BACKSEAT DRIVER
BACKSEAT DRIVER
T wo days later there is a loud knock on the cabin door.
“This came for you on the ferry today,” Sandy says.
“Thought I may as well bring it straight here, rather than watch you try to lug it up the hill all the way from the village.” She stares at my new beard before pointing down at a large cardboard box. It must be the printer. Goodness knows how she carried it here.
“Thank you. Do you want to come in for a—?”
“No, don’t want to disturb you. I hear you’re close to finishing the new book. But if there’s anything else you need don’t hesitate to tell me,” she says, already turning to leave.
“Actually... when is the next ferry to the mainland?”
“Grady, every time I see you, you talk about leaving the island. A woman can take these things personally, you know.”
“It’s just that I might be going back soon.”
She frowns. “But you haven’t finished the book.”
“Well, I probably will before long, and then I’ll be returning to London. I was never going to stay here forever.” I smile but Sandy doesn’t. “I know the ferry only sails once or twice a week and I still haven’t seen a new timetable. Is there one?”
She huffs. “The ferry sails at the best times according to the sea, the tides, and the weather. When you live on a small island you learn to fit your life around things that are bigger than you. Things any smart person would understand they cannot control.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means life here is different, that’s all. It’s a life some people fall in love with.”
She seems offended that I don’t want to stay and I have an idea.
“It might be easier to fall in love with the place if I had my car and could see more of the island.”
“I’ve told you before, no nonresidents are permitted to bring vehicles onto Amberly. If I break the rules for you, I’d have to break the rules for everyone, and then where would we be? An island overrun with cars and pollution and litter and visitors . I’m sorry. I have to protect the island and the people who live here. Maybe if you were to move here permanently one day... but there are no rules about you driving someone else’s car,” she says.
“I doubt anyone wants to loan me their—”
“Charles had an old Land Rover. Didn’t drive it much toward the end, but it must still be here. The battery is bound to be dead, but we could try and jump-start it. Did you ever look inside the big old shed?”
“No. I couldn’t find the keys,” I tell her.
“Well, they must be in there somewhere. Did you check all the drawers?”
Of course.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Be my guest,” I say, stepping aside so she can come in. I regret it instantly. The place is as much of a mess as I am after six weeks of writing all day and night.
She stands in the middle of the cabin, her hands on her hips, taking it all in. “It looks just like it did when Charlie was here,” she says, and I wonder if she means the cabin, or whether Charles Whittaker was surrounded by dirty cups, plates, piles of books, and piles of laundry when he wrote too. The place has descended into untidy chaos, and I don’t think I look or smell any better myself. Sandy takes in the views of the ocean from the sliding doors at the back of the cabin.
“You really are living life on the edge,” she says, before walking over to the kitchen area and opening a couple of drawers. I don’t mind the intrusion—this place isn’t really mine—but it’s a complete waste of time. I’ve already looked and there are no keys in there or anywhere...
“I think this might be it,” she says, holding up an old key attached to a paper luggage tag that says Cabin Shed . I don’t know how I could have missed it all this time.
I follow Sandy outside, where we walk through the trees to a large shed that nobody would ever find if they didn’t know where to look. The key fits the rusty padlock on the door, which Sandy pulls open to reveal a very old car in excellent condition. The ancient dark green Land Rover looks like it belongs in a museum but it is also spotless, as though someone might have polished it this morning.
“There she is. The Land Rover Defender 1953 series. Fit for a queen. You know this was her majesty’s vehicle of choice when she was alive? Old Charlie boy was a bit of a backseat driver whenever I gave him a lift in my truck; he much preferred being in the driving seat, so he got himself a Land Rover when his books were still selling,” Sandy says.
“You didn’t think to tell me this was here before now?”
She shrugs. “It’s not up to me to tell a man he can take another man’s things.”
There is an edge to her voice and for a second I think Sandy knows I have stolen Charles Whittaker’s manuscript. But I tell myself I am overthinking everything, and feeling paranoid due to lack of sleep. She just means the car.
The Land Rover isn’t even locked and we find the keys for it in the glove compartment. Of course it doesn’t start, but Sandy seems sure she can fix it. I guess if she can sail a ferry she knows a lot more than I do about mechanics. I head back inside to make us some tea and when I come back she’s already managed to get the engine running.
“There you go, all yours,” she says, giving me the car keys then taking the tea. She sniffs her mug. “What is this? Bog myrtle?” I nod. “Not for me, thanks,” she says, handing it back. “I’d best be off anyway.”
“One tiny thing before you go...” I point at the overgrown forest. “How do I get the Land Rover through the trees?”
Sandy laughs. “You drive it!”
When she has gone I head back inside the cabin and print the book. Then I spend the next twenty-four hours reading it. Other than some small changes, I’m pretty happy with what I have. I would normally do three drafts before sharing a new novel with my agent, but I suppose Charles did the early drafts for me. The only thing missing now is a title; Charles just called it “Book Ten” and that will never do. I’d hoped I would come up with something while I was writing, but didn’t, nothing good anyway. I see the map of Amberly and look at it for inspiration. A lot of the buildings have quirky names: Whit’s End, The Final Straw, The Stumble Inn to name a few, but none of them are quite right for a book title. Then I see something called Beautiful Ugly on the map. I’ve no idea what it is, but it’s perfect.
I pick up the Magic 8 Ball, which I seem to use for all decision-making these days.
“Is the book ready to send to my agent?” I ask out loud, waiting impatiently for the answer.
WITHOUT A DOUBT .
I smile and the sensation feels strange. Smiles have been in short supply since my wife disappeared. I don’t want to push my luck but I can’t resist asking another question.
“Is it a good book?” I surprise myself with the importance I place on the next words to appear on the tiny screen.
AS I SEE IT, YES.
I check the time and see that the corner shop will be closed, meaning it’s too late to post the manuscript today. “We should celebrate anyway,” I tell Columbo. I mostly talk to myself or my dog lately and I find he is a better listener. “What would you like to do?” I ask and he wags his tail. “I quite agree. We should go for a big walk and then crack the seal on a bottle of something nice when we get home. Maybe we should go and see one of the highlights on the island? Would you like that? May as well see it now, since with any luck we’ll be leaving soon.”
I didn’t want to sound rude in front of Sandy. She clearly loves Amberly and it’s been her home all her life, but it isn’t mine. This place has been good for me in lots of ways, but the people here are a bit strange and there are things I miss about London. Things I didn’t think I would. And for reasons I don’t understand, this island seems determined to make me think about my wife even more than I did before. As soon as Kitty tells me the book is good and that she can sell it, I’m out of here, and I have no intention of coming back.