My hands are aching from the death grip on the wheel. My arms are shaking. My teeth hurt from clenching. There is sweateverywhere. My hair is stuck to my forehead, my shirt is clinging to my back, but amid the paralysing fear, I realise something. I am driving. I am actually driving. It’s a freedom I never expected, in its own marginally deranged way.
In the back, the binbags bounce around in approval as I put my foot down harder and accelerate to a hair-raising thirty-four miles per hour. I wind the window down and let the smell of exhaust fumes slap me into lucidity. My heart is still hammering, but now it’s starting to feel like a hint of excitement, mixed in with the unadulterated panic and the certainty that I’m not going to make it off this motorway in one piece. The world is suddenly full of possibility, or at least as much possibility as you can fit into a Volkswagen campervan and hundreds of miles of British motorway.
I don’t know where I’m going, but for the first time in years, I’m in charge of getting there.
* * *
I’ve been on the M25 for so long that if I carry on like this, I’m going to complete the circle and end up back where I started, and no matter what, I didn’t steal Jared’s campervan to take it for a joyride around the London Orbital and return it unharmed. That would be the most disappointing ending to this adventure imaginable, somehow even more disappointing than getting arrested, which is undoubtedly how itwillend.
I spot a sign for Hatfield and The North, directing me towards joining the A1, and I decide to follow that, partially because I’m already in the right lane and can avoid having to do that scary merging thing again, and partially because posters of the nineties boyband adorned my teenage bedroom walls, and as decision-making processes go, it’s not the worst one I’ve used today.
Even though ‘the north’ is a bit generalised, it brings to mind memories of family holidays in Yorkshire when I was young. The little holiday cottage in the Dales where we used to spend every summer. Me, Mum, Dad, Grandma and Grandpa. Mum and Dad used to put their warring aside for those endless weeks of summer, before their marriage fell apart beyond repair, before Grandpa got ill, before I hit my teenage years and decided I was too cool for family holidays. Magical weeks in a cottage near an endless array of waterfalls, when the world was full of hiding places just waiting to be found. Weeks where time stood still, and the biggest decision expected of me was whether to have jam or marmalade on my toast.
I remember endless drives up this very motorway in Grandpa’s ancient car, eating Gran’s cakes and playing I Spy. Grandpa knew all the best places to stop. Rivers where you could dip your toes in. Tiny village shops that sold ice cream in flavours you couldn’t get at home. Fields of bleating sheep who would stand at the walls penning them in and peer at you with curious faces. The air smelled of cut grass and drying hay. Every morning, I’d wake up with the certainty that the day would be an adventure. I loved how wild and big everything felt. I loved being in a place where people weren’t in a hurry and school felt like a million miles away, like September was never coming, and I’d never have to go back.
Those holidays were the last time I remember feeling truly happy. Safe. Untouchable. Like the world, for all its bad parts, would always have a little corner just for me.
Without even realising it, I know where I’m heading. I knew from the moment I saw that road sign. I’ve never told Jared about those childhood holidays. Those memories have always been just mine. He would never even think of looking for me there. No one would. I need somewhere I can get well and truly lost, and I can’t think of anywhere better than the rolling hills of North Yorkshire, where the only things likely to judge me are a few inquisitive sheep. Who would also be hard pushed to call the police and report me, which can only be a good thing.
An unhinged peace settles over me now I have a plan. The world shrinks to nothing but me and the van. Junctions come and go, roundabouts terrify me, but this is like an intense driving course with no instructor. Somewhere after Peterborough, the motorway opens out, and the van hums along in a way that feels almost soothing. I’ve been driving for nearly three hours on autopilot, and London is already feeling like a distant memory, as quickly forgotten as the last series ofBake Off.
I can forget everything, except the insistent buzzing of my phone. The screen is lighting up with constant texts and calls from Jared, Vickie, and an unknown number which is probably a police officer telling me to turn myself in, and if I plead guilty, I might get off with a hefty fine and community service rather than a custodial sentence.
I also can’t forget how much I need the loo, and a light has come on next to the petrol gauge that suggests the campervan probably needs something too. Any peace I was feeling quickly evaporates when I see a ‘services’ sign and indicate to change lanes and start drifting towards the exit, and even though I think I’ve done everything right, I still get angry tooting from a lorry behind me.
The further north I’ve gone, the more persistent my phone has become. Jared must be getting increasingly frantic as the day wears on and his van isn’t back yet. Every time it makes a noise, my chest clamps tight and a fresh panic surges up. I start imagining the worst. What if I’m on the evening news tonight?
Wait, can they track phones? Oh, God, all this time, I’m thinking I’m on the run, getting away from everything, but the police are probably watching my every move, and my phone signal is being triangulated by a team of digital forensics experts right at this very moment.
