by Rosie Blake
There was a horn going outside, on and off, over and over, shattering my preening. Luke had disappeared into the living room. Moments later he called my name.
‘Your surprise is here!’
I raced over to join Luke at the window and stared out into the street where I saw Howard in a convertible, tooting repeatedly on his horn.
‘Howard? Howard is my surprise?’
‘Yes,’ Luke said, turning to me with a solemn expression. ‘I thought our relationship wasn’t really going anywhere and you would be happier with Howard, more a man of the world . . . Of course not Howard, you weirdo.’ He turned back to the window and jabbed the glass. ‘The car – the amazing vintage sports car that Howard stores in his garage for most of the year and he has loaned us for the day. Lottie Campbell, we are heading to the countryside.’
His face was animated, his grin wide as he grabbed my hand and pulled me towards the door, Howard still leaning on the horn outside.
‘But you don’t know how to drive,’ I stuttered, scooping up my handbag.
‘But you do,’ Luke said, bundling me out of the door. ‘Do you have everything you need? Sunglasses, mobile and maybe one of those neck-tie things ladies wear in convertibles? Like Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday?’
‘You know if I wear a necktie I won’t magically turn into Audrey Hepburn.’
‘Look, the necktie would be a start,’ he said, laughing as I pushed him. ‘Seriously, you look amazing. Now let’s gooooo.’
Buoyed by his enthusiasm I followed him out of the flat and down the stairs into the street. It was early and the pavement was almost deserted, the weak morning sunlight just lighting the roofs of the houses, the sky above us as pale blue as the shirt Luke was wearing.
Howard handed the keys to me, walking around the car to point out some of the features. ‘When you start her up she might chunter a little but that’s totally normal, and don’t press too hard on the clutch. She’s a sensitive beast and you don’t need to pump her as if she were a common or garden Astra. And when you change gear try not to force things, be smooth, and remember—’
‘Actually, Howard, I thought I’d let Luke drive,’ I said, one hand circling Luke’s waist.
Howard’s chin quivered. ‘But he doesn’t have a licence!’
‘So what better way for him to learn!’
Howard was pulling on his tie, a panicked look back at Grandad, who had appeared in his car to take Howard back. ‘Oh, well, maybe, perhaps I wouldn’t, well, you know, she’s probably, um—’
‘Joke! Ha, your face,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, Howard. Luke is a complete imbecile, I wouldn’t let him near the wheel.’
‘Oh!’ Howard let out a bark of laughter. ‘Christ, you had me there. Very good, very good.’
‘I can’t even be trusted with a bicycle,’ Luke said cheerily, running round to throw himself into the passenger seat. ‘I once chipped my tooth falling off a scooter.’
Grandad had started beeping his car. ‘Well, I must go but Luke tells me you’ll return her later, and of course I trust you,’ Howard said in a deeply untrusting voice. ‘So, enjoy the day.’ He put a hand on the side panel of the bonnet. ‘Go slow, no need for excessive speed, take in the weather and—’
More beeping from Grandad.
‘Best be off then,’ Howard said, one finger still making contact with the car until he heaved himself away.
‘Road trip,’ Luke said, pointing both hands forward.
‘Great.’ I got into the car, readjusting the driving mirror and tightening the knot in my neck tie. Looking sideways at Luke I placed the key in the ignition. ‘So, Thelma – where to?’
Luke had booked us a pub lunch on the river in a small village in Hertfordshire. The drive was wonderful. We took the A roads and felt the sun streaming above us, the wind lifting our hair, swirling around us in the car as the radio played and we sang along unashamedly. It seemed for that journey as though nothing else in the world existed, just two people heading through the countryside, trees meeting in speckled canopies over our heads. We couldn’t really talk, could only hear the roar of the wind in our ears and feel the warmth of the sun on our skin.
As we turned into the small pub car park and switched off the engine, we sat in silence for a second, noises heightened: the cheeping from the trees, the distant bleating of lambs in a field, the chatter of insects in the verge.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, staring up at the thatched public house, an enormous pub garden stretched along one side with a view over the hills, most of the picnic tables free.
