I cast my eye around the kitchen, one last check to make sure everything is as we found it. Lydia has wiped up all the crumbs from the Nutella sandwiches she insisted on making as a packed lunch and for once I didn’t argue it. After last time, I’m quite happy to let her make all the preparations she needs – even though I’m tapping my foot just a little as she slices them in half and wraps them in clingfilm.
‘Let’s go then.’ I hold the back door open and catch a pained look on her face. I ignore it. This is how it has to be. We’re a team and we’re on a deadline. Despite my renewed focus, I give the house one last fond look. It’s defined happiness for me as well as providing sanctuary and security for a brief spell, and with thumbscrews and pliers threatening my fingernails I might even admit it.
I am worried about Lydia’s leg, which is well bandaged but she’s limping. I don’t say anything, namely because she hasn’t, but I adapt my pace, even though I’m conscious of time. With fourteen hours to make it, every second really does count. From the Ordnance Survey map in the cottage, we’ve estimated that the haulage company depot is only a mile and a half away.
It's six o’clock in the morning and as we walk down the drive, neither of us says anything.
A mile and half, when you’re counting every minute, is considerably further than you think it is. When the A J Evans Haulage Contractor sign looms over a drystone wall, I could punch the air with relief. It’s taken us forty-five minutes, which is very slow going. Unfortunately the buildings are down a long tarmacked road, which feels unnecessarily cruel of whoever is in charge up there.
‘Do you want to wait here?’ I ask, nodding towards Lydia’s leg. I want to run up the drive to save some time. If they say no, we’re going to have to walk further.
‘I think the sob story will be better if they see me hobbling up the drive,’ she says.
‘I still think you should see a doctor.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘How would we factor that in? I’ll see one when we get back to London. There isn’t time now and it’s probably too risky.’
‘And you don’t think this is?’
‘Less risky than our original plan of trying to hitch from the motorway?’
I purse my lips and together we walk up to the offices.
‘Morning, you’re up bright and early. Can I help you?’ the woman in the portacabin greets us as she wheels her chair to the front desk, which is the closest thing to a reception desk in the somewhat shabby but immaculately tidy office. There are neat rows of filing cabinets lined up against one wall, some kind of laddered planner and a vast cork pinboard where every piece of paper is pinned in rows with orderly precision.
Suddenly, asking for a lift doesn’t seem quite so straightforward now.
‘I hope so,’ says Lydia with her usual guileless honesty.
I glance at the woman’s spotless white shirt tucked into smart black trousers and the discreet but expensive gold bracelets on her wrist. My mother would approve wholeheartedly of her understated elegance. The outfit wouldn’t wow anyone on the catwalk, but it says a lot about her. I bet she runs this office with maximum efficiency. I’m aware of our rain-stained, crumpled clothes and muddy boots.
‘Well, spit it out, love. I haven’t got all day. I’ve got an empire to run.’ Then she winks at Lydia. ‘Run off my feet, I am.’ There’s an air of quiet calm which belies the words.
I smile at her as she assesses Lydia, recognising their shared type. I bet she knows exactly where everything is, doesn’t like unexpected surprises, always get the job done and doesn’t suffer slackers. There’s only one way to approach this. The truth, the whole truth and absolutely no bullshit, which is Lydia to a T.
‘I’m going to be honest with you. We’re on a reality TV thing, I don’t know if you’ve ever seen Hunted? It’s a bit like that except we’ve got to get to London by 8pm tonight – we were trying to get to the M6 to hitch but I had an accident and I’ve hurt my leg. I can’t walk that far and if we don’t make it together, we’re disqualified. I can’t let my friend here down.’
She nods and assesses us both through shrewd eyes.
‘I expect you know it’s against company policy for our drivers to stop and pick up hitchers.’
I nod. ‘Yes. We’re both in loss adjusting and I’ve done a loss for a lorry hijacking. I’m well aware of the risks to drivers who make unplanned stops.’
She looks at me as if she’s seeing me for the first time and nods as Lydia chips in.
‘That’s if they stop but … what if they started with a passenger or two and dropped them off?’
