‘Danny, can I stop you there?’
He pauses, raising his eyebrows at me in the mirror as he takes a swig of his Monster energy drink.
‘Thanks,’ I say, going back to my phone. Maz has replied: Something brewing. She wants to have dinner tonight.
No ducking way, I tap furiously. I’m busy, got a work thing.
I can see the ellipses as she crafts a reply. Maz isn’t usually so prompt in her responses, which means Rose must have rattled her. My sister spent most of her twenties in therapy recovering from our mother’s parenting methods, and her psychiatrist told her she had to find three things in life that would keep her on an even keel. After careful consideration, she chose alpacas, IKEA, and alcohol. Now she lives near Crediton in Devon, on a smallholding that’s a short drive from a flagship branch of the Scandinavian store. She takes people for healing walks with her calming camelids Mabel, Dorcas and Tilly, and when her anxiety flares, she goes for a Nordic fix, browsing the displays and treating herself to meatballs in the café. Whenever she encounters our mother, she manages to maintain an impressively constant low level of inebriation at all times, like a Glastonbury festival-goer downing a shot before braving the rancid toilets. Sometimes I think she’s the most sorted person I know.
Wondering whether to get it over with. Maz’s reply startles me. She takes the alpaca by the reins, not the bull by the horns, and I’m confused by her willingness to interact with Rose, who will surely have something up her flowered sleeve.
Rly? If my sister is ready to have dinner with our mother, then I will have to as well. I’d rather stick poisoned pins in my eyes, but I can’t let her face the tinkling music alone. Maz and I may not be the closest siblings, but where Rose is concerned, we stick together.
I can drive up, she can get someone to drive her down. Rose lives in Stroud, and occasionally deigns to come down to ‘see the gorgeous grandchildren’, which is shorthand for ‘disapprove of everything and daintily bemoan her lot in life’. She doesn’t stay with us, ostensibly because she’s allergic to cats, but actually because the original oak beams in our house in Keynsham make it too dingy for her. Luckily, she has a ‘dear friend’ with a penthouse flat in Redcliffe who lets her stay in a vague mutually beneficial arrangement which makes me wonder if my mother is a kept woman. After our father left, her famous stiff upper lip was firmly coated in fuchsia as she battled to maintain the façade that he was simply away on business. Since Dad was already shacked up with Valentina in Torrevieja and showed no sign of returning, this was a difficult front to keep up, so the story gradually evolved, and now she tells the beau monde of Gloucestershire that she is a widow, banishing my father from most family events. At my wedding, she referred to him as a distant cousin, and even though everyone knew exactly who he was, no one dared mention the elephant in the room, least of all my dad, who likes an easy life. He’s taken to pre-empting her by calling himself Cousin Jack, and sometimes I do too, because it seems to sum up our amiable but slightly insipid family connection.
OK but don’t let her book anywhere too £££. Rose insisted on an extended family meal at the Dorchester for my fortieth birthday and sailed out after liqueurs without paying, leaving me to foot the bill. I have no intention of letting her get away with that this time, but also I don’t like her choice of restaurant, which is always the type that serves tiny portions with ‘jus’ in a jug on the side – her idea of a place posh people go to, as, in her head, my mother is marginally better-born than the Queen. If I have to hear her tale of woe then I want to tuck into a hearty shepherd’s pie while I do it. And not too late, need to be done by 9. That’s when the Red Eye party starts, which is a good excuse to get dinner over with.
Understood.
An evening of hell reluctantly arranged, I sit back to enjoy the views, as we’re now out of Bristol, heading south towards Chew Magna. On balance, I’m glad Robbie persuaded me to leave London so he could fulfil his dream of a country house with a garden, even if my mother laments the low ceilings. He wanted space in the sense of more rooms and land, whereas I wanted something more abstract. Whatever it was, I found more of it in the clear horizons of the countryside than I did in the hemmed-in capital. When I watched him building the longed-for swing in the garden, I felt settled in a way I never had before, like I’d successfully escaped. But I suppose I hadn’t really, just kicked the can down the road, as this morning’s email proved. Talking of roads, there’s a gorgeous view of the valley from the one we’re on, and I tell Danny to stop so I can get out to enjoy it. This day is about pausing to be in the moment, and I’m going to do it, over there in that meadow.