‘Only the best for you, your majesty,’ Luke announced, stepping out of the passenger seat and coming round to open the driver’s door.
I took his hand, letting him pull me into a hug, both hands round my waist, my head resting against his chest. ‘Thank you for finding it, and arranging the car: it’s already a brilliant surprise.’
We ordered drinks, two gin and tonics in honour of the absent Gin o’Clock Club, and headed out into the pub garden with two menus. The garden sloped down towards the narrow road, hedgerows high on either side casting shadows, a few houses and a wood beyond. The sun was warm on my back and I breathed in the scent of freshly mown grass. We ordered our food, sharing a wooden platter filled with different meats, a wicker basket of fresh bread, small bowls of olives dripping in oil. By the end of it all I was licking my fingers, soaking up the last of the oil with the final piece of bread. Luke was smiling at me indulgently.
‘What?’ I said through the final mouthful.
‘You’re a delight,’ he said, squeezing my knee. ‘And also you have some kind of herb in your teeth.’
He stood up, holding out his hand for me. ‘Walk?’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Er . . . my company?’
I paused, tilting my head to feel the sun on my face. ‘Hmm.’
‘Blackberries?’
I stood up immediately, Luke crossing a hand over his heart. ‘That hurts.’
‘A girl’s gotta have pudding.’
‘Full disclosure,’ he said, ‘I’m not absolutely sure it’s the right time but we can have fun looking!’
Twenty minutes later, with not a blackberry bush in sight, we found ourselves meandering through the village, heading for the shade of the wood behind. The day had heated up and the sun was slicing lines across the road ahead, highlighting cheerful window boxes crammed with bright pink, red and purple flowers, wooden doorways, thatched roofs, and bouncing off the glass of casement windows. Someone was mowing their lawn, the familiar hum of the motor reminding me of afternoons at Grandad’s watching him move slowly up and down the grass, the strips neat and lush.
A sudden movement caught my eye and I turned my head to see something streak across the road. The movement was jerky and unfamiliar, a squawk making me startle. Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you just see a chicken? A chicken that crossed the road?’
I nodded. ‘I did.’
Then there was a gentle cluck and more movement and two more chickens appeared, following in the wake of the first one.
‘What’s going on? Is this a country thing? Who owns these chickens?’
‘They’re free range,’ Luke said, shrugging and laughing.
I gave him my most scathing look.
The three chickens had congregated in the shade of the house opposite. One ginger chicken pecked at the dusty pavement and two others, both small and white like balls of cotton wool with beaks, strutted back and forward as if on a chicken catwalk.
Luke lingered. ‘Do you think we should help them?’
I looked at him. ‘Help them how? Offer them directions? Give them a lift back to London?’
‘Not sure,’ Luke said, biting his lip.
A red-faced old lady, cardigan on inside out, appeared in an alley opposite, bent over a walking stick. She pointed the stick at the chickens. ‘Bastards,’ she hollered.
Luke and I both jumped.
She shook her st
ick at us. ‘Catch them then!’ The chickens, having heard the profanity, had set off in different directions.
Luke and I responded to the order as if she were our headmistress, immediately chasing after the chickens, which only made them run faster, their scrawny legs furiously pedalling them away from our clutches.
‘Jesus,’ I said, leaning over and clutching my side, feeling beads of sweat meet on my brow, ‘chickens are fast.’
Luke had backed one of the cotton-wool ones into a corner and it was trying to squeeze itself behind a large stone pot full of carnations.
He dived forward, there was a flapping noise, and he emerged, hair askew, cotton-wool chicken clamped under one arm.
More confident now, he approached the ginger one, who decided to play ball and sank low on her knees as if waiting for Luke to simply scoop her up, which he did.
‘You’ve got two chickens,’ I said, watching him manage to keep a handle on both.
Luke motioned with his head at the last cotton-wool one. ‘Just get round behind it and head it back over the road towards the woman.’
‘Bravo, bravo,’ the old lady was saying as Luke approached her with the fugitives. ‘It’s the second gate on the right. If you could just pop them there, I’ll be along.’
