Two go to Dorset
By Emma Arnold
Copyright Emma Arnold 2011
Published at Smashwords
TWO GO TO DORSET
I really needed a change of scene but I wasn’t feeling terribly energetic or rich so decided upon a couple of days in Dorset. Tom, my boyfriend, couldn’t take any leave because he’d recently started a new job so I thought I’d ask my father.
‘Dad, do you fancy going to Dorset for a few days? I don’t know why but I really want to see Maiden Castle, in Dorchester.’
‘Dorchester, I’ve been there,’ said Dad.
‘Have you?’
‘Yes. Well, driven through’ he conceded.
‘Do you fancy it? We could do Hardy’s Cottage...’
‘I’m reading about Hardy at the moment.’
‘Are you?’
‘Bit of an arsehole to his wife.’
‘Well, we don’t have to see his cottage. There’s also Clouds Hill, Lawrence of Arabia’s bolt hole.’
Dad’s eyes lit up and he sat up straight, momentarily discarding his newspaper.
‘Lawrence of Arabia? If you were to ask me who my hero was I’d say Lawrence of Arabia.’
‘Would you?’
‘Yes. He’s been my hero since I was 14.’
‘Has he?’
***
I found a promising B&B in the beautiful village of Cerne Abbas so we loaded up my old banger, and with some trepidation, set off. I hadn’t reversed out of the driveway before Dad started.
‘Now, don’t do a million miles an hour.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You know what I mean. Just take it easy. There’s no rush.’
‘Yes, I’m going to.’
‘I don’t want to be doing 90 miles an hour down the outside line.’
‘No, Dad.’
Half way along the M25 my old faithful was going like a song, just so long as I didn’t look down at the temperature gauge (on red) and I blocked out the smell of molten metal.
‘You’re doing 80. Slow down and the temperature will come down as well,’ said Dad.
I slowed down to 50 and the gauge grudgingly came down slightly.
‘It got hot because you were going 80. I told you go take it easy. I said don’t go a million miles an hour.’
With relief we turned off the M25 at junction 8 and stopped at Oakham Common services which consisted of a hatch serving food, clean toilets and lots of pleasant ferny, bosky woods and lots of parked cars. I put the bonnet up to let the engine cool for a while and disappeared off to the loo. Upon returning I found that Dad has made a friend.
The Friend was staring bleakly at my engine and talking about ‘when the engine’s covered in oil, like that,’ he pointed a grubby finger accusingly at my engine. ‘That usually means the head gasket is about to blow.’
Dad nodded sagely.
‘But it’ll be OK to get to Dorset and back won’t it?’ said I.
The Friend scrunched up his face.
‘Should be OK, yeah. But don’t let it get too hot.’
‘No.’
I gritted my teeth. Hello?! It’s not like I want my damn engine to get too hot.
‘Shall I pour some more water in?’ I suggested brightly.
The Friend smiled at me pityingly.
‘Mixing hot and cold. Not good. Makes pipes crack.’
Dad nodded sagely.
Dad went to the loo and the Friend regales me with his life story which revolved around his relationship with his aging Merc. Unable to listen any longer I declared ‘I think it’s cold enough now.’
I started pouring a two litre bottle of water into my water tank. My car was thirsty. It drank the whole bottle. Not a good sign seeing as Dad checked the water before we set off.
‘Excuse me,’ said the Friend before proceeding to bounce my car up and down.
Some blockage cleared and the water level went down. I poured in another litre.
‘So, that was it. It had a blockage. It should be fine now,’ my tone didn’t invite debate.
The Friend screwed up his face again.
‘Well...’
He checked the oil. I tried to ignore the whiff of smoke that accompanied the dip stick.
‘Ouch!’
The Friend’s skin fizzled momentarily as he touched the oil on the end of the stick.
‘There’s not much oil but it’s a good consistency. If it was watery that would mean your head gasket has blown. What you need to do is to buy some summer coolant and add that to your water and then it won’t get too hot.’
