by Stephen May
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he says now, ‘I’ve been driving sixty-two years.’ Which doesn’t actually make Polly feel better.
Truthfully, he does seem to be a decent driver. He gives it plenty of mirror-signal-manoeuvre when they’re in town anyway. In fact he’s very, very careful, almost a bit old ladyish, which is surprising. It’s only when they get into the countryside that he gets more calm and confident. He whistles a bit.
He tells Polly that it was Nicky dying that made him want a new car. Made him realise that life was short. And he tells her that he loves cars, that he did the Paris to Dakar rally once, that he used to race Minis in some special league, that he even collected Dinky cars as a kid and still has them all back in his room at Sunny Bank under his bed.
‘What? You’ve still got all those toy cars? Not in boxes?’
‘No, of course not still in their boxes. I was just a nipper, what sort of lunatic child would keep their toys in their boxes? But they’re in very good condition for their age. Not like their owner. Ha ha.’ And he chuckles to himself. Then he starts talking about the car they’re in, this red Alfa Giulietta. He says it’s got good handling, plenty of welly and that he’s pleased that he went for the limited-edition one with wood-veneer dashboard and leather-veneer steering wheel. ‘It’s the details that count, isn’t it?’ he says. And Polly is thinking yes, details like having a licence because it’s only just occurred to her that Daniel might not have one. Surely the hole in the head thing must disqualify him from driving? Surely they’ve taken his licence off him?
Apparently not though. They stop in a village out of town that Polly’s never been to before, at a pub called The Old English Gentleman. It’s a typical country pub with a Yorkshire terrier sleeping before a blazing coal-effect gas fire and lamb rogan josh with naan for just £6.99. Daniel says he’s going to treat her. And then it’s like he’s a mind-reader.
‘Amazing that I’ve still got my licence, isn’t it? Bureaucratic cock-up I’m sure, but I’m damn well going to make the most of it.’ And he sips his dark beer. Daniel is a real-ale man. He always has a bottle of London Pride with his lunch at the home, and then another at six o’ clock on the dot. Actually lots of residents have a drink at six. It’s like the last normal habit that a lot of them stick with. Even when they’re totally gaga in other ways, they’ll still demand wine, beer or sherry at six. They say that music is the last thing the demented can appreciate, that even when everything else has pretty much faded away they can still hum along with ‘In The Mood’ or whatever. Polly thinks that’s wrong though – the very last thing to go is the desire for a drink before dinner.
So they have lunch and then Daniel beats Polly at pool, and at darts, and wins £24 on the SmartAss quiz machine, and he has two more pints. If it was any other resident Polly would have been very strict and told him that he couldn’t have more than one if he was driving, but Daniel is completely in charge. He does banter with the woman behind the bar, he talks about football with some lads near the pool table. He’s so at home here. No one is ever really at home in a home.
Polly only remembers about drink driving when they’re back in the car park. Daniel blanks her when she tries to bring it up, and she thinks they’re only a few miles from home so it will probably be all right.
When they’re in the car it reeks of London Pride and she gets all nervous again, but she doesn’t have to say anything because suddenly Daniel goes, ‘Tell you what, my lovely, why don’t you drive us back?’ And she immediately sees why. There’s a police Astra in the car park with them. So Daniel gets out and strides round to the passenger side while Polly fumbles to find the seat-belt releasing thingy.
So now Polly feels properly scared. This is a fast, powerful, brand-new car – of course she’s going to crash it. She’s going to put them both in a ditch, or wrap them both around a tree. She can picture it very clearly. A stew of crumpled metal, squashed body parts, two different kinds of veneer and a mashed-up elm tree. Even walking to the driver’s side feels like the start of Casualty.
But she doesn’t actually ever get in the driver’s seat. She’s about to when she sees the policeman walking over. They always make you feel guilty, don’t they, the police? Whenever the police want to talk to her she always thinks she’s somehow shoplifted a sandwich or accidentally manslaughtered someone. And actually it doesn’t even have to be a policeman. Community support officers, security guards in the shopping centre, traffic wardens, anyone in any kind of uniform really, they all make her somehow want to confess to stuff.
