Her walks were her salvation. ‘Going out for a walk’ was a legitimate reason to leave the house and the fresh air blew away some of her stale teenage angst. Her routes were always taking her to the edge of town, avoiding the hot-dog stall in the centre. It was the Hultaryd meeting-place for those who cared about meeting up. Sibylla wasn’t one of them. It was a long time since she had positively wanted to meet anybody she knew from school in the evening. Seeing them there during the day was more than enough.
The Young People’s Society for Motor Sports ran a community centre in the outskirts. It was a shabby two-storey house with its ground floor turned into a mechanics’ workshop. The distance from central Hultaryd was a measure of the low status of the YPSMS members, but at least in some cases alienation seemed to be what was wanted.
She would probably never have noticed him, if she hadn’t happened to pass just when he was bending over the engine of a souped-up old banger with very fancy paintwork. She stopped some twenty metres away to admire the effect. The car was pea-green with vivid flames streaming from below towards the rear wings. She had never seen anything like it.
She was trying to hang about casually, but after a while he looked up and spoke to her.
‘Cool, isn’t it?’ He was wiping his oily hands on a rag.
She nodded.
‘De Soto Firedome, from ’59. I just had it back after a re-spray.’
She couldn’t think of any response. There seemed to be nothing to say. Most of all, she was amazed that anyone in Hultaryd had been able to paint the flames so beautifully.
‘Want a go? Just try sitting in it?’ When she still didn’t answer he shut the bonnet and waved at her. ‘Come on, have a look. The seats are covered in real leather.’
She came closer. He was obviously keen to show off his car, which seemed innocent enough. She had never been in a car like that and couldn’t remember ever having seen him before. He looked quite a bit older than her.
He threw the oily rag away. Then he wiped his hands on the sides of his jeans and opened the passenger door for her. After only a few seconds’ hesitation she did what he obviously wanted her to do. The seat upholstery felt like an armchair.
‘It’s a great car. V-eight engine, 305 horsepower.’
‘Great.’ She smiled cautiously at him.
He went round to the driver’s side and opened the door.
‘Can you reach the blanket on the back seat?’
Sibylla got hold of the brown, checked blanket and handed it to him. He put it on the seat before he jumped in.
‘Coming along for a drive?’ He was already turning the key.
She stared at him.
‘I’m not sure … I should go back home …’
The engine was humming. He pressed a button and her window went down.
‘Electric circuit operating the windows. You want to check it out?’
She pressed the button. The window closed smoothly. She looked at him again, meeting his smiling face. Two dimples had appeared in his cheeks.
He got into gear and put his arm along the back of her seat. Her heart was beating harder now, because his gesture seemed so intimate even though it was probably just practical. Looking out through the rear window, he reversed into the road.
How come she was suddenly sitting in a suspect-looking car next to a complete stranger? What if anyone saw her?
‘I’ll drive you home. Where do you live?’
Sibylla swallowed.
‘No, don’t. Let’s just go for a drive,’ she replied quickly.
They drove towards the centre. Sibylla was watching him surreptitiously. There were spots of oil in his face.
‘I’m Mick, but I won’t shake hands. Unless you want to get oil on yours.’
‘Sibylla.’
‘Sure. Forsenström’s daughter. That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
He was driving down Tull Street and soon they would be passing the hot-dog stall.
‘Hey, listen, isn’t she sounding just great?’
Fantastic. Sibylla wasn’t going to say the car sounded about as smooth as Gun-Britt’s little Renault. The usual crowd had gathered around the hot-dog stall. Sibylla kept her head down.
‘Those are your mates, right?’
At first she didn’t answer and he looked quickly at her.
‘Like, they’re hanging out at your place.’ He was grinning at his own joke.
She didn’t even smile. Noticing her reaction, he too became serious.
‘Come on, I was just kidding. Don’t worry about it.’
She looked at him, realising that he really had meant it as a joke, not sarcasm aimed at her. The difference was obvious and she smiled back at him.
Not much more was said between them at that first meeting.
He took her back to the YPSMS place and she thanked him for the drive. He pulled the handle that released the bonnet just moments after she’d got out of the car. When she had walked away a bit, she turned. He already had his head down, tinkering with the engine.
A new, expectant feeling was growing inside her, making her certain that something important had happened, something good. Whatever it was, it mattered to her.
How right she was.
Of course, she couldn’t have known that if the car hadn’t been delivered that day, or if the paint had taken just an hour longer to dry so that Mick wouldn’t have been outside working on it or if she’d taken her walk in another direction … or if, if, if … then, if things had happened differently, her life might have turned out quite differently.
That afternoon she had arrived at one of life’s significant forks in the road, unremarkable-looking at the time, but where the effect of turning one way or the other is fully understood only afterwards. It would take her a long time before she realised it.
Then – much later on – it would become clear to her how wrong her choice of direction had been on that critical afternoon.