretch. I’m about to change position when I hear him turn, and through the gap, I watch him get back in the car. We remain silent in the field until the engine noise has died away.
Lynne looks pale.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask. ‘Was he having some sort of fit?’
She hesitates. ‘He was……. He had his …..’
She stops and I wait until she finds the words.
‘Do you know what masturbation is?’
Twenty minutes later, we’re back on the main road just past the Cherbourg sign; it’s a good spot because of the turning. Lynne’s on her rucksack so I’m doing the sign and the thumb. A lorry slows and I look across to Lynn but she’s just staring into the distance.
‘Come on,’ I call. She turns to look at me. ‘It’ll be OK. Look it has ‘Cherbourg’ printed on the side.’
Two hours and we’re on the ferry waiting to sail. At the bar, I order two brandies, not sure if they’ll serve me, but the barman’s busy and doesn’t hesitate.
‘Looks like someone’s starting early,’ says a familiar voice.
It’s the lads from Yorkshire. Lynn doesn’t answer so in case they think we’re rude, I invite them to join us at our table by the porthole and relate the finer points of our journey.
‘He sounds like a right tosser!’ says blond hair.
My sister nearly chokes on her brandy and the boys lean back laughing, clearly pleased with themselves. I don’t see what’s funny. The dark one looks at me and points and they all double-up.
‘Oh, I get it!’ I say, comprehension dawning at last, and find I have a new word in my vocabulary, English this time.
‘You won’t tell mum we hitched, will you?’ says Lynne.
‘What sort of idiot do you take me for?’
So that’s agreed. We may be daft but we’re not stupid.
Jan Howcroft lives in Essex. She started writing when she retired. Since then, she has produced a wide variety of short stories and flash fiction. Her work has been shortlisted in several national writing competitions.