But this policeman isn’t interested in talking to Polly. He wants Daniel. So Daniel has to get out again and it’s a bit of a struggle. He’s still a tall, powerful man, which is something Polly hadn’t really noticed till today. Everyone in the home seems small to her, frail, but here now, in this pub car park, Daniel seems strong. He towers over the policeman in a way that makes Polly wonder if they’ve got rid of the height requirement in the police force now. She wouldn’t be surprised. And she remembers that she actually thought about joining the police after her GCSEs – she thought it would be a good way to ride horses and get paid for it – but her dad just laughed and that pretty much killed the idea.
Daniel is smiling. It’s a wide welcoming smile showing all of his teeth. And they’re all in good nick for his age. They’re pretty white and pretty even. Not perfect obviously and the smile is actually too big. Just a bit much. It looks desperate. The policeman is smiling too but it’s a tight, fake smile and it doesn’t reach his eyes, which are small and hard and starey like a birds. A starling maybe, or a seagull.
‘Hello, sir,’ he says, and he asks if it’s Daniel’s vehicle and then he asks if Daniel has had a drink.
‘Yes, it’s my car and of course I’ve had a drink,’ says Daniel. ‘We’ve just come out of the pub. I’ve had three pints.’
The policeman says in that case he’d like Daniel to take a breathalyser test. Daniel huffs and puffs.
‘But I’m not the driver.’
The policeman keeps his cool as he explains that he and his colleague had noticed them leave the pub and get into the red Alfa Romeo Giulietta, registration XL12YY. He explains that they both formed the impression that Daniel had been drinking, this was because of his unsteady gait.
‘I’m seventy-seven. I have a dodgy knee. And in any case, let me repeat: I’m not the driver.’
The policeman ignores him and carries on about how he now requires Daniel to take a breath test to determine whether he has a level of alcohol in his blood which would be deemed unlawful under the terms of the Dangerous Driving Act of 1979. Something like that anyway. Polly doesn’t catch the exact details because she’s watching Daniel’s face. It’s gone a scary purply red colour. He moves forward so he is in really close to the policeman. He leans down into his face and yells.
‘But I’m not the fucking driver!’ Little bits of spit zoom out and over the policeman. It can’t be very nice. There’s little flecks of rogan josh in there for a start. The policeman blinks twice very quickly. It’s the first time he’s looked properly human. He steps back and keeps his voice very calm as he explains that Daniel was in charge of the vehicle while he was behind the wheel and being in charge of a car while intoxicated is, under the terms of whichever Act it was, an offence.
‘Even when it’s not moving? Balls!’
Polly thinks Daniel is going to hit him, but he makes a big visible effort, takes a breath and decides to try and be reasonable. ‘Look, Officer, I’ll be honest. I was going to drive, but then I noticed you and your colleague and saw sense. Your presence in this car park did the trick. It acted as a deterrent. It prevented a crime being committed. So that’s a good thing, isn’t it? I saw you and decided that my wife should drive instead.’
Wife? Wife? Polly sees the policeman’s eyes widen a little. Wife. Cripes. Polly wonders how old this police guy is. It’s hard to tell, but he has a smooth well-moisturised face. Not too many lines and no bags under
his eyes. She reckons he’s twenty-eight or so. Just a bit younger than her. She shakes her head but she doesn’t think he notices. He must know that her being Daniel’s wife is bollocks though, mustn’t he? I mean it’s not like she’s Asian or anything. Not like she could be a mail-order bride. Maybe she could be Russian or Bulgarian or something, but even so.
The policeman explains all over again that being in charge of a vehicle while being intoxicated is unlawful. Even if that vehicle is stationary.
‘Not just fucking stationary! The fucking engine wasn’t even turned on! We have just been fucking talking in the fucking car.’ Daniel’s eyes are red and burning. The copper’s eyes just twitch and flicker in that birdy way.
The policeman explains for the third time about the definition of the Act, and then there’s silence and again Polly wonders if Daniel is actually going to deck him. There’s a long, long moment where this seems the most likely thing. Then Daniel gives up. His shoulders sag. He gets about twenty years older in about half a second. He takes a step back. He says, ‘Well, let’s just get this bloody charade over with,’ and Polly’s heart hurts. All the fight has gone out of him and it’s hard. He only got that car today and now this nasty little twonk is going to take it off him.
