‘My point exactly.’
‘I know, but I mean, what would we do if we’d wanted to get to the south of France, say, a hundred years ago,’ he muses. ‘Coach and horses, I guess. And a boat.’
‘So pretty similar to what we’re actually doing.’ I quip. ‘Except we’d probably have arrived a bit more quickly than we’re going to.’
It’s brief, but I see the corners of his mouth turn down, just for an instant before he resets into a neutral line. I’ve fired a few near-insults at him already during this journey, but somehow this one’s stuck.
‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘I am grateful for the lift, obviously.’
‘It’s fine.’
Initially I’m relieved that he hasn’t taken it to heart. I don’t want to spend twelve days peppering him with little digs. But then, as I look at his contented face from the side, I feel a flash of annoyance too. Hal is a chilled-out dude because life has enabled him to become one. I am a stressed, fidgety overachiever because my life never lets up. And I know that none of it was intentional, but in many ways it’s All His Fault.
4
HAL
The cars in front of us begin to start their engines and I close my eyes and say a quick prayer before turning the key in the ignition. I’m not 100per cent sure thereisa God. But at times like these, in a vehicle as old as Betty, I’ll take help from wherever I can get it.
We’re parked in the bowels of the ferry and according to the announcement, it’s time to disembark. Sarah’s fallen asleep in the passenger seat. I popped up to the café half an hour ago to get her a coffee and came back to her snoring, her head at an uncomfortable angle. And I was left with a dilemma. Do I touch her? Or do I leave her alone? I opted for taking my jumper and kind of propping it under her head so at least she doesn’t come out of the whole thing with a pulled muscle.
When it became clear she wasn’t going to wake up any time soon, I drank both of our coffees and checked my work emails, trotting off some of the usual advice about the software (not quite ‘turn it off and on again’, but close). I cracked the window a little but didn’t venture up to the deck as I usually would. It felt kind of wrong to leave her there. Now I’m dying for a pee, but it’s too late.
It’s a relief, actually, that she hasn’t woken up to witness the way Betty reacts to being started up from a cold engine. The old girl coughs and chugs and I feel self-conscious in a way I don’t think I would if Sarah weren’t here.
Sarah’s one of those people. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t mean to have this effect on me, but whenever I’m with her, I stop using my own subconscious and start sort of looking at myself through what I imagine to be her eyes. And it’s not a great feeling to realise what Betty and I probably seem like to her. Clapped out. Both of us.
Nothing has moved yet. Some people who seem to think the order to disembark is a suggestion rather than something more urgent are still strolling down the steps towards their vehicles. Admittedly, often I’m one of them. But I resolve to be a little more considerate in future to the drivers who might be hoping to reach the services before they pee themselves.
It’s warm outside but here, in the underbelly of the ferry, it’s still fairly cool and it’s as if I can feel my bladder shrink, its contents pressing urgently against its fragile lining. Surely it can’t be too much longer? I resist the urge to honk my horn. Instead, I turn the key and silence Betty’s engine, then head towards the stairs, hoping to nip up for a quick one.
A woman with a white shirt and a lavender-coloured lanyard is standing at the bottom of the stairs, slightly to one side to allow down the last of the stragglers. I make to pass her and she literally moves to stand in front of me.
‘Sorry, sir, we’re disembarking now.’
‘I know.’ I flash what used to be my winning smile and hope that it still works. ‘Sorry, it’s just… I need to use the, you know. Toilet.’
‘There are toilets at the services. They’re not far.’
This is embarrassing. I find that I’m bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet, something I haven’t done since I was – what? –about six years old probably. ‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s just…’ I lower my voice as two well-dressed women push past. ‘It’s getting a bit… desperate.’
It’s brief, but I’m sure I see a flash of disgust in her expression, before she resets it. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’
Sorry for what? Sorry I’m going to piss myself in the driver’s seat? Sorry that I have such a faulty bladder? Sorry that I’ve agreed to transport my ex-girlfriend and mother of my child to our son’s wedding and was trying to be chivalrous as she slept, meaning I was down here and didn’t think to use the conveniences until… well… now?
‘It really is… getting to be a bit of a problem. I had two coffees, you see. And uh, don’t they have a diuretic effect or something, and you know, it’s…’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’ She delivers the line as firmly as a slammed door to the face.
‘Right. Well,’ I say.
‘You need to return to your vehicle, sir.’ Looking around I can see other drivers glaring at me now. I’m the last of the stragglers to return to his vehicle and now I’m getting bad-mouthed by most of the waiting passengers.
I want to tell them that I’m usually in situ on time, that these are exceptional circumstances. Instead, I give a little half-hand-raised apology and jog (painfully) back to my seat.
Betty, at least, starts.
Come on, come on, come on!
