“Not at all. I’ve had it checked over.”
“Sir Edward, it’s the motorways. You’ve never driven on a motorway.”
“It’s an excellent car. And it’s a chance for you to have a break, too. You’ve been very — very good these past days. Take a holiday.”
“If you insist on going, I’ll not take a holiday. I’ll steep them grey nets in your bathroom window.”
“You could, actually,” he said, not looking at her, “perhaps do something about Lady Feathers’s room. Get rid of her — er — the c-c-c-clothes. I believe it’s usual.”
“Sir Edward.” She came round the table and leaned against the window ledge looking at him, arms folded. “I’ve something to say.”
“Oh. Sorry. Yes, Mrs.-er. Mrs. T.”
“Look, it’s too soon. You’re doing it all too soon. You started in on the letters before the funeral. You ought to let them settle. I know, because of Mother. And it’s too soon to go round handing out presents, you’ll muddle them. I’m sorry, but you’re not yourself.”
“Mrs.-er, if you don’t want to do Lady Feathers’s room I’m sure that Chloe — the one from the church — would do it.”
“I’m sure she would, too. Let’s forget all that though, I’m only interested in stopping you driving. Now then.”
His face, with the light from behind her full on it, she saw must have been wonderful once. Appealing, as he gazed at her.
She carried a mug of coffee out to Garbutt who was waiting near the house wall that stood raw and naked without its ivy.
“He’s off in the car. Visiting.”
“On his own?”
“Yes. On the motorways. I’ve told him he’s not rational yet. She’d have never let him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s answering every letter return of post and ticking them off on a list, every one hand-done and different and she’s scarcely cold. There was a green one—”
“Green what?”
“Letter. From Paris. He threw it in the bin. It upset him. He wrote out an answer and they say he was up the street with it in his hand before the postman was hardly gone.”
They both regarded the wall.
Garbutt knew she had read the letter in the waste-paper basket. He would not have read it.
“You know, he’s never once called me by my name. She did, of course.”
Garbutt finished his coffee, upturned the mug and shook the dregs out on the grass. “Well, I can’t see we can do much about it. He’s the Law. The law unto himself.”
“I tell you, we’ll both be out of a job by Monday and who else is he going to kill on the road? That’s what I care about.”
“He might make it,” he said, handing her back the mug. “There’s quite a bit to him yet.”
Nevertheless, on the Thursday afternoon Filth found the gardener hanging about the garage doors.
“I’ve had her looked at,” said Filth, “I seem to be having to tell everybody. She’s a Mercedes. I’m a good driver. Why have you removed all the ivy?”
“It was her instructions. Not a fortnight since. Sir Edward, you’re barmy. It’s too soon. You’re pushing eighty. She’d say it was too soon. You haven’t a notion of that A1.”
“Is it the A1 now? I must look at the map. Good God, I’ve known the Great North Road for years. I was at school up there.”
“Well, you’ll not know it now. That’s all I’ll say. Goodbye then, sir.”
Filth looked up the seaside town of Herringfleet where Babs hung out and was surprised. He’d thought it might be somewhere around Lincolnshire, but it was nearer to Scotland. Odd, he thought, how I could still find my way round the back streets of Hong Kong and the New Territories with my eyes shut and England now is a blur.
Whatever was Babs doing up there? Where would he stay if she couldn’t put him up? There seemed to be no hostelry in Herringfleet that the travel guides felt very happy about.
But he went on with his plans, polishing his shoes, looking out shirts. He loved packing. He packed his ivory hair brushes, his Queen Mary cufflinks from the War and, rather surprising himself, Betty’s Book of Common Prayer. Maybe he’d give it to Babs. Or Claire, if he ever found her. He folded two of Betty’s lovely Jacqumar scarves, packaged up some recipe books and then, in a sudden fit of panache, swept a great swag of her jewellery from the dressing-table drawer and poured it into a jiffy bag. He put the scarves and recipe books into another jiffy bag and sealed both of them up.
On Friday morning early, Mrs.-er standing on the front doorstep with a face of doom and Garbutt up his ladder at work on ivy roots and not even turning his head, he made off down the drive and headed for the future.
His eyesight was good. He had spent time on the map. The day was fair and he felt very well. He had decided that he would proceed across England from left to right, and somewhere around Birmingham take a route from South-West to North-East. Very little trouble. His visual memory of the map was excellent and he plunged out into the mêlée of Spaghetti Junction without a tremor, scarcely registering the walls of traffic that wailed and shrieked and overtook him. He admitted to a sense of tension whenever he swerved into the fast lane, but enjoyed the stimulation. Several very large vehicles passed him with a dying scream, one or two even overtaking him on the driver’s side although he was in the fast lane. One of these seemed to bounce a little against the central reservation.
Filth was intrigued by the central reservation. It was a phenomenon new to him. He wondered who had thought of it. Was it the same man who had invented cat’s-eyes and made millions and hadn’t known what to do with them? He remembered that man. He had had three television sets all quacking on together. Poor wretched fellow. Death by cat’s-eye. Well, that must be some time ago.
Lorries in strings, like moving blocks of flats, were now hurtling along. Sometimes his old Mercedes seemed to hang between them, hardly touching the road. Seemed to be a great many foreign buggers driving the lorries, steering-wheels lefthand side where they couldn’t see a thing. Matter of time no doubt when they’d be in the majority. Then everyone would be driving on the right. Vile government. Probably got all the plans drawn up already. Drive on the right, vote on the left. The so-called left, said Filth. Not Mr. Attlee’s left. Not Aneurin Bevan’s left. All of them in suits now. Singapore still drives on the left, though they’ve never heard of left. Singapore’s over, like Hong Kong. Empire now like Rome. Not even in the history books. Lost. Over. Finished. Dead. Happened.
Two dragons, Machiavellis, each carrying a dozen or so motor-cars on its back, like obscene, louse-laden animals, hemmed him in on either side of the middle lane. Surely the one in the fast lane was breaking the law? Both seemed impatient with him, though he was doing a steady sixty-five, quite within limits.
He could feel their hatred. One slip and I’m gone, he thought with again the stir of excitement, almost of sexual excitement, “One toot and yer oot,” as the bishop said to the old girl with the ear-trumpet. Wherever did that come from? Too much litter in old brains.
Ah! Suddenly he was free. The lorries were gone. He had turned expertly eastwards — with some style, I may say — and into Nottinghamshire.
He found himself now on narrower two-way roads broken by enormous, complicated country roundabouts. Signs declared unlikely names. Fields began, the colour of ox-blood. (Why is ox-blood darker than cow’s-blood?) Clumps of black-green trees’ stood on the tops of low hills. Streaming towards him, opening out before him, passing him by, were old mining towns all forlorn. Then a medieval castle on a knoll. Then came an artificial hill with a pipe sticking out of its side like a patient with nasty things within. Black stuff trickled. The last coal mine.