Chapter 3 #2
His pride and joy. His weekend escape for fishing trips with the boys.
Last year, it was an old shell of a rusted campervan, and he’s spent many months and thousands of pounds on restoring it and fitting it out with sliding cabinet contortions, folding storage, and a toilet and shower the size of a miniature matchbox.
As a mechanic who has dreams of opening his own workshop one day, it’s been his ‘work away from work’, something that he’s spent far more time lovingly refitting than he ever spent talking to me.
How many times have I teased that it didn’t actually need any work, it just gave him an excuse to get out of the house?
How many times have I joked that he loves that van more than he loves me?
Given this morning’s events, that was a joke that really, really didn’t age well.
The spare key is on my keyring, right next to the key to the café that will never be. He gave it to me months ago ‘in case of emergencies.’
I couldn’t…
God, no, of course I couldn’t. What am I thinking? I’ve never even sat in the driver’s seat before, and it’s been years since I drove anything at all, let alone a huge campervan that Jared worships.
I look down at the binbags at my feet and then up at the grey sky.
The drizzle has soaked me to the skin and is pattering down forlornly on the ripped plastic containing everything I own.
I have nowhere to go, nowhere to live, and I can’t even transport these bags to some unknown place without a vehicle…
I look at the lime-green campervan again.
I couldn’t… could I?
That would be insane. Ludicrous. Vindictive. Bitterly glorious.
People talk about moments of madness. When desperation erodes your common sense and you do something completely out of character.
A red mist descends, people say. In my case, it’s more like a lime-green mist, because without another thought, I’m striding across the lawn with a gaggle of binbags trailing behind me, like the duck and ducklings this morning.
I get my key out and slide open the side door.
I start loading everything I own into the back of the van, one dripping-wet binbag at a time, accompanied by a soundtrack of the tinkling broken teapot that’s somehow become symbolic of everything that’s gone wrong today.
My hands are shaking, adrenaline and shock and pure bloody-mindedness keeping me going. I can’t believe I’m doing this.
The last bag goes in and I slam the door with a maniacal laugh, and I stand there for a moment, keys in my hand, looking at Jared’s house. Our house. The house where I thought I had a future.
Unfortunately, the slam of the van door has attracted Jared’s attention and he appears in the doorway again, and I see his face contort as he registers what I’m about to do.
‘Dolly, don’t you dare! Don’t you harm my baby!’
Ah. He’s seen me standing next to his beloved van with a key in my hand. He thinks I’m going to damage it. He hasn’t realised that I’m angry enough to do far worse than a quick scratch.
He’s coming towards me. Without letting myself think it through, I yank open the door and dive into the driver’s seat.
‘Dolly!’ He screeches behind me, my name echoing through the street as he realises that cosmetic damage is the last of his campervan’s worries.
My hands are not just shaking now, they’re vibrating.
My fingers fumble as I turn the key, as I try to remember how to start up an engine.
The van purrs into life remarkably easily and I slam my foot on one of the pedals, and it lurches forwards so fast that I end up on the opposite side of the road before it stalls with an awful grinding noise.
The sensible side of me knows that I should get out right now, apologise, take my binbags and slope off like I’m the one of us who ruined this relationship, and in any other circumstances, on any other day, that’s what I’d do.
But today, the sensible side of me has gone quiet and the chaotic gremlin side has taken over.
There’s a gear stick beside me and I move it into God-only-knows what position and restart the engine, and it rumbles into life again. Jared’s caught up with me. He’s hammering on the door, trying to pull it open, screaming at me.
‘Oh, sod off, you natterjack toad!’ I shout at him through the window.
I’ve come this far. I can’t stop now. I press my foot down and the engine revs hard enough to make him jump away from the van, and I release the handbrake and spin the steering wheel too fast so the van turns sharply, facing the right way now, towards the end of the street, and I push the pedal down and drive.
I’m not sure who screams the loudest – me, the tyres, or Mrs Henshaw’s cat as it dives down behind the wall and out of harm’s way.
Jared stands in the middle of the road, shaking a fist after me. His phone is to his ear; he’s probably calling the police, but I don’t stop. I don’t even slow down.
I just drive, with no idea where I’m going and no plan beyond getting as far away as possible.
‘Well, Gran,’ I say out loud, panting from the adrenaline rush as the campervan weaves down the pretty little street, threatening to take out neighbours’ cars and garden walls. ‘If there are any ghosts watching me right now, I hope they’re bloody well entertained.’