Hideous kinky - By Esther Freud Page 0,1

the boat to the other waving goodbye to Spain and shouting ‘Land ahoy!’ to Morocco. The sun was sinking fast and the gulls had stopped circling. As we leant over the railings, Morocco faded into the night and we could only guess at the layers of blackness where the sea stopped and the land began. We went back to the van. Maretta was sitting in the front seat.

‘Where are the others?’ I asked, climbing in, forgetting for a minute.

She didn’t answer. Bea stood by the door.

‘Come on. Let’s go and find them.’

‘Would you like to come?’ I touched Maretta’s hair. It was thick and damp with dirt.

Bea pulled my arm. ‘I’ll race you to the deck.’

Maretta didn’t move. Not even her eyes.

‘All right then,’ I said, and I started after her on a hopeless challenge.

The ship was lit now by the white froth of the waves. We edged along where earlier we had run. At the front of the boat we heard laughter and snatches of familiar voices. We crept forward, our eyes on the red tips of cigarettes.

‘Land ahoy!’ Bea jumped out of the darkness and put her hands over my mother’s eyes. She screamed with mock alarm.

‘Your money or your life.’

Mum put her hands in the air and pleaded for mercy. ‘I don’t have any money,’ she said. And everybody laughed.

A slow, low hoot rose into the air and we all jumped. Danny picked me up and swung me over his shoulder. ‘Right. Back to the van,’ he said.

I called to Bea as I hung, the blood rushing to my head, ‘I’ll race you,’ and I drummed my hands on Danny’s back to make him go faster.

We sat in the dark in a queue of cars waiting for our turn to drive off the ferry. My mother showed us our photographs under hers in a black leather passport.

‘In a minute a man will come to check that it’s really us,’ she said, tucking my hair behind my ears. John was in the driving seat, and Danny and Maretta were awake in the back. The line moved slowly forward car by car.

‘Once we’re through customs it should only take a couple of hours along the coast road and we’ll be in Tangier,’ Danny said. He talked with a rolled cigarette unlit and hanging between his lips. ‘I just wish they’d get on with it.’

We were edging now towards a white barrier. Two men in uniform inspected each car before the barrier lifted into the sky and let them through.

There was a tapping on the glass. We sat very still and John rolled down the window, letting in a blast of cold and salty air and a whiskery face with bright blue eyes. ‘Hi, where you heading?’ he said, sticking his head right in and peering at us in the semi-darkness.

‘Tangier tonight… and then on to Marrakech.’

‘Hey, I’m heading that way myself. Dave. Call me Dave.’ And he rested his elbows in the open window and smiled.

Dave ambled along beside us as we neared the barrier. ‘So this is your first trip, you’ll love it, you won’t want to leave. Where you from? Let me guess? London. Forget London, man. Marrakech. That’s where it’s at.’ He had a scarf tied round his head and his pale ginger hair hung over it in strands. He had no bag and no coat. ‘Hey brother,’ he slapped John on the shoulder, ‘you’re going to need some introductions. I’ll tell you what. I’ll ride into Tangier with you. What do you say?’ And he whipped open the van door and leapt in.

Dave settled himself in the back.

‘Hey lady, how you doing?’ he grinned at Maretta.

She didn’t answer.

Another face appeared at the window. A dark, serious face with a thick moustache. My mother leant over and handed him our stack of passports. He flicked through them and glanced at us each in turn. A quick flick of a glance and he handed them back. The customs man nodded towards Dave who was hovering on a mound of cushions by the back doors. He said something I didn’t understand. John and my mother both shook their heads but Dave stuck out his long white neck and nodded. The officer was silent for a moment and then he jerked his thumb backwards. He was telling the van to turn around. Back, round, and on to the boat. Back towards Spain.

The barrier stayed firmly closed.

We ate our breakfast in Algeciras. Bread rolls and Fanta. Maretta sipped a cup