The Taylor TurboChaser

by David Baddiel

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” said Amy, disentangling herself from her mum. “I’m sorry I put you through all this. I hope all your cars are OK. I’m sorry I—”

  “You’re amazing.”

  “… took all the other children and … Pardon?”

  Peter shook his head in wonder. His eyes had that new way of looking at her that Amy had noticed earlier, the one that she couldn’t think of the word for.

  “I mean, absolutely,” he said. “You shouldn’t have done ANY of this – shouldn’t have done all this to your wheelchair, shouldn’t have put your mum through all this worry, but … we’ll talk about all that afterwards. Because –” he shook his head and smiled – “you’re totally amazing! What an incredible driver you are. I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re a natural.”

  Amy smiled and blushed. She wanted to say, “Well, you have seen something like it, a long time ago, on a dodgem car by the sea.” But instead she just let the words “you’re a natural” fire up the memory of that moment again, and said, “Thank you, Dad.”

  “And, as your dad,” he said, “let me give you a hug.” Which he did, lifting her up off the chair and into his arms. He gave her the tightest hug.

  “But also,” he said, once he’d put her back into the chair, “as a fellow driver, let me shake your hand.” He held out his. Amy took it. They shook hands. He looked at her and smiled.

  “Respect,” said Amy’s dad. Which was the word that described, Amy realised, what was contained in her father’s new way of looking at her.

  On the way back home, everyone managed to get into Suzi’s van, even though it was a bit of a squeeze. It was a long drive. Prisha suggested they stop at a restaurant they’d found on the way up called La Rurale Pastorale, but none of the children were very keen for some reason.

  Amy sat in her old wheelchair in the back. Her dad had told her to leave her new wheelchair, which didn’t seem to work at all any more, with him. As they were nearing the end of the journey, Rahul said, “Do you think your dad will fix your wheelchair? Or buy you a new one?”

  “I don’t know,” said Amy. “What about your dad? Is he cross that all that stuff from his warehouse got broken?”

  Rahul looked round. Sanjay was asleep on Prisha’s shoulder.

  “No, he’s OK. He’s always OK as long as Mum isn’t shouting at him. And, anyway, we went round picking up some bits that weren’t broken and put them in the back of the van. He reckons if I can build another one, loads of people might want one …” The word “broken” seemed to make him feel suddenly sad. He tailed off and blinked.

  “I’m sorry it all broke …” he said, “the TurboChaser.”

  Amy smiled. “That’s fine. It’s amazing it lasted so long.”

  Rahul smiled back. “It did last a long time, didn’t it? And went a long way.”

  Amy nodded. “It was a brilliant adventure. Thank you, Rahul.”

  He smiled. She looked round. Sanjay, as we know, was asleep. Janet was with Colin and Norma, showing them how she had actually learnt to turn her phone off. Jack was leaning over to the front of the van, talking to Suzi. Amy lowered her voice.

  “Rahul … a weird thing happened just before the TurboChaser broke up.”

  Rahul frowned. “What?”

  Amy lowered her voice even more, almost to a whisper. “The sat nav started talking to me …”

  “Pardon?” said Rahul.

  “I know it sounds stupid. But I was talking to myself, about how I didn’t think I could win the race. And it started telling me that … I could.”

  “Wow.”

  Amy looked at him. “You don’t believe me.”

  “Well. No. I do. I mean the sat nav was kind of weird.”

  Amy shook her head. “Yes. But it was still telling us where to go, or where not to go. It wasn’t giving us a pep talk, or helping because it knew I was frightened.” She looked at Rahul. “It was like at the last moment … the TurboChaser was really talking to me. Like it was really my friend.”

  Rahul nodded. He touched her on the shoulder. “Maybe it was.”

  A little while later, they were back in their home city. Suzi dropped Janet and Colin and Norma off back at their house first. Everyone said goodbye, but then Colin said, as they got out, “Janet! Where are your fairy wings?”

  “They got covered in poo.”

  “Oh,” said Norma. “Not again.”

  “No, they’re clean now,” said Rahul. “Remember you washed them in the stream!”

  Amy saw them by her feet. She picked them up.