The last chicken, sensing her friends were no longer roaming free, clearly decided she wanted to return home too. With little effort from me she trotted down the alley behind Luke, streaking into the gate before he closed it on all of them.
I caught up with the woman. ‘You can both come inside now,’ she said, her tone imperious so there was little hope of us refusing.
We ambled through the lady’s garden. Stones sunk into the grass made a path to her back door.
‘Come inside, inside. I always have a whiskey after four o’clock. You’re in time.’
She disappeared into her kitchen and Luke raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Is this how we die?’ he whispered.
‘Ssh!’ I swallowed a giggle. He shrugged and followed her inside, ducking his head as he did so.
Her galley kitchen was long and narrow and the old lady was placing tumblers on a tray.
‘In there,’ she said, indicating the dining room through an arch.
I nodded, feeling the whole day had taken on quite a surreal turn. The low-ceilinged room, one wall covered with a large dresser, every other wall covered in ornamental plates of horsey scenes, smelt of cigarette smoke. I pulled out a wooden chair, its cushioned seat faded pink, the pattern long since worn away. Luke winked at me as he sat down opposite. I could tell he was enjoying the strange twist, beaming at the woman as she appeared in the doorway clutching her tray, refusing his help as he hopped back up to his feet.
‘Pff,’ she said, placing it down, the brown liquid sloshing. ‘Whiskey.’ She pushed the glass across to me.
My hand hovered for a second, aware I was driving back but keen not to appear rude I picked up the tumbler. ‘Thanks,’ I said taking the tiniest sip, wincing as the liquid burnt my throat.
Luke accepted his glass. ‘You’re my kind of woman.’
She shot him a look. Clearly rescuing her chickens was one thing but this over-familiarity quite another.
She sat at the head of the table and methodically sipped at her glass. Then, when she finished, after furnishing us with a few choice details (silky hens, her name was Peggy, the ginger chicken was so old she should be dead, neighbours hate the noise, they haven’t attracted rats in years, those rumours are false) we were evicted as swiftly as we had been invited inside.
She waved us off at the back door and we made our way down the stone path, careful to close the gate. The three chickens gave us baleful glances as we passed. Then, turning the corner back down the alley, we collapsed in giggles on the side wall.
‘Very weird,’ Luke said, rubbing his eyes. ‘Pub?’
I nodded, ‘Definitely.’
Returning to the pub we found the same table as before, freshly wiped down as we placed our drinks on it. We watched the birds overhead, Luke beside me, one hand on my thigh, the blue sky streaked with aeroplane trails. Someone was barbecuing somewhere nearby, determined to make the most of the summer, the charcoal smell wafting our way.
‘I could stay here for ever,’ I said.
‘That’s good’ – I could feel his mouth move into a grin in my hair – ‘because I booked us a room.’
I leaned back, staring at him incredulously. ‘Seriously?’
‘Come and look.’ He stood up and gestured with his hand and we walked back across the pub garden and into the car park. Luke opened the boot. ‘Ta da!’ He revealed a suitcase inside. ‘I even remembered to pack your washbag with the scary unicorn on it.’
‘Luke Winters, how did you know I’d agree to spend the night with you?’
‘You look the easy type,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders and making me snort unattractively. ‘So now you can join me in a bottle of wine and some dinner.’
‘Definitely.’ I grinned. ‘Although it seems a shame to go inside,’ I said, the temperature just starting to drop as I wrapped my arms around myself.
‘I thought of that too,’ Luke said, pulling out two blankets he had stored in the boot.
‘What else have you got in there?’ I asked with a laugh, on tiptoes.
Luke closed the boot, turned to me, deadpanned: ‘Just the body of my first girlfriend. Sooooooo, wine!’
‘I feel someone might have had enough to drink already,’ I giggled, tucking my arm into his and returning to the table we had sat at earlier, enjoying being wrapped in a thick blanket as the sun set and the tea lights and lanterns were lit all around us.
We stayed out for hours eating and drinking, Luke scooting behind me when the temperature dipped, wrapping us both in the blanket so we could stay outside a little longer. With his arms around me we talked about nothing, stifling yawns, taking occasional sips of our drinks. The bar had long since closed and all we had to do was head back to our bedroom.
