We are driving south after a productive few days looting Dieppe. A stroke of luck found us a mobile home after only an hour of searching, and it was blessedly unoccupied. A little driving and Clare spots a tanker full of diesel. Considering the struggle we have been through to get across the Channel, things are beginning to look up. By now we are adept at siphoning off the fuel into storage tanks, and within another hour we are happily driving around plundering stores for precious canned food.
Probably the best thing about the world ending, Clare tells me as she piles a trolley full of tinned fruit and condensed milk, is not needing to worry about eating dessert before dinner. I agree, noting from the loose fit of her jeans and the tighter line of her cheeks that she’s lost weight in the past couple of weeks, and ensure that I load up as much decent food as I can find. It doesn’t amount to much – canned meats didn’t feature prominently in the French approach to food – but it’s better than the crap she would eat if left to her own devices.
We race the trollies through the aisles of the Prix Unique, slamming into shelves and causing wanton destruction that in years gone by would have had me reaching for my mobile to call the police. It’s three laps with a no-limit rule for breakages, and she beats me with a masterful side-swipe into a stack of pickle jars that leaves the floor soaked in vinegar and me stepping gingerly through the broken glass. By the time we’re ready to load up the Winnebago we’re both panting and grinning like idiots.
“Chocolate pudding. Treacle Tart. Custard. Tuna.” Clare screws up her face at me. “Tuna? You know I hate this stuff.”
“That’s for me, I just hope it’s still good.” The date on the can is a month ago. I figure it’s within the margin of error and stack the can with a dozen others in the cupboard space above the sink. There’s canned meats, fruit, and enough canned and pickled vegetables to feed a small army. I pull out the final couple of bags – the coffee and dried milk, and Clare hops up into the driver’s seat.
“What do you think you’re up to?” I step up onto the runner and dangle the keys in front of her. “You’re not going anywhere without these.”
She darts me a grin and with a movement so deft that I’m not sure what she’s done, she plucks the keys from my hand and pushes my chest, shoving me firmly out of the door. I stand back, amused, but not quite sure where she’s going with this, as she methodically selects the right key, inserts it into the steering column, and turns to start the engine.
The ‘Bago starts smoothly on her first attempt, and I raise my hands to clap politely. She pulls the driver’s door shut and flashes me another big smile, before turning her full attention to the task at hand. The huge vehicle is a typical American holiday home – fully automatic and desiged to be driven with as little thought as possible. She reaches down to push the gear stick into drive, and with alarming confidence starts edging forward.
I realise now she’s serious about driving this thing, so I race around to the passenger door and haul myself in to the right-hand seat. She’s smiling, but her face is furrowed in concentration as she turns out of the parking lot towards the main road.
“So, which side do they drive on over here?” she laughs.
“The right, but let’s just keep in the middle of the road for now.” She steers too far over, but corrects herself before I instinctively reach for the wheel.
“Relax,” she’s laughing, beginning to enjoy herself, “besides, where are we going?”
“Follow the signs for the autoroute marked ‘sud’. We’re going to head out of town in that direction until we see signs for Paris.”
Clare looks over at me, her jaw hanging open. It’s so comical that I almost ignore the fact that we’re about to head off the road. “Watch out, dopey.”
“We’re going to Paris?” The note in her voice is one of childish disbelief, like I’ve just told her we’re going to a fairy tale land.
“We are if you don’t crash and kill us both befre we get there.” She’s doing well for her first time driving something this big. I contemplate letting her drive for a while longer, at least until we hit the autoroute. I don’t mention the fact that we’re only doing about twenty miles an hour.
Before long the small market town roads give way to the wider roads of the industrial areas south of Dieppe, and then we’re climbing an entry ramp on to the N27 towards Rouen. I tap Clare’s shoulder and with a disappointed frown she pulls to a stop so that we can swap seats. I’m about to reach over to open my door when she simply unbuckles her seatbelt and hauls herself across my lap into the empty passenger seat, making plenty of contact between us as she does so. I barely move for a moment as she just looks at me.
“I thought you wanted to drive. Go on then.” Her face is completely blank, and for a split second we hold each other’s gaze, then she turns towards the window and curls up on the seat, her back to me. I slip across into the driver’s seat, and pull onto the wide motorway, pressing my foot hard into the accelerator until we’re roaring south at ninety miles an hour.
Does she realise what she just did? It’s tough to concentrate on driving without wondering why she would do something so overtly sexual. I think back to the days when I was her age, of the games that girls would play with the affections of boys – always trying to elicit a response of some kind, but rarely through such intimate physical contact.
Is that it, is she just teasing without really understanding where that kind of behaviour can lead? Or was that deliberate overture for something more? I struggle with the idea of a fourteen year-old being that self-aware, though it’s a stretch to think of Clare as a normal fourteen year-old now. We’ve been through so much together in the last few weeks, and she through so much more in the time before I found her, that I just accept her as an equal. This is the first time in weeks that I’ve even considered her age.
It dawns on me that this is most likely the reason for subtle changes in her behaviour that I’ve failed to pay real attention to. Her choice in clothes has changed, moving more to the muted tones that I favour and away from the riot of colour that I first found her in. She wears her hair up now, and spends less time goofing around when we’re walking. By accepting her as a peer, I’ve set an expectation for her which, real or imagined, she’s living up to. As much as the last year has given her cause to grow up, I understand now that it’s my influence that’s shown her how to.
I glance over at her form curled up on the seat, her cheek flattened against the window, hair pulled back into a ponytail that falls across the dark green woollen jumper she’s wearing. Her arms are folded across her chest, and she’s wearing an unfathomable expression that I might in other circumstances mistake for abject boredom. Her trousers are stretched tight over her hips, and a small area of her back is exposed. For just a moment I find my mind wandering over what else is under that jumper.
I pull my mind back with a start. We’ve been together for over four months now, and for the first time I worry that I need to watch myself around her.
Taking a deep breath, I hit play on the CD player. Clare’s favourite album is in the machine, and atrocious hip-hop is blaring out of the speakers. She taps her foot in time with the indecipherable lyrics.
I press my foot flat down as far as it will go and will myself to only think of the road ahead.