Once I’ve stopped, filling a parking space intended for three cars because I havenoidea how to line the campervan up and get it between the white lines ofonespace, I know what I have to do.
The service station is right on a river, so I scramble up a grassy embankment and stop at the railing at the top. Cars whoosh by on the motorway to my left, and below me, the water rushes, echoing as it swooshes under the bridge. It’s fast flowing and muddy, and it looks freezing – more than cold enough to kill any wayward technology that might end up in it.
I look at my phone one more time, the screen that’s been the centre of my world for years now, and I jump when it starts vibrating in my hand. Vickie’s name flashes up, almost like she had a sixth sense about what I’m going to do, and I think about answering, but then I remember those TV dramas where families are instructed to keep kidnappers on the line for as long as possible so the police have time to pinpoint their location, and I turn the phone off instead. I throw it as hard as I can into the water.
Aftergoogling how to put petrol in a Volkswagen Transporter campervan, that is.
It disappears with a satisfying plop, and the world feels quieter. No buzzing, no flashing lights, no urgent demands for my attention. I can almost forget that I’ve done anything wrong.
Back at the van, I rifle through my binbags until I find a hoodie and slip it on to cover as much of my face as possible, in case police are trawling CCTV footage for my whereabouts. Inside, I buy a sandwich and a drink, and then I have to negotiate another complicated junction to get into the garage and put petrol in, and hope I’ve chosen the right kind, and finally, I remember a trick I saw on a crime show once and buy a can of shaving foam to spray over the numberplate which is supposed to prevent traffic cameras being able to flag it up.
I don’t know when I fully committed to the life of crime, but it’s surprisingly enjoyable.
* * *
Three hours later, I’m somewhere in the middle of England and my back aches from hunching over the steering wheel like I’m defusing a bomb. The traffic’s thinned out considerably, and I’ve almost got the hang of the clutch, though I still break into a sweat every time I have to stop at traffic lights.
I approach a low stone bridge that looks like it was built when people travelled by horse and cart. The sign gives a warning about height restriction and I don’t think the van’s that tall, but short of getting out to measure it, I can’t be sure. It doesn’t change the feeling of claustrophobia, like the stone arch is sure to shave the campervan’s roof clean off and leave me sitting in a convertible. The road is narrow, flanked by walls on both sides, and the bridge is just sitting there, waiting to behead the next vehicle to happen along. I slow down to about five miles an hour, ignoring the queue of cars building up behind me, and inch forwards like I’m threading a needle. The bridge looms overhead, ancient stone peering down at me, and for a horrible moment, I’m convinced I’ve misjudged it completely and this will end up in one of two ways – decapitation, or stuck like a cork in a wine bottle, and ironically,Iwill have to call the police for rescue.
But then I’m through, unscathed, and the cars behind cheer me on with so much angry honking that it’s like being followed by a flock of furious geese. I never knew there were so many irate drivers on the roads. It’s almost like they’ve never stolen a campervan and driven halfway across the country in it, while trying to rememberhowto drive.
I roll to a stop on the far side to let them speed past, my lungs heaving and my hands shaking. Whoever knew bridges could be so complicated? I glance back, expecting to see angry locals waving pitchforks, but there’s just a blackbird, looking at me like evenheis critiquing my driving skills.
The last stretch of the journey is pure magic. It’s like driving into a postcard. The road unwinds like a ribbon through the hills as the sun is starting to set, colouring the sky with shades of pink and gold. The fields on either side are impossibly green, dotted with specks of white sheep, towered over by the occasional ancient tree. Drystone walls criss-cross the land, neat and comforting, because they’ve stood there for so long. The view driving towards the Yorkshire Dales is probably not much different from what someone would’ve have seen on this journey hundreds of years ago.
Every village I pass is like something from a painting: tidy rows of cottages, an ivy-covered little pub, smoke rising from a single chimney. I breathe in the smell of cut grass through the open window. With every mile, the tightness in my chest loosens. Rolling green hills stretch as far as I can see. Stone cottages glow in the evening light. It’s exactly like I remember, and completely different at the same time. Bigger, somehow. More real, like someone’s taken my childhood memories and blown them up to full size.
I remember the village of Thimblenouth like I visited yesterday, but in reality, it’s been more than two decades. Time doesn’t matter in a place like this. It stands still, exactly the same now as it was in the eighties and nineties. The cars parked outside stone cottages are more modern. Some thatched roofs have been replaced with slate roofs, but there is eternally a village green and a red telephone box that is undoubtedly still functioning. The whole place looks like something fromAll Creatures Great and Small, and I’m filled with the feeling that nothing bad could happen here, and no one is ever going to find me because I’ve stepped back in time along with the village.