I went and sat on a log in the shade and called my (and my Dad’s) mechanic, Kevin.
‘Hi Kevin, it’s Emma, Walter Arnold’s daughter, 350 Brampton Road.’
‘Who?’
‘Emma. You do my car.’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t do anybody’s car.’
‘You are a mechanic though.’
‘No.’
‘Oh, but you’re called Kevin?’
‘Yes. Who are you?’
‘I’m Emma, Walter Arnold’s daughter.’
‘How did you get my number?’
‘I don’t know.’
I realised after putting the phone down that I had just called a guy I was meant to meet for a date last summer. I dialled my mechanic.
‘Sounds like you’ve got a leak.’
‘But will it get me to Dorset and back?’
‘I can’t say without looking. It’s like asking how long’s a piece of string.’
‘Well, there’s a guy here who said it wouldn’t overheat if I put summer coolant in.’
‘Summer coolant isn’t going to make a difference if you’ve got a leak.’
‘Oh, so I shouldn’t put summer coolant in?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
Five minutes later we rolled out of Oakham Common Services with Dad repeating his mantra to take it easy and not do a million miles an hour. I take it easy along the A31. When on an incline the car now seemed to be losing power. I put it down to the weight of Dad (skinny) and our luggage (light). On a roundabout just outside of Winchester I suddenly and irrevocably lost all power.
I snapped my hazards on and told Dad to get out of the car before we get rear ended. We waited for the AA on a grass verge. Dad’s chosen position was to wait at the start of the verge, inches away from whizzing traffic and leaning on (and totally obscuring) a vital road sign.
A jolly AA man showed up after half an hour and, as he approached my car and snapped his rubber gloves on, wrinkled his nose at the smell of molten metal.
‘That’s a hot car,’ he remarked cheerfully.
He took my engine’s temperature (125 degrees).
‘I think it’s terminal.’
***
After an abortive attempt to hire a car in Winchester (there were none) the AA man towed us back home. Squashed into the front of his van, we trundled along the M3 at 50 miles an hour. Just before joining the A25 we passed Oakham Common Services.
‘Funny things go on at them services,’ said the AA man darkly.
‘Really?’ I found it hard to imagine a more innocuous place. ‘What kind of things?’
‘Funny things.’
‘What, like cottaging?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Cottaging? Bit passé isn’t it?’
The AA man shrugged and soon continued his jovial chatter which mostly consisted of how much his daughter spent on downloading ring tones.
***
Once back home, despite searching high and low, I couldn’t find my driving licence which meant I couldn’t hire a car. Thwarted at every turn I cried, punched my pillow, looked up at the heavens and screamed ‘Why me?!’
‘We don’t have to go,’ comforted Dad. ‘After all, let’s face it, the whole thing’s been a total disaster so far.’
***
The next morning after many a few frantic phone calls to the DVLA and Avis, we backed out of the drive in a hire car.
‘Now don’t do a million miles an hour. Just take it easy,’ cautioned Dad. ‘I don’t want to be in the outside land doing 90 miles an hour. No, thank you.’
I gritted my teeth as we turned out of the drive.
‘Can you smell smoke?’
Dad stared blankly ahead and gave no reply. I was on his deaf side.
‘The bloody bastards! They’ve given us a smoky car. This is why I hate smokers. No consideration.’
At my insistence we wound down the windows and drove round the M25 with our eyes streaming.
‘I’m going to stop Dad, I think I’ve got wind lash.’
I turned into Oakham Services. Dad roused himself from his torpor.
‘What are you doing? You’re not stopping here are you?’
‘Why not? It’s nice. The loos are clean.’
‘But the AA man said...’
‘There’s hardly going to be much cottaging going on at 1pm on a Thursday. Even if there is, I think you’re safe. They should be able to resist your 77 year old arse.’
