This Should Be Written in the Present Tense

29

It was a bit of a job wheeling the bike with the suitcase on the pannier rack, it kept sliding to one side. Every now and then I had to stop and manoeuvre it back into place, there was hardly any strength left in my arms after a couple of kilometres. Just before Teestrup a white van slowed down, inside were two men wearing overalls. One of them rolled the window down.

‘Do you need any help?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘It’ll go in the back no bother.’

‘No, I’m all right, thanks.’

‘Where are you going? Are you going to Ringsted?’

‘No, just over there,’ I said, and pointed. They both turned their heads and looked. I moved my finger a bit to the right, towards a building on the other side of a wire fence.

‘Well, give them our love,’ he said, and then they drove on. The other one smirked in the mirror.

The building was a disused electricity substation. The van was long gone, but I stopped by the fence anyway and put the suitcase on the ground. I sat down on it. It gave a bit, ominously, underneath me, I shifted my weight further forward onto my legs. I was wearing trainers, the laces slapped against them. I was terribly thirsty. I’d packed a carton of apple juice but I couldn’t be bothered to unearth it. Now and then a car went past. Then a bit later a fat woman on a moped. She got a fright when she saw me. I sat and listened as the sound of the vehicle grew fainter, then I got my juice out. The sun was beating down, my arms were shaking from my struggle with the suitcase. After a bit the sound came back from somewhere far off to the right. It got louder, and eventually the woman from before rolled up in front of me. She switched off the engine and took off her helmet.

‘Everything all right?’

‘Yes,’ I said and took a sip of my juice. The straw gurgled. She had a denim skirt on and a waistcoat with tassels, she stood straddling the moped.

‘I just thought all of a sudden you looked a bit forlorn. I’d nearly got to Haslev,’ she said.

‘Oh,’ I said.

‘Glad to hear you’re all right, though.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. Thanks.’

‘Then I began to wonder if you might be going into town as well. I thought if you were, I could give you a pull.’

‘But there’s this,’ I said, and pointed down at the suitcase.

‘True,’ she said. ‘But we could pick that up after. How far have you come with it?’

‘I don’t know. Five kilometres, maybe.’

‘Ouch.’

‘So I don’t think I could hold on for a pull just at the minute. It’s really kind of you, all the same,’ I said.

She nodded.

‘Tell you what, then. We’ll leave the bike instead. You have your drink, there’s no rush,’ she said. So I finished my juice and got to my feet, squeezed the air out of the carton and stuffed it in the waist of my trousers for want of anywhere better. She put her helmet on again. Then she picked up my suitcase and wedged it diagonally between her legs. It looked precarious. She started the moped and jerked her thumb towards the pannier rack. I got on and we wobbled off.

We crawled along. I put my arms around her waist. Her waistcoat smelled of something familiar, sun cream or melon. I thought it must be hard for her to steer. Her thighs and calves clamped the suitcase tight, but she could still nod her head to the left when we passed by a hare in a meadow. It pricked up its ears.

I’d had a vision of Haslev. But as soon as we entered the town I forgot what it was. The roads were wide and dusty, manhole covers clonked under our wheels. We pulled up on a little square with empty hanging baskets, they looked like ones we’d had at home. I got off, and she extracted herself.

‘Are you all right from here? You sure you don’t need somewhere to stay?’ she said through her visor.

‘No, I’m fine, really. Thanks for the lift.’

‘Thanks for the company. Do you want me to pick up your bike at some point?’

‘No need. I’ll just walk back and get it.’

‘Right you are. I’ll be off to the baker’s, then. Look after yourself,’ she said, and held out her hand. It was soft and moist.

I stood and watched as she pulled away. She turned and waved before disappearing round a corner by some redbrick flats. I laid the suitcase down and opened it and got my money out. Then I stood it on its end again and draped a top over it. I left it where it was and crossed the road to a corner shop where I bought three small cartons of juice and a packet of biscuits. When I came out Lars was standing on the square with a vanload of hanging fuchsias. For a second I thought it was some kind of welcome. It was such an odd coincidence all we could do was act normal. I gave him a juice and hid the biscuits away in my suitcase.