  “Here they are! Sparkling clean!”

  She threw them out of the window of the van. They fluttered up in the air, glittering in the street light, before coming down like a butterfly, to land almost perfectly behind Janet. Norma clamped her hands on them, holding them to her daughter’s back.

  “Ha!” said Amy. “You were right! They’ve come in useful!”

  “How is that useful?” said Jack.

  “As a symbol of our journey!” said Amy.

  Next, Suzi dropped Rahul, Sanjay and Prisha back at their flat above Agarwal Supplies. Sanjay and Rahul quickly took all the TurboChaser bits out of the back of the van, and then everyone said goodbye – a quick goodbye, as it was late by then and Suzi wanted to get her children finally home.

  “Help your dad get that stuff back into the garage,” said Prisha, going inside, “and then bedtime!”

  “OK, Mum,” said Rahul.

  “What have we got left?” said Sanjay.

  Rahul looked around. “One fish tank. Half a fish tank. Two walkie-talkies. Two giant cat flaps. Some tent material …”

  “The mattresses, they’re fine,” said Sanjay.

  “Well, they’re a bit wet.”

  “They’ll dry out. Ah, look,” Sanjay said, picking something up. “The sat nav! The screen isn’t broken!”

  “Yes, but it’s a bit of a weird one, anyway.”

  “Well, it was always a weird batch.”

  “Yes. Amy said it got even weirder during the race.”

  Sanjay looked at the bits and pieces of the TurboChaser. He smiled. “OK, son. So … is this the invention that’s going to make us rich?”

  Rahul smiled. “I don’t think so, Dad. But who knows?” He yawned. “Thanks for being so good about it all. Let’s get this stuff into the warehouse so I can go to bed.”

  “Goodnight, Amy,” said Suzi.

  Amy was finally home, tucked up in bed. Her mum was crouching beside her.

  “Are you really, really angry with me, Mum?” said Amy.

  Suzi took a deep breath. “I was. Yes. I thought I was really going to shout at you. But now … all that anger … it’s all gone. I’m exhausted, and I’m just so happy that you’re home and safe.”

  “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m sorry I put you through all that.”

  Suzi looked at her daughter lying in bed, her head on the pillow. She kissed her on her forehead.

  “It’s OK, Amy. I kind of know why you had to do it. Just … don’t do it again. Please.”

  Amy smiled. “I won’t. I promise. I’ll never do anything like that again.”

  Suzi nodded, said, “Thank you, darling,” and left the room.

  Ten seconds later, through the wall, Jack’s voice said, “Was that sarcastic?”

  Amy, even though she was nearly asleep, burst out laughing.

  Two months later, Amy was at home in the living room with her mum and Jack, helping to decorate their Christmas tree. A song called “Driving Home for Christmas” by a frightening-looking old man called Chris Rea was playing on the radio as she wheeled herself round the tree, draping the branches with baubles and tinsel.

  She could do this easily, even though she was back in her old wheelchair, as it had been fixed. The wheels no longer resembled that of a broken Lodlil trolley. The whole thing had been given an overhaul and now she could guide herself round even quite a small space, like that between their Christmas tree and the wall,
easily.

  Every year, Amy loved decorating the tree. Jack was bored of doing it – decorating a Christmas tree is one of those things teenagers used to love doing when they were younger, but which they like to make clear to parents that now they find very boring.

  So he was huffing and puffing and looking at his phone, when there was suddenly the sound of something being delivered through their letter box.

  “Can you go and see what that is, Jack?” said Suzi.

  Jack huffed and puffed and looked at his phone – which meant he didn’t want to do that either – but he went out of the room anyway.

  “Oh right,” he shouted from the hallway, in his bored voice. “It’s Dad’s regular Christmas card.”

  “Oh!” said Amy. “Bring it in!”

  “Oh,” said Jack in a sarcastic voice, “bring it in!” (I should make it clear that although Jack had learnt some life lessons on this journey, he hadn’t changed that much. Not everyone changes that much during a story.)

  “Well … yeah, do,” said Suzi.

