Catherine Jinks TheRoad (53 page)

She was therefore hugely surprised when she peered through the rear passenger window (which was frosted with condensation) and saw that Ross was lying with his eyes closed, curled up under a plaid picnic blanket, his head pillowed on Verlie’s ergonomic back support cushion.

He wasn’t awake after all.

Feeling a bit lost, she turned from him. The air around her was as fresh as peppermint toothpaste, still and silent. The endless vista of dirt and saltbush stretched away in every direction, each low, spiky outline slowly becoming harder and clearer as sunrise approached. Verlie wondered if she could return to the caravan without disturbing its occupants, and was debating the wisdom of going back to bed (as opposed to settling down in the breakfast nook with a torch, a muesli bar and a detective story) when she heard Mongrel growl behind her.

He was tied to the bumper of Del’s old Ford, a bowl of water within easy reach. His gaze, she noticed, was turned to the west; it was fixed on something in the distance, something that Verlie couldn’t see, not in the dim light, not without her glasses. Whatever it was, though, he didn’t like it. His upper lip was lifted slightly over exposed yellow teeth. His growl didn’t explode into a bark or howl but kept rumbling away in his throat, as he slowly raised himself out of his basket.

‘What is it?’ she murmured. ‘Mongrel?’ Nervously she tapped on the rear window of the station wagon, tapped and tapped, while the hackles rose on Mongrel’s neck and shoulders.

‘Del!’ she said hoarsely. ‘Del, wake up!’

There was a stirring from inside the car: a shifting of shapes, a few grunts, a loud thud. Then a bird cheeped somewhere, and Mongrel stopped growling. He still stood alert, his ears cocked, but his appearance was no longer as alarming as it had been.

The first rays of sunlight were gilding the horizon.

‘Whassup?’ a voice mumbled. Verlie saw that Noel had wound down one of the Ford’s windows, and was peering out, ruffled and bleary-eyed.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘It – it’s the dog.’

‘The dog?’

‘He’s acting a bit strange. At least, he
was
acting a bit strange. He’s stopped, now.’

Suddenly the driver’s door popped open, and Alec emerged.

He was wearing his jeans and T-shirt, but padded towards the caravan on bare feet, fiddling with his fly. Verlie looked away, anxious to give him a bit of privacy.

The birds were quite noisy now, though she couldn’t see any of them. It was almost as if the bushes themselves were chirping.

‘What’s wrong with Mongrel?’ Del asked. She too was leaning out of a window, her stiff grey hair sticking up like the coarse bristles of an old straw broom. At the sound of her voice, Mongrel abandoned his post and bustled towards the car, his tail whipping about furiously.

‘Yeah, yeah, all right,’ said Del. ‘I’ll get ya breakfast, just hang on a sec. What’s he been up to, has he peed on something?’

‘No,’ Verlie replied, and described Mongrel’s curious behaviour. By the time she’d finished, Alec had returned. Unshaven and red-eyed, he looked more disreputable than ever. He stood scratching various portions of his anatomy while Del – who was on her feet, at last – stretched and groaned and adjusted the vertebrae in her neck with a nasty little click that made Verlie grimace.

‘Ah – bloody hell – me joints aren’t what they used to be,’ Del muttered, glancing down at her dog. ‘Well, I dunno, Verlie. He seems all right now.’