She joined Barb between the soft sheets and fell into her embrace. Their lips again met each other and they kissed. Time stopped being real, for how long they kissed Petra did not know. She merely reveled in the sensations of her breasts touching another set of breasts, her lips being met by the softest, sweetest kisses she had ever known and the butterfly light touch of Barb?s fingertips on her skin. Snuggling into Barb?s neck Petra whispered one word, ?Mom.? ?Yes dear, I?m here.? Petra fell asleep. When she awoke it was dark outside, the rain was falling quite heavily. The room was dark, except for the faint light in the corner. She felt warm and safe enveloped in the softness of the bed. Barb had her head propped up on one hand. She was watching Petra and lightly stroking her hair. ?I never had a daughter,? she said, ?I always wanted one.? Petra felt wonderful that Barb would even think of her as a daughter. ?Anyone would be so lucky to have you,? Petra sighed. Barb?s head dipped. It was Dad’s decision, he was the knight of the road. So we stopped at a transport café. It was a wooden building, originally erected temporarily to cater for armoured tanks and troop transporters heading to Salisbury Plains for the war effort, held together by twenty coats of flaking paint. Inside everything was brown from the smoke of countless untipped Woodbines, consumed non-stop by drivers convinced the habit was healthy, keeping debilitating ailments at bay. For Mum and us kids, this visit was to another world, galaxies away from the Lyons Tea House, High Street ‘Betty’s’, or the fab Wimpy which had recently opened where the trolley buses stopped at the bottom of Wimbledon Hill. The parking area was full of trucks and the outside toilets were smelly, as if something had crawled in there, died and gradually fossilising. ‘This is a good sign,’ Dad jollied us, referring to the parking rather than the ablution block, ‘All these truck drivers know the best places to eat.’ We were.
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