Our next stop was at The Rufus Stone in the New Forest. We had to cut across the very busy A31 to get there which was a bit hairy but it’s a magical place with spongy emerald green grass, cropped short by horses and rabbits, and shady majestic oak trees.
I parked and we walked stiff legged up to the “stone” which is actually a three sided metal monument with the stone supposedly encased within.
‘Is that it?’ said Dad.
He was far more impressed when three ponies came trotting by.
After turning off the A35 and driving along tiny, twisting, hilly county roads though various villages with “piddle” in the name we rolled into picture postcard beautiful Cerne Abbas. After dinner at a 16th century coaching in across from the B&B we went for a stroll and admired the Georgian and older architecture, watched busy sparrows enjoying a dust bath and swallows calling and darting high above.
After the stresses and strains of getting there Cerne Abbas was an oasis of calm. Until the Americans arrived.
At 10pm a key turned loudly in the outside door and then thump, thump, thump up the stairs. And then thump, thump, thump up to the rooms above mine. Then thump, thump, thump down the stairs to my floor.
‘Come on Sweetie,’ said a New York voice that would have reached the back row of any Broadway theatre, ‘let’s go put some laundry on!’
Yeah, why not? Great idea. I’m paying nearly £100 a night to de-stress only to have to listen to somebody’s freaking washing all night.
As I heard them thump, thump, thump back up to their floor I stomped out and pulled the laundry door shut tight. Some might say I slammed it. I heard a worried child’s voice from upstairs.
‘What was that Mommy?’
Back in my room I was doing cold turkey from the 21st century. No internet, no mobile phone (just wry smiles from the locals when I inquired where was best to get a signal) and then my TV went on the fritz. At 11pm I hear thump, thump, thump down the stairs.
‘Come on sweetie, let’s go check on the laundry,’ came the stage loud American voice.
I opened my door just far enough to show my face. Mommy was bent over the washing machine and couldn’t see me but a very pretty little oriental girl, aged around 6 years old, clasping a floppy bunny toy, glanced at me nervously. I gave her my best glare. She looked suitably frightened and I slammed my door shut and went to bed.
***
A ruddy, moon faced lady called Suzy greeted us at breakfast the next morning She informed us that Emma, the lady who owned the B&B was away for a couple of days so she had been brought in to take over. She showed us over to a table by a bay window and chattily informed us that she had her own catering business and that last weekend she has catered for 1,000 at a wedding.
After half an hour and after much crashing of pots and pans a sweaty Suzy emerged from the kitchen bearing two nondescript cooked breakfasts. I wondered how the wedding had gone.
After breakfast we quickly drove up the hill to look at the famous virile chalk giant and then headed off to Hardy’s Cottage which, rather unhelpfully, was not signposted on the A35. After a short detour through Todpuddle we found ourselves on a quiet country lane. A little nut brown bunny with a white cotton tail hopped unconcernedly in front of us.
‘Look Dad, a little bunny!’
Dad stared straight ahead in the manner of one sitting in a funeral hearse. I tried again and raised my voice slightly.
‘Look Dad, a little bunny!’
Dad snapped out of funereal mode and rounded on me shouting.
‘Yes, OK it’s a bunny! So what?’
I slammed on the breaks.
‘Don’t shout at me! I’m in a car I don’t know, on a road I don’t know. Shouting at me is both dangerous and stressful.’
‘You shouted at me.’
‘I did not shout at you! I raised my voice to point out a bunny because you are freaking deaf and were staring straight ahead like a bloody zombie.’
Hackles still bristling we got out of the car and walked through lush woodland in order to reach Hardy’s remote cottage. From the outside the cottage is picturesque with butter yellow walls and a thatched roof but inside it’s pokey, uncomfortable and startlingly small.
I caught up with Dad in the garden.
‘Did you see the bread oven, Dad?’
‘Yes.’
