TOYLAT

A Mr Thursday Story.

‘Seriously?’ Lydia said. ‘You expect me to go in there?’ 

Dad chuckled. ‘I don’t expect you to go anywhere. It’s up to you, you’re the one who needs the toilet.’ 

Lydia shook her head. ‘No way. There’s got to be somewhere else.’ 

Even as she spoke the words, she knew that wasn’t true. They had already been driving for over half an hour, eyes peeled for a toilet of some description. In that time, Lydia’s need to go had grown from a dull ache into stabbing pains in her lower abdomen. 

It was Toby, her annoying younger brother, who had spotted the sign. 

TOYLAT

The single misspelled word had been burned into a block of wood nailed above the door to what looked like a cowshed. Dad had pulled up beside the decrepit building and climbed out of the car with Lydia. Already Toby had been sniggering whilst his mother tried to shush him. 

‘Look at it, Dad, even the sign’s spelt wrong.’ 

‘I think that’s the least of your problems, to be honest,’ Dad said. 

Lydia had to admit he was right. Not that she liked agreeing with much that her dad said these days. 

The building, signposted as a TOYLAT, was a squat, ugly thing constructed of rusted girders, bricks and wooden planks. Some sort of creeping ivy had grown over the shed, smothering it with elongated, gnarled fingers, all dried out and dead. Looked like it might fall down at any moment in a cloud of dust and debris, a small, poisonous and perfectly formed mushroom cloud forming above the remains. 

Lydia wished it would collapse right now and spare her the experience of going inside. The problem was, she needed the toilet, and she needed it bad. And not just a pee, either. If that had been the case, she would happily have squatted behind a bush, even with the guffaws that would have produced from Toby. 

No, she needed a Number Two as her mother so delicately referred to that particular piece of business. 

At the thought of this, Lydia’s stomach cramped, and a sharp pain pierced her lower abdomen. Yep, she had to make a decision soon, all right. If not, the decision was going to be made for her by her bowels, and Number Two was turning into Number Poo, right where she stood and in her knickers. 

‘Why don’t you open the door and take a look inside?’ Dad said. ‘It might not be as bad as you think.’ 

Lydia arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Since turning fifteen, this had become her favourite response to statements she disagreed with. So much more eloquent she felt than spoken words. 

‘I take it that’s a no then,’ her dad said. 

‘Do you really expect me to answer that?’ Lydia replied, investing as much scorn into her tone of voice as she could. 

Another cramp seized her stomach, this one painful enough that she grunted. 

‘You need a crap, don’t you?’ 

‘Dad!’ Lydia hissed. ‘You know Mum doesn’t like that word.’ 

‘I know, I know, along with shit, turd and chocolate log.’ 

‘Da-ad!’ Lydia couldn’t believe her ears. 

‘The thing is, you need a…’ he lifted his fingers in quotation marks, ‘… Number Two, and this here is the only Number Two receptacle for miles around. Now, if you think you can hang on for another half hour or so, then let’s get back in the car and drive. But from the lack of colour in your cheeks, the way you’re standing there with your legs crossed, and the pained expression on your face, I doubt you can manage another five minutes. So, what do you think?’ 

Lydia couldn’t speak. She was holding her breath as another sharp pain shot through her lower abdomen. 

‘Lydia?’ her dad said. ‘Are you all right?’ 

The tiny but incredibly strong hand that had been squeezing her lower intestine decided to let go, and Lydia gasped, ‘Yes, I’m fine.’ 

She didn’t feel fine, though. Her cheeks tingled as the blood drained from her face. 

‘Come on, just go in, do your business and then we’ll be on our way,’ her dad said. ‘You’ll feel better after it’s done.’ 

Lydia shot her dad a glance, intending to project a silent message at him to stop patronising her. After all, she wasn’t seven years old anymore. But then she noticed the look of concern on his face. 

‘Maybe you’ve just got a little stomach upset or something,’ he said, answering a question that she hadn’t actually spoken out loud but had been there in the back of her mind. 

‘I bet it was that takeaway,’ Lydia said. 

McCluckers, it had been called. Had to be the stupidest name for anything, ever. The village they had stopped off at, all four of them complaining of hunger pangs, had been little more than a single street with a few houses, an empty post office and this, a single takeaway outlet. No corner shop, no newsagent, no grocers or butchers. 

Just McCluckers.