  “It’ll just be the same thing as ever,” said Jack, coming into the living room. He opened the envelope. “Just ‘Happy Christmas, Jack and Amy!’ on a card with some fake snow and glitter on … Oh—”

  “What?” said Suzi.

  “Some tickets have fallen out of it …”

  Amy wheeled herself over to them and picked them up. “They’re train tickets! To Scotland!”

  “What does the card say, Jack?” asked Suzi.

  “It says, ‘Dear Suzi, Jack and Amy …’”

  “Can you read it in a normal voice, please? Not a stupid one.”

  “Hmm … OK. ‘Dear Suzi, Jack and Amy, I was wondering if you might want to come to Scotland for Christmas? And spend it with me? You don’t have to, but if you do, some rail tickets are enclosed … Love, Dad.” He looked up and, for once, his eyes were like a child’s, full of wonder.

  “Yes,” said Amy. “Let’s do it!”

  “Amy,” said Suzi. “I’m not sure …”

  “Mum! You can’t say no to me!”

  “What? Why not?”

  Amy laughed. “Because I’m disabled!” she said.

  It was an overnight train. The three of them had a cabin, which they could sleep in. They left on Christmas Eve, which meant that when they arrived, really early in the morning, in Scotland, it was Christmas Day.

  Peter was at the station to pick them up. He was driving a vehicle none of them had seen before.

  “Happy Christmas, family!” he said, getting out and hugging Amy.

  “Hey, Dad!” said Amy. “You bought a version of Mum’s van!”

  “A slightly newer-looking version …” said Suzi.

  “I did,” said Peter, pressing a button at the back to extend the ramp. “I thought if Amy was going to be coming up to see me a bit more often, I’d better have something to drive you around in.”

  Amy’s eyes widened. “Am I going to be coming up to see you a bit more often?”

  Peter smiled. “I hope so. But that’s up to you …”

  He put his hands on the handles at the back of her chair, as if he was going to push her up the ramp. But Amy said, “That’s OK, Dad. I’ve got this.”

  And wheeled herself up into the van.

  They drove away from the railway station. Amy and Jack, in the back of the van, watched their mum and dad, who were sitting together in the front. They weren’t speaking, but it didn’t seem like a bad not-speaking – more like a not-sure-what-to-say-yet type of not-speaking.

  But then Suzi did say something.

  “Where are we going? I thought you lived in the city centre?”

  “I do. Sorry. I just wanted to show you all something before we go to my house.”

  Amy looked out of the window. It had clearly been snowing for a while, as all the roads and houses were covered in white, but still … something about where they were felt familiar.

  “Dad …” she said. “Are we going to the Facility?”

  “Maybe,” he replied.

  Twenty minutes later, as they were standing – Amy sitting in her chair, obviously – outside the Facility, Jack said, “Not sure why you said ‘maybe’ – we just were.”

  Peter looked at Suzi and Amy. “Is this what he’s like all the time?”

  They nodded.

  “OK,” said Peter.

  “But actually, Peter,” said Suzi, “I think we … and the kids … would like to maybe get to your house and start Christmas properly.”

  “Yes … I know. And I’ve got presents for Jack and … for you, Suzi …”

  “Have you?” said Suzi, surprised.

  “Yes. Under my tree, waiting.”

  “At least we don’t have to decorate that one,” said Jack.

  “But,” said Peter, ignoring that, “Amy’s Christmas present is here.”

  He turned towards the doors of the Facility, which opened wide. Standing there was something enormous under a lot of wrapping paper. It looked like the biggest present ever.

  “Oh! Wow!” said Amy. “Shall I go over and unwrap it?”

  Her dad smiled. “I’m hoping it will unwrap for you.” There was a pause. Then he turned towards the present and said more loudly, “I said, ‘I’m hoping it will unwrap for you!’”

  An engine sound was heard, starting up.

  Then, seconds later, the wrapping paper burst open and out it drove – the Taylor TurboChaser.

  Only it wasn’t exactly the Taylor TurboChaser.

  It was, but it had been given an amazing upgrade! It was no longer built with fish tanks and cat flaps and banged-together trays and chimneys and wheelchairs. It was built with real car materials: aluminium and glass and steel. It was shiny and bullet-grey and sleek and streamlined – but the basic design was still the same. It still looked like the Taylor TurboChaser.