I knew damn well he hadn’t. But he wasn’t going to be persuaded to go back into the cottage having collared a petite blonde National Trust volunteer to talk to. They were talking about life in Hardy’s time then Dad moved the conversation on to life in when was a boy.’
‘Nobody locked their doors back then because nobody had bugger all.’
The blonde nodded politely and valiantly tried to steer the conversation back to Hardy but Dad was having none of it.
‘I used to have to cycle 4 miles to get a sack of coal.’
Dad was warming to his theme so I left them to it and wandered around the pretty cottage garden which was in full bloom.
Next on the agenda was Clouds Hill, an equally remote but cosier cottage. A volunteer took our admission fee and then instructed us to,
‘Go over to the shed first. That’s where Lawrence kept his Brough.’
‘You shouldn’t keep a dog in a shed,’ said I as we headed off. ‘It’s cruel. What breed is a bruff anyway?’
Clouds Hill is a tiny cottage where windows are an optional extra but despite this it’s cosy, classy and welcoming. I would be prepared to live there. But only if I had a bruff or two for protection.
The ground floor consists of a reading room which is dwarfed by a massive king sized bed covered in an orange ochre leather bedspread, with matching leather pillow cases. I like Lawrence’s style. I always fall asleep while reading. There’s also a small bathroom which is missing a toilet. The toilet is the back garden and a shovel. Lawrence’s didn’t have electricity either. Upstairs is a bijoux sitting room and a tiny bedroom. It’s very deco without trying and for a man who didn’t have a kitchen Lawrence was very particular about his china, think Denby with a black matt glaze. It was made to his specification and he even threw some of it himself, apparently, along with all his other talents, he was a potter.
I left Dad upstairs discussing Middle Eastern politics with a captive National Trust volunteer and later found him pouring over the visitors’ book in the bathroom. I suggested that he sign it and was very touched when I snuck back later to read what he’d written:
I am 77 years old and Lawrence of Arabia has been my hero since I was a boy of 14 and now I am in his home. Thank you.
***
The next morning while waiting the requisite half an hour for our cooked breakfast we couldn’t help noticing that in the opposite bay window sat the American family consisting of a podgy, middle aged white man and woman and a little boy and girl, both oriental. American Mom was doing a less sexual impersonation of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally.
‘What is in the cooked breakfast?’
‘Bacon, egg, sausage, baked beans and mushrooms,’ Suzy sounded harassed, after all she had a potential 6 people to cook for this morning.
‘Do you have a vegetarian cooked breakfast?’
‘Yes,’ Suzy was improvising ‘I could do you egg, mushroom and baked beans.’
‘Not baked beans,’ American Mom’s tone was more appropriate for closing down a discussion about serving pork sausages at a Bar Mitzvah.
‘Beans give me...problems...’
OK so egg and mushrooms for you.’
‘And tomatoes and toast,’ added American Mom.
‘OK, so that’s; egg, mushroom and toast,’ Suzy conveniently forgot to mention tomatoes.
No tomatoes of any kind featured on the menu. She must have decided against going out to pick some. American Mom appeared not to notice the omission.
‘And how are you cooking the egg?’
I looked out the window. It was Saturday, raining heavily and Tom was driving up to spend the day with us. I knew he was going to take the last 15 minutes of twisting, steep country roads personally.
His lime green car rolled up promptly and a frowning, wet Tom joined us for breakfast.
‘The satnav was taking me all over the place, down all these horrible little roads and past all these villages called Piddle something.’
‘No, that’s the way. That’s the way we came.’
‘Well, the roads are bloody ridiculous,’ Tom crunched disapprovingly on a piece of toast.
‘If you lived up here you could petition for them to build a motorway,’ I suggested.
***
After breakfast, with me driving, we set off towards Swanage, parked at Norton and hopped on a steam train for the rest of the journey. The sun came out. It was my first time on a steam train. Good fun but strange to see vast clouds of steam puff out across the nearby fields and then just as suddenly disappear.
