Parking

Parking

'Look at this one.'
He shone the torch on the back window. The lace curtains were tied
back neatly and they could see into the beige panelled sitting
room.
'Nice and wide.'
'Spacious seating area.'
'Fucking awful cushion covers.'
'Same as ours.'
They walked on.
'Look at the decking on that one.'
Covering the whole Caravan Park they worked methodically, him shining
the torch, her comparing size and decoration. A man walking his dog
passed them. They returned his nod.

Coming to a noticeboard he stopped and read each card.
'Well, what do they say?'
He said nothing but moved aside so she could read them herself.
'No dirty ones then?' She said this brightly, involving herself,
joining in.
'Should there be?' He was smiling now.
'There's not much to do here is there? I thought they might invent
their own entertainment.'
'Like we are you mean?'
'We're first timers aren't we. I'm sure first timers always snoop. Once
the novelty's worn off what else is there to do but swap wives.'
Spotting a card advertising a bike for sale, she examined it with
genuine interest. Wife swapping had been her attempt at being risque
but in truth the atmosphere of peace appealed to her.
He looked at the rows of caravans in the dark. Squares of light and
blue flashes of television. Doors shut, windows open only a crack.
There was tension in the absolute silence. It was a concentrated quiet,
as if people were holding their breath. He could not imagine arguing in
this environment, or laughing, or having sex for that matter.
'It is, however, the perfect scene for a murder.' He took her arm and
started a circuit of the Caravan Park for a second time.
'I was thinking more in terms of wife swapping.' She said this quietly,
having nothing else to say.

A window opened, the low sound of the tv escaping through the crack.
Scenes of murder borrowed from countless films ran through his head.
Second rate security guards plodding shame faced behind a brilliant
amateur detective who just happened to be staying on site. Too Agatha
Christie.
'Maybe you're right about the sexual liaison thing though. They
probably have a separate board. In the security Guard's office.'
She smiled as he embarked on a history of the security guard. Where he
lived, why his uniform was too tight, his preference for kinky sex and
his love for a large Alsatian called Reg. His voice whispering in the
dark, just rising above the sound of waves. She listened to both and
enjoyed the sense of stillness, the lack of visible activity. She
became aware that he was asking her a question, had in fact asked her
the same question several times. She looked at him, his face open and
suddenly young. He wanted her to say something, to help him conjure up
'murder in a motorhome' or the 'secret sexual longing of a camper.'
They would spend their night talking about other people's imaginary
exploits, what might be happening beyond the thin walls of their rented
motorhome. She was aware, seeing him there beside her, that she wanted
to talk to him. Ask him how he was and how she was and about their
holiday and the dinner and the books they were reading. She didn't want
to talk about other people.
'What do you think?'
She thought that she was tired and wanted to go back inside.
'Maybe they just do this,' she said gesturing at the silent and sealed
boxes.
'Maybe they do, but that's not really the point is it?'
'No?'
'No. And if this is all they do at night then they need spicing up a
bit.'
'Spicing how?'
'It was your idea I thought, the sexual liaison thing.'
'It wasn't really an idea, just a thought, a fleeting thought.'
'Well it was a good one.'
'Oh.'
'What we need to do is conduct an experiment.' He was looking at her
now, triumphant, waiting for her to ask. She felt compelled to feed him
the line.
'What do you mean experiment?'

Back inside their motorhome he wrote on a piece of cereal packet in his
best handwriting. She sat waiting for him to talk himself out of it.
His face pinched in concentration, he asked her whether 'naughty' was
better than 'kinky' and how to spell erotic. She could see him glancing
at her, almost provocatively. She knew what was expected of her. Her
job was to save him from his ideas. She would help him spin his idea
into a set of new possibilities. They would discuss these new
possibilities, no matter how unlikely, and he would select one, setting
off in pursuit. That was the deal. They spun stories and planned
outrageous projects. He would push them to the edge of plausibility
until she led them gently into new territory. They went on adventures
together; renting a motorhome, midnight walks around London, barge
holidays through the city's outskirts; but nothing compared to the
adventures that they planned.