The policeman unwraps the little cylinder and explains the procedure. Polly can tell he’s working hard at keeping the triumph out of his voice. Polly thinks how this breathalyser resembles the latest range of predictors you can get in Boots. The new ultra-accurate pregnancy-test sticks.
Daniel puts it between his teeth. He grins at Polly and makes like the breathalyser is a fat cigar. He waggles it and jiggles his eyebrows, which is when she notices that he’s trimmed them. They’re nowhere near as wild and bushy as they were the other day and it’s another sign of how Daniel wanted to look his best for this trip out in his new car. The fact that Daniel is now trying to make a joke of things is making Polly feel physical hurt in her tummy. The policeman tells Daniel to blow into the device properly and Polly finds herself starting to hate him and his stupid smooth plumped-up face. She wants to bite it. Puncture it somehow and watch it deflate.
Now Daniel starts blowing. He blows. And he blows. And he blows. The policeman loses his cool a bit. ‘Please blow properly, sir,’ he says.
‘I am fucking blowing properly,’ snaps Daniel.
‘Don’t swear, Daniel,’ Polly says. It’s the first thing she’s said in the whole incident so far.
Daniel laughs. ‘Sorry, dear,’ he says. And she laughs too. They do sound exactly like a husband and wife. The policeman is trying hard not to stare at her she can tell.
More seconds pass. The policeman takes the device from Daniel and examines it. He bites his lip. He explains to them that the device appears to be faulty and that he will have to administer the test again and that he will need to return to his vehicle to fetch a new test kit. As he goes and does that Polly asks Daniel why he called her his wife. He doesn’t answer, just shrugs.
‘Jumped up little Gauleiter,’ he says.
And they stand in silence until the policeman is back with his new test which he unwraps. Daniel does his little routine with the kit again, sniffing it, rolling it between his fingers, pretending it’s a posh cigar and everything. The policeman sighs. This is all getting too much for him and Polly can’t help it – she giggles and Daniel laughs and the policeman sighs again and puts on a serious voice as he tells them that being in charge of a vehicle while intoxicated is a very serious offence, carrying a possible jail sentence as well as a fine of up to £20,000 or something, and a mandatory twelve-month driving ban.
‘Yes. But I wasn’t fucking driving was I, constable?’
‘Come on, darling, just do it,’ Polly says and she blushes a bit as she feels the policeman’s creepy starling eyes on her.
Daniel smiles at Polly and she smiles back, and then he puts the thing to his lips and blows. He blows. He blows. He blows. The policeman takes it and examines it closely. He puffs out his cheeks.
‘Umm,’ he says.
So Polly sees it now. She sees that the little light on the tester thing is never ever going to go green, or pink, or blue or whatever. It’s just not going to show Daniel over any limit. She can see it from the way the policeman’s face goes a bit wobbly somehow, by the way he presses his lips together, by the way he looks like he’s going to cry. Her heart doesn’t hurt for him though.
Of course the last person to realise the way things are now is Daniel. While the policeman pointlessly twists and turns the little machine in his hands, a delighted grin begins to spread very slowly over Daniel’s face. It’s like the sun coming up, it really is.
‘Oh, my goodness,’ he says. And he starts to dance. He actually starts to dance. Slowly, yes, but for real. He lurches in a slow-motion dance. Almost a spazzy mosh really. He looks like a lunatic drunken great-uncle at a wedding. A lunatic drunken great-uncle who loves the Foo Fighters or something.
‘Woo-hoo!’ he goes. And ‘Yeah, man!’ It’s ridiculous and it’s very, very funny and Polly starts giggling again, she just can’t help it.
Then Daniel starts coughing and he pulls himself together. ‘Phew,’ he says. ‘Sorry about that. Guess we don’t want to have a heart attack, do we?’ He means not now, thinks Polly. Not at the moment of victory.
The policeman doesn’t know what to say. He looks at the ground. Polly wonders about his life. Does he have a girlfriend? Kids? Probably not. He doesn’t look like he has a baby that keeps him awake. Is he gay maybe? It’s all right for there to be gay policeman these days.