Once in Swanage it was a 2 minute walk to the coast.
‘Now,’ I said ‘there’s a nice short coastal walk we can do here. Hon, can you give me the map please.’
‘It’s in the car.’
‘What do you mean it’s in the car? I told you to bring it.’
‘I did bring it in the car but I didn’t think you meant to take it with us once we got out of the car.’
I couldn’t be bothered to point out his lack of logic. I spotted a sign to Peveril Point.
‘That’s it! That’s where I wanted to walk to.’
A short, pleasant walk later, past the pier, the life boat station and several desirable sea view properties and we were at Peveril Point, an unspoilt piece of headland with wonderful views of the bay and Old Harry’s rocks.
The sea played a big part in Dad’s life and it was wonderful to see the twinkle in his eyes. He produced a camera and we took a few photos of the view and each other.
After a cup of tea and a cake we got back on the train. The sun was out in full force now and we were able to appreciate the romantic ruins of Corfe Castle on the way back. Tom also spotted a mother duck crossing a field closely followed by 3 little ducklings.
Next stop was Maiden castle just outside of Dorchester.
‘That’s not a castle. That’s a hill,’ said Tom ‘I’m not paying to see a hill.’
‘It’s free.’
‘So it bloody well should be. It must be against some or other EU directive to call a hill a castle.’
‘It’s not a hill. It’s an iron-age fort and it’s the largest of its kind.’
‘Well, it looks like a hill.’
Dad eyed the steep climb up to the top of the ‘hill’.
‘I’ll stay in the car.’
Tom and I traipsed up the path toward the fort. To reach the top we had to negotiate a maze of deep trenches and mounds which originally formed part of the fort’s defences. Once on the plateau the views were worth the climb. Looking back from where we’d come Dorchester now looked like a toy town, a collection of quaint buildings in soft ice cream hues glowing in the late afternoon sun. On the other side of the fort was gentle rolling countryside as far as the eye could see. On the plateau a scattering of sheep chewed disconsolately at the rough tundra grass.
I looked up and felt engulfed by the vast dynamic sky. Bright blue peeked behind clouds splashed cotton white and pewter grey. Over to the west were the first warm tinges of a sunset. I felt as though I standing inside a watercolour painting.
‘Isn’t it wonderful up here?’ I enthused. ‘Look at the sky!’
‘Yeah, terrific,’ said Tom without enthusiasm. ‘Look, somebody’s reading about the fort.’
A sheep was chewing grass reflectively as it “read” National Trust information from a sheep eye level stand.
Just then a mother and her two lambs trotted into the fort. She did a double take and looked most affronted to see Tom and I. Regarding us balefully she let out a loud objecting “baaaaa!” as she passed us. Her lambs half ran to keep close to their mother. They looked very serious and refused to make eye contact with us.
‘I think we’ve outstayed our welcome,’ said Tom.
Upon reaching the car, tired from the rigours of “hill” climbing, I sank gratefully into the driver’s seat.
‘People were going up to the top and then walking over to there and then climbing down that way,’ from the comfort of his passenger seat Dad pointed out what looked like a 3 mile trek over rugged steep terrain. ‘They didn’t just do what you did. No point.’
‘Well, we didn’t want to leave you too long in the car,’ I puffed. ‘Did you read about the fort?’
There was a stand displaying a concise history of the fort about 10 metres away from the car.
‘No, I haven’t been out.’
‘It’s worth looking reading.
‘I’m OK.’
‘But it explains all about the fort.’
‘I’m alright.’
‘Well, while we’re here you may as well at least read about it.’
‘Alright Adolf!’ snapped Dad as he got out of the car and stalked off towards the stand.
***
I wasn’t sure of how to get back to Cerne Abbas. I drove back into Dorchester and drove around aimlessly while looking for a promising road sign. I was aware of Tom starting to stress beside me. He can’t bear being lost. The lady inside Tom’s satnav started pleading with me to turn left before she was summarily silenced by Tom.
