Chapter 4
HAL
We’re parked in the bowels of the ferry and according to the announcement, it’s time to disembark.
Sarah’s fallen asleep in the passenger seat.
I popped up to the café half an hour ago to get her a coffee and came back to her snoring, her head at an uncomfortable angle.
And I was left with a dilemma. Do I touch her?
Or do I leave her alone? I opted for taking my jumper and kind of propping it under her head so at least she doesn’t come out of the whole thing with a pulled muscle.
When it became clear she wasn’t going to wake up any time soon, I drank both of our coffees and checked my work emails, trotting off some of the usual advice about the software (not quite ‘turn it off and on again’, but close).
I cracked the window a little but didn’t venture up to the deck as I usually would.
It felt kind of wrong to leave her there.
Now I’m dying for a pee, but it’s too late.
It’s a relief, actually, that she hasn’t woken up to witness the way Betty reacts to being started up from a cold engine. The old girl coughs and chugs and I feel self-conscious in a way I don’t think I would if Sarah weren’t here.
Sarah’s one of those people. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean to have this effect on me, but whenever I’m with her, I stop using my own subconscious and start sort of looking at myself through what I imagine to be her eyes.
And it’s not a great feeling to realise what Betty and I probably seem like to her. Clapped out. Both of us.
Nothing has moved yet. Some people who seem to think the order to disembark is a suggestion rather than something more urgent are still strolling down the steps towards their vehicles.
Admittedly, often I’m one of them. But I resolve to be a little more considerate in future to the drivers who might be hoping to reach the services before they pee themselves.
It’s warm outside but here, in the underbelly of the ferry, it’s still fairly cool and it’s as if I can feel my bladder shrink, its contents pressing urgently against its fragile lining.
Surely it can’t be too much longer? I resist the urge to honk my horn.
Instead, I turn the key and silence Betty’s engine, then head towards the stairs, hoping to nip up for a quick one.
A woman with a white shirt and a lavender-coloured lanyard is standing at the bottom of the stairs, slightly to one side to allow down the last of the stragglers. I make to pass her and she literally moves to stand in front of me.
‘Sorry, sir, we’re disembarking now.’
‘I know.’ I flash what used to be my winning smile and hope that it still works. ‘Sorry, it’s just… I need to use the, you know. Toilet.’
‘There are toilets at the services. They’re not far.’
This is embarrassing. I find that I’m bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet, something I haven’t done since I was – what? – about six years old probably. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s just…’ I lower my voice as two well-dressed women push past. ‘It’s getting a bit… desperate.’
It’s brief, but I’m sure I see a flash of disgust in her expression, before she resets it. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
Sorry for what? Sorry I’m going to piss myself in the driver’s seat?
Sorry that I have such a faulty bladder?
Sorry that I’ve agreed to transport my ex-girlfriend and mother of my child to our son’s wedding and was trying to be chivalrous as she slept, meaning I was down here and didn’t think to use the conveniences until… well… now?
‘It really is… getting to be a bit of a problem. I had two coffees, you see. And uh, don’t they have a diuretic effect or something, and you know, it’s…’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ She delivers the line as firmly as a slammed door to the face.
‘Right. Well,’ I say.
‘You need to return to your vehicle, sir.’ Looking around I can see other drivers glaring at me now. I’m the last of the stragglers to return to his vehicle and now I’m getting bad-mouthed by most of the waiting passengers.
I want to tell them that I’m usually in situ on time, that these are exceptional circumstances. Instead, I give a little half-hand-raised apology and jog (painfully) back to my seat.
Betty, at least, starts.
Come on, come on, come on!
Nobody is moving. Just beyond the gap that leads to the outdoors and comparative freedom, I can see one or two cars making their way up the ramp. But it’s a slow process and everyone around me is still completely stationary.
Oh my God.
I try not to think about toilets or water, but the slight rocking of the ferry reminds me constantly that we’re floating on cold, salty liquid that’s about sixty metres deep.
Sweating now, I glance around and realise I have two empty, lidded coffee cups.
I am not, ordinarily, this kind of man. The last time I peed in a bottle was on holiday with my parents when I was about eight, and it was that, or wet my father’s precious back seat.
But any port in a storm, I think as I reach for the cup, then grab both for good measure.
