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Authors: Nicci Gerrard
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courage, so I don’t even need to feel guilty. I just have to get used to it.’ Then he added, abruptly, holding her gaze with his own dark, glinting one: ‘All the same, it’s odd how it
hurts
.’
‘Yes,’ Gaby had muttered, pulling the smoke into her lungs, feeling a little rush of dizziness hit her and, with it, the sudden memory of being a teenager herself, leaning forward towards the match in a cupped hand, the first acrid inhalation. There wasn’t really anything else to say. If she leant across and hugged him he’d probably pat her on the shoulder, as if he was consoling her. Instead, they’d played racing demon (he’d won, he always did), and later, as grey dawn seeped across the sky, she’d cooked bacon and eggs – conscious of the ridiculous, last-gasp domesticity of it all. That was what you did with a son who was about to leave home: you turned into a picture-book version of a mother. You gave him a cooked breakfast (even though she punctured the yolk and singed the bacon), made a fresh pot of coffee, ran him a bath; then you checked his room after he had vacated it and gazed at the blank surfaces, bare shelves, stripped bed, half-emptywardrobe, the whiter patches on walls where he’d taken down pictures, the abandoned belongings of childhood.
‘Am I nervous?’ he repeated now. ‘Of course.’
He leant forward and turned on the radio, still keeping his eyes on the road. He turned the dial through the static hiss until he found a music station he liked. He wound the window down several inches and lit a cigarette.
‘There’s
definitely
a smell of burning now.’
‘It’s my cigarette.’
‘No. Burning. It can’t be from outside. Can’t you smell it? Oh, my God, look at that!’
Thick plumes of smoke were curling from the bonnet.
‘Pull over!’
They steamed to a halt on the hard shoulder and Gaby killed the engine. Smoke still billowed from the front of the car, which rocked as pantechnicons thundered past.
‘Oh dear,’ said Ethan, after a pause.
‘Shall I open the bonnet to have a look?’
‘What will we be looking for? Neither of us knows a radiator or a – a
sump
,’ he said wildly, plucking the word out of the recesses of his brain, ‘from a dead badger.’
‘No. You’re right. I’ll call the AA.’
‘That’s a better idea.’
‘Should we get out in case we burst into flames?’
‘OK, but mind the cars. Get out of the passenger door.’
After Gaby had spoken to the rescue service on her mobile, and someone had promised to be along as soon as possible, she turned to Ethan and said, in a small voice, ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
‘What?’
‘I think I know what’s wrong with the car. Or, at least,
why
what’s wrong with it is wrong. I was driving it in the wrong gear.’
‘It’s an automatic. It doesn’t have gears.’
‘It has an extra gear for when you’re pulling a heavy load up a hill.’
‘And you were in that?’
‘I must have been. Yes. I saw when I stopped.’
‘Ah,’ said Ethan. ‘That’ll be it, then. Shall we have our picnic?’
‘If you want. We may as well. You’re being very nice about this.’
‘It’s OK. There’s nothing we can do about it. And I’ll get there in the end. I hope the car doesn’t explode, though. All my wordly possessions are in it.’
They scrambled up the bank and sat at the top, with scrubby, blackened bushes snared with litter behind them and the rumbling flow of cars beneath. Gaby brought out squidgy packages of sandwiches.
‘Nice view,’ said Ethan.
‘What if they can’t fix it?’
‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘they’ll have to tow us.’
And he leant back against the grimy grass.
Gaby could tell that Ethan wanted her to go. They had carried all his belongings, in several stages, into his room. The AA man had helped them, before departing with the car. The room was square, small, and newly painted in a neutral ivory. There was a bathroom opposite and a small kitchen a few
hurts
.’
‘Yes,’ Gaby had muttered, pulling the smoke into her lungs, feeling a little rush of dizziness hit her and, with it, the sudden memory of being a teenager herself, leaning forward towards the match in a cupped hand, the first acrid inhalation. There wasn’t really anything else to say. If she leant across and hugged him he’d probably pat her on the shoulder, as if he was consoling her. Instead, they’d played racing demon (he’d won, he always did), and later, as grey dawn seeped across the sky, she’d cooked bacon and eggs – conscious of the ridiculous, last-gasp domesticity of it all. That was what you did with a son who was about to leave home: you turned into a picture-book version of a mother. You gave him a cooked breakfast (even though she punctured the yolk and singed the bacon), made a fresh pot of coffee, ran him a bath; then you checked his room after he had vacated it and gazed at the blank surfaces, bare shelves, stripped bed, half-emptywardrobe, the whiter patches on walls where he’d taken down pictures, the abandoned belongings of childhood.
‘Am I nervous?’ he repeated now. ‘Of course.’
He leant forward and turned on the radio, still keeping his eyes on the road. He turned the dial through the static hiss until he found a music station he liked. He wound the window down several inches and lit a cigarette.
‘There’s
definitely
a smell of burning now.’
‘It’s my cigarette.’
‘No. Burning. It can’t be from outside. Can’t you smell it? Oh, my God, look at that!’
Thick plumes of smoke were curling from the bonnet.
‘Pull over!’
They steamed to a halt on the hard shoulder and Gaby killed the engine. Smoke still billowed from the front of the car, which rocked as pantechnicons thundered past.
‘Oh dear,’ said Ethan, after a pause.
‘Shall I open the bonnet to have a look?’
‘What will we be looking for? Neither of us knows a radiator or a – a
sump
,’ he said wildly, plucking the word out of the recesses of his brain, ‘from a dead badger.’
‘No. You’re right. I’ll call the AA.’
‘That’s a better idea.’
‘Should we get out in case we burst into flames?’
‘OK, but mind the cars. Get out of the passenger door.’
After Gaby had spoken to the rescue service on her mobile, and someone had promised to be along as soon as possible, she turned to Ethan and said, in a small voice, ‘I’ve got a confession to make.’
‘What?’
‘I think I know what’s wrong with the car. Or, at least,
why
what’s wrong with it is wrong. I was driving it in the wrong gear.’
‘It’s an automatic. It doesn’t have gears.’
‘It has an extra gear for when you’re pulling a heavy load up a hill.’
‘And you were in that?’
‘I must have been. Yes. I saw when I stopped.’
‘Ah,’ said Ethan. ‘That’ll be it, then. Shall we have our picnic?’
‘If you want. We may as well. You’re being very nice about this.’
‘It’s OK. There’s nothing we can do about it. And I’ll get there in the end. I hope the car doesn’t explode, though. All my wordly possessions are in it.’
They scrambled up the bank and sat at the top, with scrubby, blackened bushes snared with litter behind them and the rumbling flow of cars beneath. Gaby brought out squidgy packages of sandwiches.
‘Nice view,’ said Ethan.
‘What if they can’t fix it?’
‘Well,’ he shrugged, ‘they’ll have to tow us.’
And he leant back against the grimy grass.
Gaby could tell that Ethan wanted her to go. They had carried all his belongings, in several stages, into his room. The AA man had helped them, before departing with the car. The room was square, small, and newly painted in a neutral ivory. There was a bathroom opposite and a small kitchen a few
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