The woman laughs and turns to me. ‘Got a sharp one here,’ she says, and then huffs out a sigh and catches her lower lip between her teeth, giving Lydia another one of her penetrating looks.
‘Like I said, it’s against company policy and I don’t want to set a precedent but –’ she flashes a grin ‘– I’m the boss, so I get to decide.’
‘You’re A J Evans,’ I state with a responding smile. Of course she is. I bet she could run an empire.
‘Aye. Antonia Jane Evans. I inherited the business from my old dad and I’ve doubled the fleet since then. My hubby is driving in a couple of hours and he’s got an empty load, so he could take you. Only going as far as Leighton Buzzard, mind. He’ll be leaving at nine. And I figure if you’re wanting a favour, I could make you work for it.’
‘Of course,’ Lydia says plunging us straight into who knows what. Admittedly we’re in for a bit of a wait so I suppose we’ve got nothing better to do.
‘My admin lady has phoned in sick. We’re doing a big presentation tomorrow and she was going to print, photocopy and bind all the documents.’ She gives us a delighted grin. ‘Think you can handle it?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say. I like her style. She’s not one to take any crap and she’s not above taking advantage of the situation for her own ends. Good for her. She could be Lydia’s … no, not mother. Antonia has that same grab-things-by-the-scruff-of-the-neck approach. I get the impression that Lydia’s parents weren’t that organised. I’m intrigued by the admission that she doesn’t keep in touch with them, although equally horrified that they trashed her house. I just can’t imagine anyone’s parents doing that. Maybe she means that they weren’t able to manage the house and let it fall into disrepair, although that doesn’t ring true. Knowing Lydia, she would sort things out if that were the case. Why did she let that happen to the house? It’s a question I’ll have to ask her later. Things are suddenly speeding up. It looks like this evening we’ll be back in London. Leighton Buzzard isn’t that far from London.
Two hours and a thousand photocopied pages later – or at least it feels like that – and some very nice tea and biscuits – thank you, Antonia – we’re high up in the driver’s cab looking down on the cars on the M6 with a very garrulous Mr Evans, who it appears is delighted to have company and is very proud of his missus.
‘Runs a tight ship, does our Antonia. A few raised eyebrows when she took over but –’ his shy grin is full of mischief ‘– by God, she put ’em in their place. Competitors don’t say owt now. She don’t take any nonsense.’
It’s a four-hour journey, throughout which Mr Evans talks and talks and talks. He has a lively interest in just about every subject in the known universe, from the essential role of ants in the ecosystem, how to get rid of dandruff and when to prune roses, through to why there are so many UFO sightings in Area 51. Apparently it’s down to the confluence of cosmic ley lines that run through that particular part of Nevada. Who knew?
Every now and then Lydia’s hand sneaks into mine and gives it a squeeze when he reveals yet another one of his very interesting facts.
I have a hard time not bursting out laughing when Lydia suddenly asks completely deadpan, ‘Have you ever thought about going on Mastermind?’ Knowing Lydia, the question is kindly meant, and I feel a sudden warm glow inside. She’s a really good person. When I’ve slept with people before I’ve never really worried about their character or what they’re really like. Everything has been superficial. I never wanted it to be anything more. I suddenly realise that Lydia is a friend and I want her to like me as much as I like her. This revelation shakes me. Friends are friends, not lovers. Having feelings for someone gives them control. They’ll only want me if I give them what they want. My parents have always been careful with their affection. It’s always earned, when we passed exams, did well at school, got our first jobs, got promoted. I’d never understood until now just how conditional it is.
Lydia nudges me in the ribs. ‘That will be fine, won’t it, Tom?’
I haven’t heard a word of the most recent conversation, I’ve been too lost in the revelations suddenly exploding a bit like a volcano spewing rocks, smashing deeply held assumptions. My parents’ love is based on me fulfilling their desires, not what makes me or my siblings happy.
It’s a deeply sobering and depressing realisation.
Lydia repeats Mr Evans. ‘He’s going to drop us off at the railway station.’
