The Road Trip

A recent trip north was slowed to a crawl by the flashing lights of a number of police cars.  Traffic was funnelled into a single lane and allowed to crawl past the scene of an accident that had, it seemed, injured nothing except, perhaps, the pride of a driver.  A man and a woman - older, and well dressed, were standing with some police, while tow truck drivers began the task of righting and recovering a very nice four wheel drive, and an overturned caravan.  They seemed so calm and stoic, and I couldn't help wondering what they were thinking.

That wondering simmered and fermented for a few days before producing the following - if one of my readers should turn out to be the couple I observed, please accept my apologies if I have imputed thoughts or feelings that were not truly yours.  Otherwise, please enjoy.....

THE ROAD TRIP

Richard Slade

July, 2017

Liz stepped back a few paces when the young policewoman began questioning Neville.  He had his arms folded, his shoulders back, chin up, and back straight.  It was that look that she had mistaken, forty five years ago, for manly determination and courage.

Was it that long ago?  Forty five years of of wifely duties – of raising children, hosting dinner parties for his work colleagues, running the household (as best she could, given Neville's tight reign on all matters financial), and supporting him during his relentless climb up the various corporate ladders he had latched onto.

Somehow, the forty five years did not seem as long as the first six months of Neville's retirement.   

What would two years of travelling round Australia with him feel like – a century?  It would have to be two years, at the least.  That's how long a lease they had granted the new occupants of their lovely, tree-shaded, St Ives home.  Two years, minus the two long days since they had driven away from it.  She could still see the smiles on the faces of their tenants, as they directed the removalists and savoured the gardens.

Now, home was an eight metre long caravan,  The caravan was luxurious, as was the brand new Landcruiser that Neville had purchased to tow it with.

Had that policewoman noticed the way Liz's head had jerked up, and her raised eyebrows, as Neville wove a detailed description of the fast moving, non-descript, silver sedan that had cut in front of him, forcing the evasive manoeuvre that had caused their sudden departure from that tight bend in the highway?  A very badly made bend, in Neville's opinion; one that shared the blame equally, along with the miscreant driver – now long gone from the scene of his crime – for what had happened next.

Neville, she was sure, had not noticed anything.  Chin jutting, gazing into the distance, Neville, as ever, noticed nothing that Liz said or did.  The policewoman slipped a few more glances at Liz, even as she kept jotting Neville's utterances in her notebook.  Did she suspect?  What would Liz say if the constable decided to question her?

Liz rolled her eyes and looked at the caravan.  It was on its side in the long grass between the north and south-bound lanes of the highway.  The tow-truck driver had connected a steel cable somewhere under the front of the Cruiser, which was, miraculously, still upright, though pointing the wrong way.  He had shaken his head when Neville had declared that vehicle and van would be "right as rain in no time at all"

The driver had tried to explain just how badly damaged both vehicles were, but his words had fallen into the well of silence, while Neville droned on.

He thought she had been asleep when the crash had happened, but she had only closed her right eye.  Neville's confidence in his own driving skills was not shared by Liz, who had, for decades, done all the driving, whether of children to sport, school, or events, or of a tipsy Neville, coming home from another corporate function.  So Liz kept one eye open, hoping she would see the end coming and have time to offer up one final, brief prayer.  In this case, she had time for quite a bit of praying before the Cruiser and van finished sliding across the wet grass, but all the came out were a handful of expletives she had not realised she knew.  Neville chastised her for her language, several times, before the police arrived.

She smiled, just a little, and clutched her handbag tightly to her aching ribs.  It contained something that she had never before owned; a card that gave her access to their bank account – his account. 

Neville had agreed to provide her with one just before their departure, swayed by her vivid evocation of what might happen to him if he suffered a medical emergency in some far outback place, and she was unable to access the finances they might need for the provision of quality care.

She smiled again.  Taree would have the right brand of bank, and an airport, or a train station.  It might take days before Neville realised that she was gone, and weeks more for him to believe it.