Siobhan Dowd - Solace of the Road

Many thanks to the social workers I met in Oxford at the child rights training course in 2004. The stories about their work were inspirational. Pete Treadwell in particular put me straight on a number of things in the realm of children who are being looked after. Id also like to thank ChildLine and the Who Cares? Trust, whose publications were invaluable.

Fiona Dunbar, Oona Emerson, Helen Graves, Sophie Nelson, Alison Ritchie, Linda Sargeant, Anna Theis and Lee Weatherly were also most helpful in various ways. And words can hardly express the debt I owe to my agent, Hilary Delamere, and my quintet of editors, Annie Eaton, Kelly Hurst, Bella Pearson, Ben Sharpe and, in particular, David Fickling. The journey was winding but they never flagged.

Finally, thanks to Geoff for driving me up and down a certain old trunk road by way of research. It was a sky-jump, as Holly would say.

I have added the names of Helen Graves, Sophie Nelson and Alison Ritchie to this list because I know Siobhan would have wanted me to.

DF

I breezed down the line of cars, so cool youd never have known I was looking for a way to board the boat.

I strolled along easy, blonde, the wig catching the light. Then I spotted it. A shiny navy four-by-four, seven-seater and no kids. The owners, grey-haired coat-flappers, had just got out, leaving the front doors wide open. They were metres away, looking out to sea, talking to somebody further up the queue.

They were mogits, one hundred per cent. Mogits the word Trim, Grace and I made up in Templeton House and it stands for Miserable Old Git.

I glanced in. Coats, magazines, newspapers. A child seat, but no child. Untidy. Perfect. I got in through the passenger door and squeezed into the back.

It smelled of dog hair and plastic, all mixed up. I curled up on the floor and covered myself over with the coats. It was quiet, dark and still. I couldnt hear the wind.

I was off to Ireland under my own steam.

I waited. My skin prickled. My nose twitched. Jeez, agony. What the hell am I doing here? It was like Id jolted awake in the middle of a dream to find I was in the same place and the dream was real. I nearly got up and dashed out but the owners came back. I froze. They got in and the four-by-four shook. Thats when the wig slipped. I felt it topple off the side of my head and I couldnt do a thing. I scrunched up my eyes and clenched my teeth. The owners started talking. The car doors banged shut and the engine started.

About time, Mr Mogit grumbled. Weve been hanging around all morning.

Your decision to leave at the crack of dawn. Not mine. (Mrs Mogit.)

It was my contingency time.

You and your contingencies.

What about the time the tyre blew?

What about the time the tyre blew?

You were glad we left early then.

That was years ago. Before the grandchildren. Before the children!

So. Were due another contingency any minute.

Saints preserve us. Stop gurning. Your mans waving us on.

I didnt know what they were on about. Con-ten-gin-sea. It sounded like a weirdo cocktail, the kind youd get at the Clone Zone. They had odd accents, these mogits, not like the other Irish people I knew. Not like Mammy or Denny, the nightmare man. Certainly not like Miko. But I was glad they were arguing, because they didnt turn round. Mr Mogit revved the engine. We crept forward. We must have got to the ticket kiosk because I could hear the ferry officer checking their tickets. Would he spot the bulge on the floor at the back? I felt my luck tiptoeing away. Without the wig on, Solace was gone. I was plain old Holly Hogan again, the girl nobody wanted. But no. A miracle. The car banged over the ramp and there was a boomerang echo. Then voices, doors slamming, metal drumming. And somewhere the ships engine, deep and hot, turning. Even though I was under the coats, I could feel a strange heat rising and the pipes and the low-slung ceiling looming overhead, like somebody pinning me down the way they did when they locked me in at the secure unit.

I held my breath.

Dont forget the food, Mr Mogit called. His voice felt close now we were inside the boats belly.

Ive got it here at my feet.

Great. Parma ham with cheese.

Ach, shut it.

Cant take a joke.

Not after six hours cooped up in here. This journeys been as long as a wet week. Lets get out.

Shall we take the coats?

Thats it. Caught.

Its broiling. Its sunscreen we need.

Mr Mogit laughed. Youre something else. Pass the bag over.

I heard shuffling. The four-by-four shuddered as they got out.

Its the bowels of hell down here, Mrs Mogit said. Lets go straight up on deck.

Now or never. Theyll give the car a once-over and see me, or they wont.

The front doors slammed shut at the same time. Then something happened that I hadnt bargained for.

KRAAACRUUUNKK.

Theyd locked the doors all at once with me inside. Oh, God. I could hear a muffle of voices drifting away.

When youre in a car and somebodys locked it from the outside, can you get out?

If you cant get out, can you open the window?

If you cant open the window, how long can you breathe the air thats in the car? Does it last a crossing of the Irish Sea?

If it runs out before you get to the other side, do you die?

The questions fizzed in my brain like angry bees. I stayed rigid. Doors slammed. People walked by. Once the four-by-four rocked when somebody bumped into it. Then the noises of the cars and people went away. All I could hear was the big hot sound of the boat.

I pushed the coats back from my face and found myself staring up at cream and green flecks on the car ceiling. Then the flecks dissolved and instead I saw the sky house. The sky house is the last place I lived with Mam, way back. The clouds pressed up against the windows. Mammy and Denny were arguing, then they were laughing and the ice in Mams see-through drink was clicking and I was holding out an empty tube of toothpaste. No. Not that. I scrubbed the scene out like chalk from a blackboard. Mam was sitting at the mirror again, in her black dress, the one with the slinky halter-neck. The wind was in her hair even though she was indoors. And I was brushing her hair. Thats better. Dont stop brushing, Holly, for love nor money.

But I was here alone with the cream and green flecks. I felt a hot tear roll down my face. Theyd come and gone, the good guys, the bad, the ones who cared and the most who didnt. There was only me left and the hollow boom-boom of the ship. I saw my dream of Ireland winking at me, but how can you sail into a dream? Dreams are like mirrors. You walk towards them and a cold pane of glass stops you.

Ireland. Green grass, moving.

Mam singing, Sweet dreams are made of this.

Cows going over the hill.

Freedom.

Where dogs laugh, showing their bellies.

And Mam smiles. Welcome home, love.

I sat up on the seat, stroking the wig on my lap. The seat leather was grey and soft. My cheeks burned. I breathed. Calm down, Holl. I tried the door.

Locked.

I pressed the buttons to scroll down the window. Nothing.

Stay cool, girl.

I peered out. Dim lighting, car on car, lines of bumpers, empty glass, drab colours. Then a lurch and roll. We were moving.

Jeez. Mrs Mogit was right. It was the bowels of hell down here. My stomach tilted, a half-beat behind the rest of me. I banged the windows. I hollered like a trumpet but the swaying didnt stop. The airless heat would pass me out, I felt. Mammy, I thought. Youre out there somewhere. On the other side of the glass. Come and get me