  “Happy Christmas, Amy,” said her dad.

  “Wow!” said Amy. “The Taylor TurboChaser Mark 2!”

  “Exactly! It even says so on the number plate!”

  Which it did. The words TAYTURB2 became clearer as the vehicle got closer, and then stopped in front of Amy in her chair. A driver in a helmet got out. He took the helmet off. Amy recognised him as one of the drivers who had been on the track on that day two months before.

  He smiled at her and handed her the helmet.

  “So here’s the thing, Amy,” said her dad. “This is your Christmas present. It’s your car. It does come with one, very specific, condition. Which is … you can’t drive it on public roads. You certainly can’t drive it out of here and all the way back home. Or the other way round.”

  “OK,” said Amy. “So when can I drive it?”

  “Whenever you visit me. You can come here and drive it on the track. I will make sure the track is clear for you. Or maybe even organise some of my people to drive against you. We know you can give them quite a race!”

  “Wow! Thanks, Dad! Mum, can I come up and see Dad a lot?”

  Suzi looked at Peter, and then at Amy, and smiled. “We’ll see. Yes. Maybe.”

  Peter smiled back.

  “But meanwhile,” said Amy, “can I have a go now?”

  “Can I have a go now?” said Jack.

  “Jack …” said Suzi. “I’ve told you about—”

  “No, I mean it. I wasn’t being sarcastic. If Amy’s going to have a go now … well, I want a go too.”

  “Not just you, Jack,” said Amy. “As far as I remember, the Taylor TurboChaser’s got four seats, hasn’t it?”

  Peter looked at Suzi. Suzi shrugged. Peter looked round at his driver, who had already gone and got three more helmets.

  Then the whole family got into the TurboChaser. It was amazing inside – the seats were all black and comfortable, and there were electric windows, and heaters, and even a screen on the dashboard. But the main driving seat was still designed as if it was a wheelchair. It had the same driving controls, and all the buttons were the same.

  “I’
ve built it round your original chair,” said Peter. “The Mobilcon. It’s still in there, your chair, at the heart of the TurboChaser.”

  “Wow!” said Amy. “Although no sat nav …?”

  “Try the screen,” said Peter.

  Amy raised her eyebrows. She tapped on the screen. A sat nav logo and a map came up, glowing, accompanied by a little musical sting.

  “Hello, Amy …” it said.

  “Ha ha!” said Amy.

  “I’ve programmed it to say that,” said Peter proudly.

  “Ble hoffech chi fynd heddiw?”

  “Hmm, but not that,” said Peter. “That’s weird …”

  “It’s Welsh,” said Amy.

  “How do you know that?” said Suzi.

  Amy smiled and punched the sat nav. It said, “I mean, where would you like to go today?”

  Everyone looked at Amy. She didn’t even have to think.

  “To the race track!” she said.

  “Very well,” said the sat nav. “Turn left, and then … just drive.”

  “Oh, I will,” said Amy, and she threw the direction lever forward. The rest of the family were thrown back in their chairs. And the Taylor TurboChaser Mark 2 sounded, it sounded – well – like the devil clearing his throat.

  Down they went, down the hill, towards the track, Amy’s hands gripping the wheel, and she flew.

  She flew.

  Thanks to:

  All the people who helped in the creation of this book. Steven Lenton, my amazing illustrator; Nick Lake, my equally amazing editor; Samantha Stewart, my – I’m going to have to use another word now – I am a writer – brilliant copy-editor; Ann-Janine Murtagh, my extraordinary – it’s another adjective, but it’s true – publisher; the fabulous – I’m going to stop commenting on the adjectives now, except for that comment – HarperCollins Marketing, Sales and PR team, including Geraldine Stroud, Jo-Anna Parkinson, Sally Wilks, Alex Cowan and Sam White; my inspired – oops! – designers David McDougall and Elorine Grant; Tanya Hougham the great – see – oh, I suppose that’s a comment – audio-book producer; and everyone else who gets the books made and into the hands of children.