People talk about feeling good all the time. Exercise makes you feel good! Chocolate makes you release endorphins! Drugs! Alcohol! Vitamins! Sex! These things scream at me from online and in-print headlines all the time. We’re all chasing that physical high.
I’d like to argue that peeing when you’ve been desperate is one of the best feelings in the world. No more pain. No more worry. Just the sensation of sweet, uncomplicated release.
I’m turned slightly in my seat, glancing at Sarah from time to time, willing her not to wake up. When I’ve filled a large paper cup and another half, reapplied the lids, and gratefully tucked myself away, it’s the first time I begin to wonder what I’m going to do with them.
But of course, now the car in front has started to nudge forward.
I slip both in the plastic holder between the seats and, thanking the gods of pee, or penises, or embarrassing situations, or all of them, that my very ex-girlfriend-turned-scary-lawyer of a travelling companion didn’t wake up and see me with my willy in a Starbucks cup, I push my foot on the accelerator and gently nudge Betty forward into the light.
Fifty kilometres later, I’ve opened the window and laid my arm along its length, letting the sun play on the stark white of my winter skin.
I’m just trying and failing to tune Betty’s outdated radio into something other than static when Sarah groans and opens her eyes.
One side of her face is creased and red, and she looks at me confusedly before getting her bearings. ‘Oh!’ she says.
‘Welcome to France!’ I tell her.
‘We’re here?’ She blinks and turns her head towards the window.
We’ve left the main drag now and are trundling down a cute little lane. I notice a field of cows, all brown and heavy-eyed, except for one black and white animal in the middle of the herd.
‘Well, just an hour away now.’
She nods, running a hand over her face and sitting up. I see her wince, presumably the leg’s giving her gyp.
‘Leg OK?’
‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Sorry for falling asleep on you.’
‘It’s all right.’
She grins suddenly and for a moment it feels as if the sun has broken from behind the clouds. ‘You mean you had a great time without having to entertain me. What did you do? Three course meal and a load of on-ferry shopping?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Was crossing OK?’ Then her face suddenly animates. ‘Oh!’ she says, noting the two cups. ‘You got me a coffee. Thank you.’
‘No!’ I bark as she reaches for one of the cups.
She looks at me, confused, her hand suspended in its journey towards the right-hand cup.
But I can’t say it. I just… ‘I’ll stop and get you a fresh one. It’ll be all gross and cold by now.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ she smiles. ‘Most of the coffee I end up drinking is cold anyway.’ She touches the cup with the back of her hand. ‘Ooh, still a little bit warm.’
I am breaking out in a sweat, torn between not wanting to face the embarrassment of telling her that not only did I drink her coffee, I peed in the cup – and the very real possibility that if I don’t say something, she is going to take a sip before realising what’s actually going on.
She picks it up. My heart is literally hammering in my chest. I wonder for a millisecond whether I might be having a heart attack.
It’s a thought that occurs to me fairly regularly, ever since my doctor gave me a health check and told me that now I’m practically forty, I’m basically on a downward slope to the grave.
‘Stop!’ I tell her, and she turns towards me, alarmed. ‘I’m serious! Don’t drink that.’
‘Why not?’
Oh God. I’m going to have to confess, aren’t I? ‘Um, it isn’t coffee.’
Her hand hovers close to the plastic lid. ‘What—’
I realise she’s going to peel the lid off if I don’t act now. ‘No!’ I grab the cup from her, taking a hand off the wheel momentarily. ‘Sorry. Just…’
Her face is thunderous. ‘What the fuck, Hal?’
‘It’s…’ I pause, but there really isn’t any other thing for it. She’s either left thinking I’m a violent coffee addict who’s unwilling to share a sip, or that I got caught short. The truth is marginally preferable. ‘Listen, I needed a pee and I couldn’t get to the loo and…’
A look of horror begins to dawn on her face. ‘So you’re saying that’s—that it’s—’
‘Yep.’ I keep my eyes on the road, one hand still holding the paper cup.
‘And I—’
‘Yep. Almost.’
‘Oh my God.’
There’s nowhere to pull over, so I’m forced to shove the cup into my driver side cup holder for the ten awkward minutes that follow.
Finally, there’s a rest stop and I turn into it gratefully.
I grab both cups, ready to head to the loos and dispose of everything properly.
‘Want a proper coffee when I get back?’ I say.
She looks at me. ‘No offense, but I think I’ll get it myself.’