Chapter 8 #3
H: Am I …?
W: Are you OK, Haz? I mean, really OK?
H: Yes. Like I said. We’re all fine.
W: And is there anything… you’d… you know… like to discuss with me? Anything you want to tell me?
H: …
W: Harry?
H: Yes, still here. Um, I mean, well, no, not really. It’s a bit early for that, don’t you think?
W: Is it?
H: Yes. I mean, you’re away for six months, aren’t you? And that’s fine. That’s good. I’m sure we’ll see things more clearly by spring.
W: Right. Sure. OK, then.
H: But it’s good to hear your voice. Seriously. It is.
W: And it’s good to hear yours, too.
H: Oh, there’s someone at the door.
W: Yes, I heard the bell. You expecting someone? New girlfriend maybe?
H: Nah, probably just a delivery. More fast fashion that Fiona’s ordered. She’s absolutely addicted. Most of it doesn’t even fit so she ends up giving it to her mates. No wonder they love her.
W: Those cheap sites are terrible for the planet, you know. It’s all made by slave labour in sweatshops and then shipped halfway around the world.
H: I know and I’m fairly sure she knows it, too. But all her mates are into it. Hopefully it’s just a phase.
W: Which bit? The not giving a shit about human rights, or not giving a shit about the planet?
H: Hello, thanks. Um, do I need to sign? No? OK, thanks. Yes, you, too.
H: See! I told you. More rubbish direct from China.
W: Personally I blame the parents.
H: Ha! Yes! Good one. Look, I’ll talk to her about it. I’ll tell her again. I’ll tie her to a chair and make her watch a documentary about Chinese slave labour if you want.
W: I wasn’t saying I blame you, Harry. It was just a throwaway line.
H: Sure. It always is. Anyway, gotta go. You know how it is. Papers to mark.
W: I do. And I really was trying to be funny, Haz. Plus I said parents plural. So I was including myself in that.
H: Hey, relax. It’s fine. But I really do have to go.
W: OK, well, you have a good one, OK?
H: I expect yours will be wa-a-ay better than mine to be honest. But anyway… talk soon. Love ya, miss ya, merely getting by without ya! Ciao ciao.
She stares at the phone in her hands and notes the way it’s trembling, then places it on the coffee table.
Is she shaking because she still loves him or because she hates him?
Is she shaking because the call was too much for her or too little?
Is it possible that she’s shaking because all of these things are simultaneously true yet entirely contradictory?
She checks her watch. It’s only eleven and she could do with a drink.
Eleven is a bit early but after all, it’s midday in England, isn’t it?
No, it’s the other way around. It’s ten in England and ten is definitely too early.
But she could have an early lunch, she supposes. That would make it OK, wouldn’t it?
She heats up the last of the soup, makes a terrible toasted cheese sandwich with the last of the bread and the waxy rind of the cheese and pours herself a vat of red wine to compensate.
Everything is awful. She’s been avoiding acknowledging the fact but there it is. Everything truly is awful.
She finishes her lunch and empties the remainder of the bottle into her glass telling herself it’s Dutch courage for today’s battle with the car hire company and that as soon as her glass is empty she’ll place the call.
When she does, miracle of miracles, she’s connected straight to Letitia, whose English is nigh-on perfect.
So she re-tells Letitia her story. She has had to do this every time, but at least she’s getting better at it. Her tale is becoming more succinct but also increasingly dramatic.
‘Now I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with no food and no way to get to a supermarket,’ she says, summing up. ‘So, I really need this to be sorted out today otherwise I’m literally going to starve to death.’
‘Yes… hang on… I’ve just got access to your file. Sorry the system is so slow today. Computers! You are calling yesterday, I see. And the day before?’
‘Well, yes. I’m calling every day. I need my car back!’
‘I wasn’t…’ Letitia says. ‘I was checking I have the right file. And I’m sure we are doing everything we can to get this car back to you, but after an accident there are procedures which must be followed.’
‘Well, maybe you could follow your procedures more quickly.’
‘You wouldn’t want me to give you back a dangerous car, would you?’
‘No. I want you to give me a drivable car. With you being a car hire company, that surely can’t be beyond the realms of possibility, can it?’
‘I see you were simply crashing the car.’
‘It slid off the road. It’s called an accident.’
‘Yes. An accident while you were driving.’
‘And?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I don’t see what you’re trying to imply?’
‘I am not trying to imply anything.’
‘It sounds like you’re saying it was my fault.’
‘Oh! It was not your fault? I did not know this. Did you turn to avoid another car? Or a person? Or an animal? Because that doesn’t seem to be mentioned here in the report.’
