The Drive

“This is ridiculous!” Frank hit the steering wheel with his palm. “Next right, you can’t miss it, he said. He didn’t say how long I’d have to drive to find it.” 

To his right were miles of fields. Deep furrows scarred some, while bright yellow flowers filled the rest. They rolled off into the distance like a poorly executed chessboard posing as a still of a rough sea.

The car juddered, so Frank knocked down the gear. At least he had plenty to do on the drive. The gear changes alone were a full time job. It helped focus his mind, too. Stop it wandering into the past, dredging up old, forgotten memories. He changed back up to fourth. The road looked straight for a while. He may even have time to sip his coffee. Before he could reach for his cup, the road broke sharply to the right. Coffee would have to wait.

“I hate country roads. Bends on hills must be the worst design choice in history.”

Some melancholy pop song blared from the tinny speakers by his knee. It was not a particularly good one, but Frank tapped out a rhythm on the gear knob with his forefinger. It took his mind off being lost, at least.

“Am I technically classed as lost if I’ve been on one road for ten miles, Benson?” There was no reply. Nor should there have been, cars could not speak. Even if they could, Benson would still be mad after the whack on the steering wheel earlier, so would probably ignore him, anyway.

The road wound on. Gentle, swaying corners rocked them from left to right. Coupled with the slow music, the journey was almost relaxing now. Frank had almost accepted the fact that right turns no longer existed. His calmness would soon change when he got nearer to the Red Penguin Inn, he knew, but for now he would enjoy the tranquility.

He had not seen his son, Nick, for so long. Twenty-two or twenty-three years, it might even be as much as twenty-five. It was hard to tell. A lot of life has happened since then. A great deal of which Frank was glad to have left on the therapist’s couch. 

He remembered Nick, though. There was no chance of forgetting the look on his face as his mum wrenched him away. She thought she won something by taking Nick away. Now Nick had grown and realised the truth, Frank would have his son back, hopefully. A small voice at the back of Frank’s mind whispered ideas of trickery and his nerves bubbled at the thought. An announcement from the radio DJ jolted him from his thoughts.

“Not again,” said Frank. “Once is fine, Mr DJ. Twice I can handle at a push. But I’m not listening to ‘Please, Like Me, Please’ for the third time on one journey.”

Frank reached for the stereo’s off button. Fumbling for it blind, as he dared not take his eyes off the winding road. Especially now they dropped away so steeply on the right side. He hit the off switch and sat back straight. He saw the pothole too late.

The front wheel hit the dip and the takeaway coffee broke free of its holder. It spilled onto the passenger seat. Onto the pack of old photos that Frank had brought along as a way of breaking the ice if it got awkward. As Frank looked at the mess, Benson swerved into the oncoming lane. Frank gripped the wheel with both hands and wrestled it back to the left. Had he been going faster, he might have dropped off the edge, although, not far, one of the stout trees would surely catch him.

Frank pulled off the road. “Damn it. It took me ages to sort through these.” He picked up the dripping packet. “Ruined, I bet.”

Frank opened the glove box and reached for the pack of wet wipes. He found it hard to believe that he survived, pre Nick, without them. Hardly a day went by now without needing one. He dabbed at the packet with little success, so he pulled the photos out and tossed the paper packet into the passenger footwell. The top one was a little smudged, but he was pleased to see the unmarked smiling baby pictures underneath as he thumbed through the rest. He placed them in the glove box with the wipes and clicked it closed before stepping out to check for damage.

He barely had his feet on the floor when the car rolled forward. Frank stumbled over his feet, almost falling on his face, but he recovered and dived back into the car. “Handbrake, Frank.”

After pulling up the brake as much as he dared, he got back out. He rubbed his hand over the wheel, then wiped his brow in relief, leaving a black smudge above his right eye. “Seems like you got lucky, Benson. No tire damage at least,” he said, patting Benson on the arch.

Frank leant back and screamed at the sky. A lone pigeon flew from a branch, sprinkling feathers and small twigs onto the road. Frank watched as it navigated the sloping wood and out over the chequered-ish fields. He sighed. “Oh, to be a bird.”

He got back into Benson and turned the key. The familiar roar of the engine filled his ears as they took off down the road, ticking another mile off the speedometer. Another thing to hate about country roads, they ate up more miles than they should.

“No way. Could it be?” Frank slowed. “Benson, we have a right turn.”

It was definitely a right turn, but it looked more like a dirt driveway than a route back to the main road. He followed it anyway. The dusty track led him to an old house overrun with flora. Nettles sprouted from the windows and a young silver birch was trying out living in the gutter. He barely even slowed as he spun Benson round in the drive and headed back out.

“Nope. I’ve seen how that ends.”

He did not have to drive much further to find the actual right turn, it was mere yards from the dirt driveway and, before long, Frank and Benson were back on course. Frank stayed in the slow lane, enjoying the straight, wide road. Straight, wide roads were good roads. 

They pulled into The Red Penguin Inn’s car park and were met by a grinning face. Familiar, yet different. The years had walked over the young boy he knew, leaving its telltale footprints, but he recognised him instantly. His nerves disappeared and the doubting voice was silenced.

Nick hugged Frank and patted his shoulder. “Pleasant journey?”