‘How did you find out about this place?’ I said, leaning back into his body, enjoying the smell of him, faint hint of aftershave and fresh air.
I felt a stiffening around me as Luke rested his head on my shoulder. ‘My mum and I stopped off here once,’ he said, ‘on the way back from one of her friend’s houses.’
Luke didn’t speak about his parents a lot. I knew they had been a close family, travelling together when Luke was a teen, camping in Wales and France, trips to Scotland, a road trip through Europe. Photo albums were cluttered with pictures from these places: Luke as a toothy child, then a gangly, awkward teen, always in the middle of his parents, their arms casually around his waist or shoulders: unselfconscious and content.
When I first met him he had been reeling from the sudden death of his father from a heart attack, and then cruelly, a year into our relationship, his mother had been diagnosed with cancer. She died less than six weeks later. Sometimes it was easy to assume his grief had faded with time but then I would catch him sometimes staring out at something, not focusing, and recognise the expression: that he was somewhere in the past when they had both been there with him.
I didn’t say anything, simply twisted a little and wrapped my arms around his neck, resting my forehead against his. I could feel his breath on my face and he brushed my lips with his.
‘Let’s go upstairs now,’ he said, his meaning clear.
Whispered giggles as we navigated our way up the crooked wooden staircase, Luke narrowly missing cracking his head on a beam. We made it to our room, an upholstered armchair in the corner, a patterned rug, the glow of the bedside lamp and the bed immaculate, crisp white sheets and a small round mint left on each pillow. We left the small window open, the silhouette of the fields and treeline beyond, the sky spattered with a thousand stars, the moonlight streaking our bed. Luke tucked me into his arms and as we lay there together I felt his chest rise and fall beneath me. Everything slow and easy. It felt as if we were somewhere other-worldy for the nigh
t, and my eyes drooped.
We barely spoke over breakfast the next morning, the poached eggs runny and delicious, the bacon crispy. Enjoying the silence we meandered down the footpaths through the woods and fields, holding hands, listening to the chatter of insects, the dappled pathways smelling earthy and rich, gradually turning back, past streams where we played half-hearted games of Pooh sticks before knowing we had to head home.
Sliding into the driving seat, I glanced back at the old stone cottage, the weathered sign outside, the garden of the pub, empty now. I was glad to be wearing my sunglasses, feeling a sudden lump in my throat. Biting my lip I tied my hair back in a ponytail, blinked and placed the key in the ignition. Silly to feel emotional.
We’d been gone twenty-four hours but the time had seemed to stretch on and on as if I’d returned from a spa break or a week in the sun. I felt refreshed and energetic as I moved the car back through the lanes, sneaking glances at Luke leaning back in his seat, sunglasses on. Arriving back into London, carefully returning the car to Howard, petrol tank full by way of thanks.
‘Did you have a fabulous time?’ Howard asked as I handed him the keys.
I looked back at Luke, who was busying himself with our bags, his hair ruffled, his whole demeanour relaxed, and felt a wide grin crack my face open. ‘The best,’ I said. ‘Just the best.’
Darling Cora,
I am pleased to report Lottie and Luke seem to have returned refreshed and reinvigorated from a wonderful weekend away together. They drove to the countryside in Howard’s soft top so although they had a lovely time, I had a whole weekend of Howard fretting over the continued well-being of his precious car. It was, of course, returned without a scratch on it: that man really does love that vehicle more than any human being.
I’m pleased with the progress we’ve made with Lottie and Luke: this scheme has been rather successful thus far. Arjun had informed us that he would be doing a few weeks’ work as a life model and we couldn’t resist heading over to see him ‘in action’, so to speak. Luke in particular really seemed to enjoy the night and it was fabulous to see them leave together laughing. Then we sent them on a treasure hunt of Hyde Park – Geoffrey drew an illustrated map for them, must have taken the man days. They went on a picnic. Howard put three bottles of champagne into the basket and even then didn’t think it would be enough.