Grumbling, he pulls up on the kerb, and I set off down a dirt track to get a better look. Gazing across fields peppered with dandelions, I can see the reservoir glittering beyond – perfect for this period of reflection I intend to take. It’s lush and beautiful – so far removed from the endless tarmac and crowding towers of London. Layers of vivid green with pockets of remaining yellow, shimmering silver blue and then the deeper blue of the sky above. Like a Constable painting, if he’d used nice bright colours. I start some mindful breathing, but something is nagging at me – not just the things I didn’t manage to escape, but something I’ve just seen out of the corner of my eye. What was it? Turning, I look back up the track. There’s another car parked there, one I passed on my way down – an old muddy Golf, with a Countryside Alliance sticker on the window screen. I traipse back up and peer in. Jesus Christ. A cowering ball of fur on the back seat. It must be nearly thirty degrees, and the windows are closed.
Unlike Maz, I wouldn’t describe myself as an animal lover. I like Grizelda well enough, but mainly because she keeps the mice down and looks good on Instagram in front of an open fire. However, this is not on. It’s likely whoever owns this car has gone on a lovely country stroll – why couldn’t they bloody well take their dog with them, rather than leaving it to roast? I’ve read about these stories before and know what I’m supposed to do. In fact, when I read them, I fervently hoped it would never happen to me, because I couldn’t imagine how I would deal with it, so it’s lucky it’s happened today, when it won’t be a problem.
‘Danny!’ I holler, beckoning him. He’s got the Daily Express propped against the steering wheel and he’s eating a packet of Wotsits. I march over and tap on the glass. He looks up, annoyed, and lowers the window.
‘You have to come and help me,’ I say, opening the door for him. ‘It’s an emergency.’
‘Help you do what?’ He gets out, wincing as he stretches his legs.
‘Break into a car,’ I reply, stalking down the track.
‘What’s wrong with my car?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with your car.’
‘Then why’d you want to steal another one?’
‘I don’t want to steal it, I just want to break into it. Look.’ I point at the ball of fur. ‘Poor little thing.’
Shading his eyes, he presses his face to the glass. ‘It might be dead already. Leave it.’
‘I will not. Help me find a brick.’
We can’t find a brick, but we do find a big stone on the track. With my eyes closed, I hit the front passenger window with it. Nothing happens. Car window glass is reassuringly tough. I hit it again, harder; nothing.
‘You do it.’ I hold out the stone to Danny. ‘You’re stronger than me.’
He shakes his head. ‘No way, that’s criminal damage, that is.’
‘It’s justified if an animal is in danger.’
‘Not if you haven’t told the police you’re going to do it.’
‘How are you suddenly such an expert?’
He gives me a withering look. ‘I’m an effing taxi driver, ain’t I.’
I get out my phone. There’s no signal, so instead I take a photo of the little cringing creature whose life I am about to save.
‘Right, stand back.’ From about a foot away, I throw the stone, hard, at the window. It shatters, I duck and Danny yelps, but when we come to, there’s a huge jagged hole. Bingo.
‘Now you’ve done it,’ says Danny.
‘I know I’ve done it, I meant to do it.’ Exasperated, I push him aside, carefully reaching in to unlock the car. Then I open the back door, gather up the hot dog, and pass it to Danny.
‘What am I supposed to do with this?’ he splutters.
For someone with such strong opinions on popular culture, he’s not very proactive. ‘Just take it back to your car.’
‘Aren’t you coming?’
‘There’s something I’ve got to do first.’
Clutching the bundle, he turns and trudges back up the track, as I contemplate the legally damaged Golf with my hands on my hips. Far from being unable to do the deed, I’ve discovered that, in fact, the deed wasn’t enough. I’m still vexed with the heedless owner of this vehicle, who left his dog to die in it. He – for I’m sure it is a man – needs to be more comprehensively punished for his malign neglect. I assess the track, speculatively. It slopes downwards in a fairly straight line towards a field with an open gate. There’s a big oak tree just beyond. It’s an extremely bucolic scene.
I open the passenger door and lean in to look around. Although I didn’t pass my test, I’m familiar with the basics. Checking the gearbox is in neutral, I release the handbrake, and step back hastily. This turns out to be unnecessary, as the car stays exactly where it is. Slamming the door, I go round to the boot and start to push, my sandals scrambling on the gravel. Just as I’m wondering if I’m going to have to call Danny again, the car begins to trundle down the track, gathering momentum as it goes. It’s as satisfying a sight as the gently rolling valley. By the time it reaches the end of the lane, it’s got up to quite a speed, and the crash as it hits the tree is gratifying, causing me to do some spontaneous mindful breathing as I appreciate the vista. It’s definitely enhanced the view, like a sort of modern Hay Wain. There’s a faint hissing sound coming from the bonnet, but I haven’t got any more time to stand around admiring my own work. Dusting off my hands, I return to Danny’s car, climbing back into the rear passenger seat.
