Gently Where the Roads Go by Alan Hunter

gritted, clicked and was not restarted. She poured the tea, pushed a sugar bowl towards him.
    ‘You haven’t been here before, have you?’ she asked.
    Still the eyes and not the face. The face was flattish but with a delicate chin.
    ‘No,’ he said. ‘This is my first visit.’
    ‘I just thought your face seemed familiar,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring your egg and chips if you’ll sit down. It shouldn’t take five minutes.’
    He sat down. He felt hot. He sipped the tea, looked at the room. It held about twenty small square tables, each with four chairs to it. The walls were lined with plasterboard which had been at some time distempered cream and on them were hung a few cockled advertisement cards featuring soft drinks and potato crisps. There were seven other customers, crews of the vehicles parked outside. Four of them sat at one table, eating and talking, one was reading a paper, one had his feet up, snoring. The other one had been playing the jukebox, but now sat solemnly drinking tea. The one with the paper sat at the end of the room and wore a ring that flashed when he turned a page. The room smelt of fried chips, coffee, tobacco-smoke. It was lit by two bulbs and there was one behind the counter.
    He kept sipping the tea. The woman had gone through a curtained doorway. From behind it came the hiss of an egg broken into hot fat. The four drivers together were talking about breakdowns which always occurred on a Saturday or a Sunday. The sergeant, a young man with a flushed complexion, remained leaning on the counter and paying attention to nobody. Beyond where the egg was cooking a door opened and closed: softly. Then somebody attended to the egg.
    She brought out his order on a tin tray and set it briskly on the table. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress and beneath it her small breasts rolled nakedly.
    ‘Some sauce?’ she asked him.
    ‘Just pepper and salt.’
    ‘You’d better let me fill your cup up.’
    Her voice was neutral-toned, fastidious, with a slight contralto huskiness. Several of the men had an eye on her, including the one who was reading a paper. He lowered the paper at the sound of her voice, stared furtively, raised it again. She wasn’t pretty. She had a slight figure. She wasn’t young. Her expression was unpromising. But her eyes smiled, sometimes. From the whole depth of her body.
    ‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like some bread and butter?’
    She hesitated by the table, stooping towards him. The sergeant suddenly put his glass down hard, straightened himself, made a dab at his tie. She looked at him indifferently.
    ‘Oh – are you going now, Johnny?’
    He picked up his hat and pulled it on before replying: ‘I reckon I am.’
    She shrugged slim shoulders. ‘You weren’t here for very long!’
    ‘No,’ he said. His mouth was petulant. ‘Think I’ll be on my way,’ he said.
    ‘You can stay if you like.’
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll be on my way.’
    ‘Just as you like.’
    He made a business with his tie. ‘Goodnight, Wanda,’ he said.
    ‘Goodnight, Johnny.’
    He finished with the tie, walked out smartly, looking at nobody. A moment later came the racket of the moped and the sound of it being fiercely accelerated.
    ‘He’s jealous of you,’ Wanda muttered, but without looking at Gently. ‘He’s a damned little fool, as he’ll find out.
I
didn’t ask him to come up here.’
    ‘Why should he be jealous of me?’
    She shrugged again. ‘They get ideas, these kids. They all think you’re going to sleep with them. What about that bread and butter?’
    ‘No thank you,’ he said.
    Her eyes found him, smiled. ‘You don’t have to worry about your figure.’
    ‘I’m not that hungry,’ he said. ‘It’s warm.’
    ‘Well, don’t be backward in asking for anything.’
    She took the tray, retired to the counter, began to wash and dry saucers and cups. The drivers who sat together, and who had fallen silent, now resumed their conversation. The man