'So what have you written?' She couldn't stop filling in the gaps,
moving him on to the next part of his plan. He read from the little
piece of card.
'Get saucy at the seaside. No position too naughty, no suggestion too
saucy!
Contact Nina at no.81'
'So what happens now?'
She presumed he would stop short of offering her services to a complete
stranger in a caravan park. She wanted him to stop, to set the card
aside, to put his arms around her and rest his face in her hair.
'We put this up and see what happens. What do you think of the
sign?'
'You used the word saucy twice.'
'I don't expect grammar will be the first thing they notice.' He was
looking out of the window, his back to her.
'Assuming there is a they. You're making a lot of promises - no
position too naughty- what if 'they' want to do something disgusting
with tent poles?'
Her voice was louder than it should have been, harder. She smiled at
his back in an effort to soften what had already been said. It was dark
outside and they could see nothing but their own faces reflected back
at them as they looked out.
'Well we won't know that will we because we're going to be watching
from here not embarking on actual prostitution.'
She had lost sight of what it was they were supposed to be doing. She
went to the fridge and took out a bottle of wine. She poured them each
a glass.
'I don't want one thanks.'
She tipped his glass into the sink without thinking.
'You didn't have to throw it away, I might have wanted it later.'
Leaving both the bottle and his empty glass on the side, she sat down
with her wine.

He proceeded to tell her how they would put up the notice and then sit
and watch caravan number eighty one. If someone arrived at number
eighty one it would mean that the enterprise had been a success.
Success meant that they had uncovered the seedy goings on underneath
the respectable surface of the caravan park. She had pointed out that a
visitor at number eighty one might mean just that - that they were
receiving a visitor. In turn he pointed out that it was nearly midnight
and that they would be able to distinguish a visitor from someone
seeking illicit sex from the way that they approached the door. When he
had finished she picked up her book and settled back into what passed
for a sofa. She was on her third glass of wine. Throughout his speech
she had found herself increasingly disappointed in his failure to
notice her lack of interest.

'Aren't you coming with me to put this up?'
He was waving the little piece of card at her. Something about the way
in which he was flapping the thing around made her want to wound
him.
'Look, I have no idea what you're intending to do or what you're
talking about. I'm tired. Can't we just have dinner like normal
people.'
He looked suddenly confused as if someone had changed the rules without
telling him. Standing up, his face cleared of colour and his mouth
tightened in an expression she recognised from some of their worst
moments.
'Some people find it difficult to do anything unusual. If you want to
spend your time eating cosy dinners and drinking white wine in the back
of your rented caravan then that's up to you. But that's not what I
came for.'
'What did you come for?'
'That's a stupid question.'
They stood looking at one another, the lights over emphasising their
features. He was holding the piece of card and didn't know what to do
next. He sat down.
'If we sit here we can see if anyone goes to the door at number eighty
one.' He could see that something was wrong. He had upset her somehow.
Her face was pale and her eyes wide and unblinking. If he stood up and
put his arms around her he could make everything all right. He placed
the piece of card on the table.
'Well I'm going outside to put this up, coming?'

---------------------------
The lights were off making the silence more complete. Sitting in the
back of the motorhome she could hear him in the front section, breath
heavy with anticipation. She had been trying unsuccessfully to read her
book in the dark. There was nothing else to do but look outside. She
told herself that she was not keeping watch and tried to appreciate the
starless sky. Looking into the front she could see him kneeling on a
floral cushion, his hands cupped around his face, close to the glass.
He moved, making room for her beside him. She wanted to sit with him
but it felt like defeat. She was silently talking herself in to
remaining steadfast and alone when she heard someone approaching. There
were no voices but she could the sound of feet heavy on the
grass.
'There's someone coming.' His urgency lifted her off the sofa and sent
her scuttling towards him. They collided outside the loo cubicle.
Moving towards the front they knelt on the tiny sofa facing the window.
A middle-aged man walking a dog passed in front of them. The dog
sniffed at the door of number eighty-one, raised its leg and pissed on
the steps. Both man and dog walked on. She thought she saw the man
smile as the dog cocked its leg.

'Maybe that was some form of protest.'
He smiled and she allowed herself to smile back. He stood up to get the
remains of the wine from the fridge.
'We'll have to open a new bottle.'
Sitting down with his glass he gave her a kiss on the cheek. It was a
soft kiss. She was almost enjoying herself now although she could sense
a residue of irritation that would not let her relax. His attention
seemed to salve so many wounds. She sometimes thought he could do
almost anything as long as he kissed her softly or smiled at her in the
right way. This realisation made her feel faintly pathetic. As she sat
there, nursing her perceived wounds, a large figure approached the door
of number eighty one. Hesitating for a second he was suddenly as still
as they were. Their eyes were unable to leave his suspended form, his
inexpertly scoured the dark. Moments later he smoothed his rain jacket
with the palms of his hands and knocked on the door of number eighty
one.