‘Which way is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ huffed Tom.
‘Why did you switch your satnav off if you don’t know the way?’
‘Because it was annoying me.’
Dad remained silent in the back, still sulking.
At last I found a road that I recognised. At the very same moment Tom inexplicably now thought he knew the way back.
‘Turn left!’ commanded Tom.
‘No, it’s OK, I’ve been down this road before. I know I can get back from here.’
‘No, you need to turn left!’ insisted Tom.
I continued down the road that I recognised. Tom exploded,
‘You should have turned left! You ask for directions and then don’t follow them. Well, you can stuff it! You’re on your own from now!’ he crossed his arms and fumed.
He’d barely finished his tirade when the sign to Cerne Abbas appeared. I turned off into the country lane. I can never stay annoyed with Tom for long. After a moment I whispered to him.
‘Dumpling…’
Arms still folded he stared stonily ahead. I tried again, a bit louder and much more staccato this time.
‘Dumpling!’
‘What?’
‘Do you want to apologise?’
‘No. You should have turned left.’
‘But this is the right way!’
We were starting to hit the villages called Piddle.
‘Yes but I didn’t want to go back this way.’
***
Once back in Cerne Abbas there was just time to show Tom the row of Elizabethan timber cottages, where George Washington’s Uncle had once lived, before eating at The Royal Oak.
The Royal Oak is a gloriously cosy pub with womb red walls and decorated with horse brasses. Dad and I had eaten there the night before. Not only was the food good but we couldn’t go back to the coaching inn we ate at the first night because before leaving Dad had loudly remonstrated with me about not leaving a tip and then proceeded to conspicuously hand over a generous tip to the wrong bar man. Dad merrily walked out of the pub, satisfied at having taught me my manners. I glanced back to see the guy who had served us glowering.
Back at The Royal Oak there was only a small hiccup with the menu. Tom wanted the fresh haddock but it came with mushy peas.
‘Why does it have to come with mushy peas?’
‘Have them, they’ll be nice, they’re homemade,’ I cajoled.
‘I don’t like mushy peas.’
‘But you like peas. They’re the same thing. Only…mushy.’
During dinner Dad, perhaps still smarting from the information stand incident, was in lecture mode.
‘When I go away with my bowls club one person drives and one person navigates. If you’re driving you should just drive. That’s it. If you’re navigating you should just navigate. And the driver should never argue with the navigator. Ever. Even if the navigator makes a mistake. It doesn’t matter, the driver should just concentrate on driving.’
***
Tom left after dinner and, feeling shattered after a hectic couple of days, Dad and I headed back to the B&B. The outside door was unlocked so we locked it and trotted off to our respective bedrooms.
It was around 10pm and I was dosing when the Americans arrived back and proceeded to clomp vociferously up the stairs. Then there was a sharp rap at my door. I staggered up and opened my door just wide enough to show my face. I blinked at the bright hallway light. American Dad was the other side of the door. His jowly, bespectacled face inches away. He was glaring at me.
‘We just got back and the door was open,’ his tone was accusatory and hostile.
I blinked. He leaned even closer.
‘Did you leave the door open?’
‘No. We got back at around 8 and it was open then as well so we locked it.’
This information didn’t seem to fit in with his pre-planned interrogation. He blinked and continued to glare at me. After a moment he spoke again.
‘OK, but now it is open. It is very dangerous to leave the outside door open.’
Cerne Abbas wasn’t exactly The Bronx. I guessed the crime rate hovered at around zero but didn’t have the energy to explain the blindingly obvious to this plump pugnacious person. In the background I could see the little girl looking worried. She would forever think her father brave for tackling the nasty woman at the B&B.
‘Yes, I know,’ I said.
He scowled and yet again had to reformulate his interrogation.
‘It was unlocked,’ he said eventually.
‘Yes.’
