The Almost Crash

‘Ah, for feck sake.’ Greta muttered to herself as her mobile played the melodious sound of a harp, ‘What does she want now?’

She put down the wooden spoon she was using to taste the pasta sauce on the cooker.

           The name of her aunt Noreen appeared on the screen that was propped against the back window pane. The red phone symbol jumped, demanding to be answered.

From behind her a screech of rubber of the old tiled floor made her turn her head.

“Mom, Toby won’t let me have my turn on the iPad. He’s had it all afternoon.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t all afternoon.” She said, turning to look at her young red-haired son, fixing a smile on her face.

“He won’t give it to me.” The boy stamped his foot, leaving a black skid mark on the cream tiles.

“Go ask your father can you have a loan of his laptop.”

“He’s watching the match on it.” The boy pussed.

Greta let out a long breath.

The buzz of the mobile vibrated in her hand letting her know her Aunt still wanted her attention.

“Look, I have to speak to old Aunty Nono, love. Why don’t you go out and play in the garden? That’s what I did when I was your age.”

A scowl wrinkled the cherub face. Greta turned and walked out into the back garden herself. She would have to get another iPad for him or she would get no peace.

“Ah, Aunty Noreen. How are you?” Greta’s voice sang lightly as if she was glad to talk to her.

The voice on the other end reeled off a long list of complaints, with the chief one being that she had dropped her glasses and kicked them under the sofa and needed them to watch The Show Today with Dave and Monica, which was on soon. Greta let out a quiet breath before agreeing to come straight over.

‘Why doesn’t she get one of those string thingys to keep them around her bloody neck,’ she muttered as she got into her husband’s car and bombed off along the gravel drive to the cross roads.

The radio droned some news report with some politician blah-blahing about the cost of living crisis. 

“Oh, will they ever just shut up,” Greta said, leaning over to turn the radio to another channel.

Suddenly it was there in front of her. A huge blue tractor, with one of those new-fangled muck-spreaders on the back. Her nails dug into the hard rubber of the steering wheel but somehow she sped across the road in front of it. The radio blared, a cacophony of static and half heard music.  A horn blew at her over the sounds. She was going to die. The impact would come any second, she knew it, and her body would be rammed.

The tractor was so close she could see the long tubes like dirty octopus tentacles, scrape along her side window. She gripped the steering wheel until it hurt, turning it away. Her eyes darted to the side. Now the ditch was too close. She was sandwiched between it and the huge tractor and spreader. Blackthorn branches screeched along the car, scratching at it. She was going to get squashed against the ditch. The door was going to be ripped off and her arm torn off. What would happen to the kids? Who would make their lunches and wash their sticky faces? What if she died? Would Mick remarry? She winced in expectation of the coming pain.

Then, somehow, she was driving on down the road. She slowed, looking back in the rear view mirror. Her heart thumped in her chest like a gorilla on drums. Surely the man would stop the tractor and give her a right bollocking. But there was the tractor driving off around the bend.

Greta drove to the nearest gate and pulled in the car. She sat there staring ahead for a moment. The stench of cattle manure splattered along her door greeted her when she got out. Shakily she walked around the car. No dents on the manure splattered side. Maybe she got away with it. No. There was a bulge on the passenger side with the headlight glass broken over the indicator. Mick, her husband, was going give out stán over it. Tears welled and spilled in shaky sobs. She leaned a hand against the side of the car to try to steady herself. After a few moments she wiped her runny nose on the back of her sleeve.

From somewhere in the car harps sounded, as if God was calling from heaven. She ducked inside and grabbed for her phone from the ground on the passenger side. Noreen’s name appeared with the red phone symbol bouncing away for itself. Stabbing at it, she stabbing at it again and again with sweaty hands until she could answer it.

“Ah, will you, feck off!” she blurted out.

“What?” a stunned voice said from the other side.

Greta held the phone away from her like a bomb about to blow. Quickly she swiped at it, silencing it. For breathless seconds she stared at the screen, expecting a call back. Excuses ran through her mind. Should she ring her and pretend she thought it was someone else or apologise profusely or maybe drop into Gould’s shop and pick up one of those lemon drizzle cakes she liked as an apology. The seconds stretched into minutes. Why should she? The old bag expected everyone to come running to her to fix the slightest thing. And there was no thanks in her for it either. It didn’t matter if you had to leave work or your family she needed you and that was that.

Then Greta sat into the car, did a careful U-turn and turned for home. The car could be fixed. She was still alive. The kids needed feeding. And Aunt Noreen could bend over and find her own bloody glasses.