Dermot Bolger - The Journey Home

‘It’s a lorry Hano. Fuck it, we’ll take a chance.’

The lights were higher off the road, the noise of the engine deeper. Katie placed one foot on the tarmacadam and thumbed it. It roared past and they had cursed the driver before it skidded to a halt twenty yards in front of them. The driver was in his early thirties. He grinned down at them as they climbed into the warmth of the cab. He was returning to Sligo, having driven since seven the previous evening from Belgium through France and then up from Rosslare. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t want conversation. He just drove, grey eyes ringed from lack of sleep, smoking cigarette after cigarette as he manoeuvred through the narrow streets of each small town—Slane, Kells, Virginia, Stradone, Ballyhaise, skirting the border beyond Belturbet, before moving down through Ballyconnell. He offered them cigarettes and large bars of continental chocolate, talked about the traffic police on the continent, the rigs of the other drivers waiting in the ferry port. Tomorrow his brother would take the truck to Galway to collect a load for Ostend. He would rest for two days till the truck returned. His wife would still be at home, the two children put to bed. Four years more was all he’d drive. The regulations were stricter now, spies in the cab regulating the hours you were supposed to drive, strikes among dockers, the same hassles always with the customs in England. Where was the profit for a haulier now? Missing the children growing up, feeling a stranger at times in your own home. But the bungalow he’d built from it, that was the best in the district. Last year he’d taken home a fireplace from a shop in Brussels. This time it was a chandelier, the only thing left in the back after unloading in Drogheda. Hano thought of it swaying absurdly from the ceiling of the container behind them, the young woman waiting at home with the firelight flickering and all the lights turned down. The driver wore a stained blue jumper with no shirt underneath.

‘You can’t beat it,’ he said. ‘Going home.’

Katie’s eyes stared ahead, her lips moving each time they passed a road sign. The driver pressed a switch on the dashboard and country music began to play. In Dublin with Shay, Hano remembered mocking the corny three-four playing of the Irish country bands. But now, as the headlights swept along the low bushes and stone walls bordering the road far below him and Katie curled warm against his side, the awkward lyrics were magical. Stories of wedding rings and lost love letters, of crossroad meetings, of blankets laid beside rivers. He closed his eyes, never wishing the journey to end. The driver sang along to himself. They passed Bawnboy and Glengevlin in silence and were only miles from Dowra when Katie tugged his hand urgently.

He looked down but she seemed afraid to speak. Her fingers were pulling at his jacket as if trying to tear it off.

‘Here,’ Hano said uncertainly. The driver stared across at him.

‘You sure? It’s the arse end of nowhere.’

Katie nodded slowly and the man shrugged his shoulders. He braked and bumped the wheel up against the loose gravel. The air rushed in, freezing when Hano opened the door. Katie jumped and he followed her down. The driver reached under his seat and threw another large bar of dark chocolate after them.

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