Daniel is still smiling, beaming like a lottery winner.
‘Don’t worry, constable,’ he says. ‘Just doing your job, we know that. Dirty work but someone’s got to do it, eh?’ There’s another long awkward pause before he says, ‘Well, we can’t stand here chatting all day, can we, darling? Places to go, people to see.’
Polly doesn’t join in the husband-and-wife game this time but Daniel doesn’t seem to notice as he goes round to the passenger door and opens it.
‘Hop in, dear,’ he says. The policeman looks at her. His eyes twitch – not a starling, she thinks. Not a seagull. A sparrow. A scared hedgerow bird at the mercy of everything.
Polly ducks under Daniel’s arm into the car which, she notices, still smells of beer. Daniel slams the door shut and walks back round to the driver’s side. The sounds of outside are muffled now so she doesn’t hear any words, but she sees him put a friendly arm on the policeman’s shoulder. She imagines him saying something like, ‘Keep up the good work,’ or ‘Chin up, sonny.’
Whatever he says, the policeman doesn’t say anything back. He just stands and watches as Daniel drives carefully, so, so carefully, out of the pub car park.
They don’t speak for a little while. Daniel puts the radio on. Classic FM. They’re playing a tune that Polly recognises from an old advert.
‘Maybe you should have let me drive back.’
‘No, no, no.’ Daniel slaps the leather-veneer steering wheel. ‘That was the best bit. His face as he realised that I was going to drive after all. Priceless. Absolutely priceless.’
‘You were very lucky,’ Polly says.
‘Yes,’ says Daniel. ‘I always am. You can judge the quality of a man by how lucky he is. Napoleon said that you know.’ And then he explains how it wasn’t just luck, how the whole this-is-a-cigar comedy mucking about had been disguising some effective squeezing and shaking and breaking of government equipment. ‘They should invest in the proper stuff,’ he says. ‘Bloody typical of the British plods to spend hard-earned taxpayers’ money on cheap crap.’
Clever man, thinks Polly.
As they stop-start-start-stop through all the traffic in town Polly asks again why Daniel said she was his wife.
Daniel turns to look at her for a long time. Polly stares straight ahead. Behind them there is an angry toot. Funny how you can always tell the difference between an angry get-a-bloody-move-on hoot and a friendly hi
-there hoot. They finally start moving.
‘I just wanted to put the little Nazi on the back foot. To discombobulate him. You’re not offended, are you?’
And she’s not, not really, but she wonders if she should be.
‘You’re a bit old for me, Daniel,’ she says.
‘Age ain’t nothin’ but a number,’ he says.
And then they bump into the car in front.
Later she puts the whole incident down in an email for Russell Knox. She’s been sending him little messages most days, any funny little things Daniel has said, what he’s eaten, that kind of thing, and she knows he’s going to want to know about today’s great big adventure.
And she’s right because tonight, for the first time ever, Russell writes back.
He writes: ‘This is hilarious. We should meet up when I’m next in England. R.’ A short message but an exciting one. She writes back straight away saying that yes they should definitely.
And then while she remembers, she writes an Amazon review of the Alfa Romeo Giulietta. Five stars and she makes sure she mentions the classy wood-veneer dashboard and the leather-veneer steering wheel. And she mentions the bumpers because there was hardly a mark on it, while the back end of the shitty Ford they hit was a right mess. And she wonders if somewhere the scary bird-eyed policeman is writing a one-star review of the breathalyser.
And then she surfs the sperm-donor sites for a bit. She’s almost decided on Norwegian. But it’s a big decision. She doesn’t want to rush it.
Fifteen
LORNA
Saturday brunch in the Lover’s Rock Diner. Lorna’s last full day in the States. Her visa is on the point of expiring and it’s time to go home, see her mum, look for a proper job. A career maybe even. Time to accept that the trip to the States hasn’t really worked out and then to put this whole lost decade of assistanting behind her. No more arse-wiping for idiot men in business casual. No more getting too intimately acquainted with a new set of printers, photocopiers and Excel spreadsheets. It is, finally, time to grow up, to think about a mortgage, driving lessons, a teaching qualification perhaps. Christ. She could always kill herself. There is always that.