‘No. You know full well there wasn’t anyone else involved.’
‘Oh, sorry. I misunderstood. English isn’t my first language as you can tell. So it was your fault, or it wasn’t? I am trying to understand.’
‘It was the snow’s fault.’
‘Ah. Well, perhaps you can be a little more patient, then.’
‘Patient?’
‘Yes. You rented a car. And then unfortunately, you crash this car. So perhaps you can be more patient with the people who have to sort out your mess.’
From this point the call spirals out of control, and Wendy finds herself powerless to avoid its slow slide towards the apocalypse.
She tries to keep things calm and polite – she really does – but she simply isn’t able to do so.
Instead she hears her mouth saying words – rude words that she truly had no intention of saying.
She feels like that girl in The Exorcist watching in surprise as green bile spews from her mouth.
Her ‘Dutch courage’ is no doubt partly responsible.
Eventually, once Letitia has had her fill and ended the call, Wendy drops her phone onto the sofa to avoid hurling it across the room. So she does have some self-control after all. She pounds a cushion instead, while releasing a wild, animal scream of frustration.
Next, she goes to the cupboard for more wine only to discover that she’s out.
She gasps at this fresh misery. How can that even be possible?
She’d bought twelve bottles before Jill arrived.
Twelve! She could get seriously angry with Jill if she decided to let her thoughts run that way.
And she will, she reckons, at some point, let them run exactly that way. Just not right now.
Instead of wine, she lights a cigarette. Yes, she’s smoking indoors! Bugger them! she thinks. Bugger them all.
Her phone rings with a call from an unknown number, so she pulls a face and, her heart only just slowing from her argument with Letitia, she answers, but this time it’s Letitia’s boss on the line.
He proceeds to scold her for being rude to his staff, which sends her blood pressure through the roof, but goes on to inform her – luckily before she starts spouting bile again – that the car will be towed in the morning.
The good weather holds, so the next day Wendy pulls on still-damp trainers and her duffle coat before heading out for a walk. She can hear Harry’s voice telling her what a good idea this is and how proud she’ll feel once she’s done it.
First, she walks the two miles down the road to the car, or rather where the car used to be, because (oh joy!) at 10 a.m. it’s already gone.
Relieved, she returns halfway home before taking the hiking trail back up to the radar. The view from beneath it this morning is stunning; the air after the rain is as clear and crisp as she has ever known.
Once she has taken the obligatory photo – blue, blue everywhere – she heads back, and then continues on past home until she reaches the bakery where she buys bread, cheese and wine, plus eggs and potatoes to make a tortilla.
When she goes to the counter to pay, the woman says something long, complex and utterly incomprehensible to her in French.
‘Je suis désolée,’ she manages to reply. ‘Plus lent, s’il vous plait ?’
‘Very good!’ the woman says. ‘That was almost perfect! But you must say lentement – more slowly. Plus lent means “more slow”.’
‘Merci. Je… veux… apprendre ?’ Wendy says hesitantly.
‘Also perfect. Is good you want to learn. So what I say before is, if you need other thing, you must say, because I have many thing out back…’ She points as she says this to the rear door. ‘I know you have no car, so…’
‘Oh! You know about that?’ Wendy laughs.
‘In a small town like this, everyone knows everything,’ the woman says, smiling gently. ‘It was Thursday night, yes? In the snow?’
‘Yes. You really do know everything.’
‘Were you …?’ the woman asks, making a strange gesture by raising her circled fingers to her nose.
‘I’m sorry… Was I …?’ Wendy repeats, mimicking the gesture.
‘This means “alcohol”,’ the woman says, making the gesture again. ‘Too much alcohol.’
‘Oh, no!’ Wendy says, and she can feel she’s blushing. ‘No, I never drink and drive.’
‘You English are so good,’ the baker says. ‘Round here, on the weekend, they are terrible.’
‘But anyway,’ Wendy says, deciding to forcefully change the subject before she has to think too hard about the fact that she’s lying, ‘… no car. Which is why I can’t buy more today.’ She turns her shoulder towards the woman so she can see her tiny rucksack. ‘I can’t carry more.’
‘Ahh, but Manon, she can deliver you.’
‘Manon, the post lady?’
‘Yes. She do this for all the old people. The persons who have car no more. So if you want to buy more, is OK. Manon will bring to you tomorrow.’
‘Oh!’ Wendy says. ‘OK… Um, that would be brilliant. At least until I get my car back.’
‘So please!’ the baker says, gesturing at the interior of her shop. ‘Help yourself.’