‘It shouldn’t have been unlocked.’
‘No.’
He glared at me one last time before stomping off upstairs.
***
The next morning, at breakfast, as well as the Americans sitting at one bay window and us, the Brits, sitting at the other, there were two French women sitting at a table towards the back. Without word or glance or sign it was tacitly agreed between the Americans and the Brits that the French were responsible for open doorgate.
With an extra two eggs to cook I shuddered to think how long breakfast was going to take. There was no sign of American Dad but in his absence some early morning bickering was starting to break out.
‘Mommy, he’s annoying me,’ whined the little girl about her brother.
‘Well, don’t let him,’ said American Mom firmly. ‘Ignore him. If you let him annoy you then you are empowering him and disempowering yourself.’
The little girl considered this for a moment before insisting,
‘But he’s annoying mmmeeeeee!’
‘Stop annoying her!’ snapped American Mom.
When a frazzled Suzy eventuallybrought over the their breakfasts American Mom was herself annoyed.
‘We took them to Sherbourne Castle yesterday but they were really bored. Castles don’t have enough for them to do. Where should we take them today?’
‘I don’t know, I haven’t been in the area long,’ said Suzy before hurrying back to her sizzling sausages.’
Now that we’d called an unspoken truce over open doorgate I sidled over to make my peace with the Americans. I’d been feeling bad ever since I glared at the little girl.
‘Hi.’
The little girl looked up at me warily, all thoughts of her brother annoying her now swiftly forgotten.
‘Hi,’ said American Mom ‘I must apologise for my husband last night. He’s belling ringing this morning.’
I let the non sequitur pass.
‘That’s OK,’ I half tipped my head towards the French and American Mom gave a slight nod.
I suggested something that I hoped the children would find fun.
‘Have you been on the Swanage steam railway?’
American Mom liked my suggestion and I walked away feeling better.
***
After breakfast Dad and I went up to our rooms to pack. It was raining heavily by the time I left the B&B. I struggled over to the car with my luggage to find Dad already stoically sitting in the passenger seat. He continued to sit in the car while I proceeded to remove his luggage from the boot and reload both our luggage in such a way that they both fitted in.
I was drenched by the time I sat in the driver’s seat and shut the car door. Right on queue Dad started.
‘Now, just take it easy. Don’t do a million miles an hour. I don’t want to be doing 90 miles an hour up the M3. No thank you.’
For the last time I negotiated the twisty country lanes, mentally waving goodbye to Dorset’s bucolic rolling countryside. Dad was absorbed in reading two large road maps he had spread across his lap. I gritted my teeth. These views had cost me approximately £200 a day.
Fifteen minutes later we joined the A35, one of the main arteries in and out of Dorset. I was mildly flummoxed when we came across a road sign that only gave two options; “Ringwood” or “Weymouth”.
‘Do we want Ringwood?’
‘I haven’t got a clue!’ said Dad indignantly.
‘But you’ve been looking at the maps for the last 20 minutes.’
‘Well, I haven’t been looking at that.’
I sighed and took a chance on Ringwood.
‘But last night you said that a driver should just concentrate on driving and the passenger should navigate.’
‘No, you want to everything yourself!’ snapped Dad.
‘No I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Look Dad, I’m asking you now – please will you keep an eye on the route because I need to concentrate on the driving.’
***
We made it home safely and I even got the price of a days hire knocked off the car bill because of the smell of smoke.
When I got in from work the next evening Dad casually mentioned that he’d seen a car for sale outside the local library. He’d taken down the details. It was a Ford Fiesta with low mileage and two previous careful elderly gentlemen owners. The price was £500. I called the owner up and we arranged to meet immediately. I checked the wheel arches for rust (none) and looked under the bonnet in a manner that suggested I knew what I was looking at. Half an hour later I was the proud owner of a sewing machine on wheels. I got £50 knocked off the price because... it smelt of smoke.
The End
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