Inside their motorhome they didn't speak. They were now both on their
knees, fingers clenching the floral cushion covers. The flaw in his
plan became apparent as the owner of number eighty one opened the door.
A neat and tidy woman in her forties ushered the large man in. He wiped
his feet before entering - and it was all over. What happened in that
caravan was open to the imagination only. She had known this would
happen. The surprising thing was that she cared at all.
'Now what?' She tried not to make it sound like a challenge.
'Well we wait.'
'But he could be there having a cup of tea for God's sake. We have no
idea whether he's even seen your notice.'
As she spoke his expression changed from excitement to unbearable
smugness. There was a part to this plan she didn't know about, his face
said, and she was going to feel extremely stupid for not backing him
all along. She tailed off and waited for the flash of brilliance he
obviously could not wait to reveal.
'That's where you're wrong.' Pause. 'Because while you were pretending
to read your book I added something to the notice.'
She couldn't bear to ask him what he had added. He would tell her
anyway.
'I wrote 'For security purposes please remove notice before coming to
caravan for saucy fun.'
'That's three times you've used saucy.'
'So now we go and look at the noticeboard.' He took her hand in a
gesture of solidarity.

About to open the door he stopped and stared at her, eyes popping, head
craned forward.
'Listen.'
What to?'
He said nothing but craned his head further forward and raised his
eyebrows. As she stopped focusing on him and turned her attention to
the caravan opposite she could hear the sound of laughter. It was
intimate, she thought, low and warm.
'They're laughing.'
They stood silently in the dark straining to hear the laughter from
outside. She could feel his breath on her face.
'Does it sound sexy?' His voice was strained with urgency.
'What?'
'The laughter, does it sound sexy?'
She leaned up and kissed his lips.
'Stop it I'm trying to listen.' He moved his head away.
The sound of laughter teased its way through the open window. She
released her hand from his and went to sit by the window. Perhaps they
were having sex next door, perhaps they were laughing at the note. She
heard the door shut and turned round to find him gone. He hadn't even
asked her to keep watch this time. She sat watching the light fall from
the window opposite, trying to hear snatches of conversation.

He approached the noticeboard in a manner he hoped was that of a person
taking the evening air. The park was empty of people but filled with
caravans. Solid sealed rectangles with marks of individuality tacked
onto the outsides. They were impervious to his gaze and it was this
that made him desperate for wild invention. He wanted to know what was
on the inside and if he had to invent it or make it happen himself then
that was what he would do; had done. He was close enough now to make
out the shapes on the board. He couldn't remember where he had put his
piece of card. He moved closer and imagined he was looking for a
portable television going cheap. He hadn't brought a torch. If he stood
with his nose almost touching the board he could make out the writing
on each card. He worked methodically, starting in the top left corner
and moving across. Reaching the bottom right corner he stopped. His
card was missing. It had been taken. Someone had removed it. He allowed
these thoughts to move calmly across his mind before feeling any
reaction to them. Turning and walking away he smiled wildly into the
dark. He stopped himself from running. He wanted to tell her. He
started laughing to himself. It had worked. He had proved a point.
Underneath the restrained exterior of this caravan park beat a kinky
heart.

He could see their motorhome now. He noticed that it was dark inside
and remembered that they had turned off the lights so that they could
see out. From here it simply looked deserted, a blank box surrounded by
the cosy glow of lace covered windows. She was sitting in there. In the
dark. As he approached the door he felt a vague unease. He was aware
that he had done something wrong. Failed to live up to expectations
somewhere along the line. He wasn't paying her enough attention or
including her or some other phrase that didn't sit easily with him. His
excitement no longer seemed relevant. It was about them now. It always
ended up being about them. Whatever they did, wherever they went,
whatever he wanted them to do, it was always a reflection on his
shortcomings. He felt as if they were involved in a series of tests. He
tested her ability to follow him, she tested his ability to stay with
her. He opened the door.

It was quiet inside and he could see immediately that she was not
there. He looked inside the loo cubicle. He knew before he looked that
she had gone. She had left disappointment behind her. Her absence was
the clearest indication of his failure. She had not followed him and he
had not stayed with her. Leaving the lights off he sat on the floral
sofa. He leaned back against the cushion. If he closed his eyes he
could just hear the sounds of laughter coming from number eighty
one.