2007 - Two Caravans Read Free

some pretensions. What a pity Mother wasn’t here to put him right.
    “It is absolutely irresistible, Mister Vulk.”
    “You like? Eh, little flower? You vant touch?”
    The ponytail jumped up and down. I held my breath.
    “Go on. Hrr. You can touch him. Go on,” he said with horrible oily enthusiasm.
    I reached out my hand, which was still greasy and smelt of chips.
    “Go on. Is pleasure for you.”
    I touched it—it felt Like a rat’s tail. Then he flicked his head, and it twitched beneath my fingers like a live rat.
    “I heff hear that voman is cannot resisting such a hair it reminding her of men’s oggan.”
    What on earth was he talking about now?
    “Oggan?”
    He made a crude gesture with his fingers.
    “Be not afraid, little flower. It reminding you of boyfriend. Hah?”
    “No, Mister Vulk, because I do not have a boyfriend.”
    I knew straightaway it was the wrong thing to say, but it was too late. The words just slipped out, and I couldn’t bring them back.
    “Not boyfriend? How is this little flower not boyfriend?” His voice was like warm chip fat. “Hrr. Maybe in this case is good possibility for me?”
    That was a stupid mistake. He’s got you now. You’re cornered.
    “Is perhaps sometime we make good possibility, eh?” He breathed cigar smoke and tooth decay. “Little flower?”
    Through the darkened glass, I could see woodland flashing past, all sunlight and dappled leaves. If only I could throw myself out of the vehicle, roll down the grassy bank and run into the trees. But we were going too fast. I shut my eyes and pretended to be asleep.
    We drove on in silence for maybe twenty minutes. Vulk lit another cigar. I watched him through my lowered lashes, puffing away hunched over the wheel. Puff. Stink. Puff. Stink. How much further could it be? Then there was a crunching of gravel under the wheels, and with one last violent lurch the mafia-machine came to a halt. I opened my eyes. We had pulled up in front of a pretty steep-roofed farmhouse set behind a summery garden where there were chairs and tables set out on the lawn that sloped down to a shallow glassy river. Just like England is supposed to be. Now at last, I thought, there will be normal people; they will talk to me in English; they will give me tea.
    But they didn’t. Instead, a podgy red-faced man wearing dirty clothes and rubber boots came out of the house—the farmer, I guessed—and he helped me down from Vulk’s vehicle, mumbling something I couldn’t understand, but it was obviously not an invitation to tea. He looked me up and down in that same rude way, as though I was a horse he’d just bought. Then he and Vulk muttered to each other, too fast for me to follow, and exchanged envelopes.
    “Bye-bye, little flower,” Vulk said, with that chip-fat smile. “Ve meet again. Maybe ve mekka possibility?”
    “Maybe.”
    I knew it was the wrong thing to say, but by then I was just desperate to get away.
    The farmer shoved my bag into his Land Rover and then he shoved me in too, giving my behind a good feel with his hand as he did so, which was quite unnecessary. He only had to ask and I would have got in myself.
    “I’ll take you straight out to the field,” he said, as we rattled along narrow winding lanes. “You can start picking this afternoon.”
    After some five kilometres, the Land Rover swung in through the gate, and I felt a rush of relief as at last I planted my feet on firm ground. The first thing I noticed was the light—the dazzling salty light dancing on the sunny field, the ripening strawberries, the little rounded caravan perched up on the hill and the oblong boxy caravan down in the corner, the woods beyond, and the long curving horizon, and I smiled to myself. So this is England.
     
    The men’s caravan is a static model, a battered old fibreglass box parked at the bottom of the field by the gate, close to a new prefab building where the strawberries are crated and weighed each day. Stuck onto one