THE UNIVERSE HAS ITS WAY

Sometimes, the universe can be obdurate. It will insist upon having its own way.

Marathons tend to complicate getting around the city, so my little sister and I agree that escaping a soon-to-be gridlocked Southampton to drive up and visit Gran two hundred miles away is the ideal way to start her five-day summer vacation with me. We were both born and grew up in France, and as she still lives there with our parents, she hasn’t seen Gran for four years now. I left home to come and study at university and have stayed here in the U.K. ever since.

We’re up at the crack of dawn to be on our way before any chaos can begin. It’s roughly a two-hour drive to Gran’s place near Bristol, so I reckon we’ll easily be there in plenty of time for lunch. Whenever I visit her, we always eat at her favourite Italian restaurant, Luciano’s. Jayne adores sea-food too, and jumps at the chance to try the place out, at last. I’m always raving about it to her. 

However, a recorded message informs us that they are closed on Sundays, so with a table duly reserved for the three of us at midday at the second-best option, The Traveller’s Inn, off we set, windows down and Ed Sheeran blasting forth. 

We’ve barely finished singing at the tops of our voices to his second track when my GPS App flashes up a sudden warning about a traffic jam ahead, the cause of which, is not yet known.

I let out a groan. “Oh no, it’ll no doubt be an accident. That’s a really awful stretch of road, around there.” 

As we continue, the colour predicting the congestion ahead merges from orange into red. 

“Hmm, looks like it might be a bad one,” Jayne points out with a grimace. “If it’s showing up like that already, it’s only gonna get worse, don’t you think? Is there another route we can take?”

We pull over at the next layby to check the App for an alternative route. It suggests taking us through the centre of Salisbury, which I normally tend to avoid like the plague. Traffic can be horrendous and there are hundreds of massive roundabouts and traffic lights. I look dubious.

Jayne shoots me one of her deadpan stares and pulls out a coin to toss. My sister is a great believer in the ‘coin flip decision theory’. I, on the other hand, am not. However, I’m still wavering today, unsure which way to take.

“Well, if you can’t decide, let’s flip for it,” she says. “Heads, it’s the traffic jam; tails, we take the Salisbury route. What do you say?”

With a resigned sigh, I concede. “OK, go ahead, you win this time.”

She laughs and flips. “Tails it is.”

Decision made, we do a U turn and take the first left. It is Sunday, at least, I tell myself, and still very early, so traffic should be much quieter than usual.

Less than ten minutes into our diverted route and there’s a sudden strident beep, then a piercing red light illuminates the dashboard. What? This cannot be possible! It's less than a fortnight since I had my car serviced! We are hurtling along at top speed in the outside lane of four on a recently terminated smart motorway. Jayne glances from the flashing light to me and then back to the light.

She clears her throat. “Uhm, what’s that?” she asks.

I hear a rapid pounding in my ears and feel short of breath. We cannot stop; there’s no hard shoulder here! I ease back on the accelerator, but the deafening beeping and flashing lights continue. Sweat trickles down my spine and my sense of logic evaporates. Staring dead ahead, I grip the wheel with clammy hands and white knuckles. What the hell do we do? I am unable to think. My mind has turned to mush! 

The beeping quickens. 

“Shit! Get off the motorway. Now!” Jayne hisses. “Look, there’s an exit coming up. We’ve got to get off!”

“How can we?” I squeak. “We’re in the outside lane. We-we can’t.”

“Needs must, Sis,” she says. “Drive like a bloody Frenchie!” 

The red light is now showing constant and has been joined by a second angry light which is even more intense. It reads: 

‘STOP ENGINE NOW!’

“Do it, Sue!” she screams.

Taking a deep breath, I indicate and barge across three lanes of speeding traffic, ignoring a furious interminable blast on the horn from a disgruntled white van driver. Jayne squeezes her eyes shut and grips hold of the dashboard. Somehow, we make it safely onto the slip road, and I finally exhale. Jayne leans back into her seat, closes her eyes and swallows.

“Thanks,” I mumble as we pull up into a layby. “Oh my God, Jayne, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t think straight, back there.” 

I’m normally the practical one, but today my little sister has saved both our lives. I get the shakes and my knees tremble wildly as I contemplate the catastrophe that might have been, and very nearly was, back there. I feel like I’m about to faint. Retching, I fumble with the car door, but before I can manage to get the thing open, I manage to splatter the remains of my partly-digested breakfast all over my new blouse, the car door and the tarmac.

Whilst I’m attempting to tend to my rather smelly car door, I ask Jayne to give Dad a ring and explain our predicament. Dad’s my ever-faithful, first-stop ‘Go-To’ Car Mechanic. I swear, he and his patient step-by-step instructions have saved me from disaster time and time again in the past. Over the phone, he advises us to do absolutely nothing.

“Just sit down, calm down and wait… for at least ten minutes,” he insists. “And NO cheating!”

Then, and only then, he tells us to lift the bonnet and ease open the water cap very slowly, but above all, extremely carefully. 

Once the hissing and steaming have ceased, we empty an entire two-litre bottle of Evian into the tank. It doesn’t even touch the sides. Only when I start the engine, does Jayne spot a rapidly spreading puddle beneath the car.

With a groan, Dad tells us there’s nothing else to do but call the A.A. Rescue service. A cheerful receptionist informs us that they can be with us within thirty minutes. I glance at my watch and sigh. Time is getting on…

“Hey, c’mon, that’s not so bad,” Jayne grins. “If they can fix it, we’ll still be able to make it in time for lunch.”

But such is not to be. I’m informed that I need a new water pump, so reluctantly agree for the AA man to tow the car to the nearest Halfords spare parts store. It is Sunday though; my car will be laid up until Thursday at the very earliest.

A stroke of luck—if you can possibly call it that—means that we are only about a ten-minute walk away from the house of a friend of mine. After a cup of hot sweet tea, which my friend assures us will “calm our frazzled nerves”, and a visit to her bathroom for me to freshen up a touch, she’s more than happy to give us a lift back to my flat. 

There, we sink onto the sofa, heads in hands. Defeated. What are we to do? Jayne is holidaying with me for less than a week; we simply have to find a way, somehow! If the car isn’t ready until Thursday, it means we won’t make it. That’s the day she flies back to France. But Gran celebrates her 90^th birthday this year. It is important that we visit her today! 

Neither of us has much cash to throw around; Jayne has only just finished her studies and I’m still paying off the credit on this damned car. Nevertheless, we both agree we should bite the bullet and hire a car for the day. We’ll just have to worry about the finances another time.

It being Sunday makes organising things difficult. The only solution is to use a company at the airport, so we pre-book and pay for one online. Getting there might be the only issue. With this damn marathon about to begin, the majority of buses have been diverted or cancelled.

We hastily check a timetable and sprint hell for leather to the nearest bus stop, only to arrive as the bus closes its doors. Off it trundles on its merry little way and we’re left breathlessly swearing, gesticulating and waving wildly. What should normally then be a ten-minute wait for the next one stretches into forty seemingly everlasting minutes. When it does eventually show up, we jump on board and make our way upstairs to the top deck. This isn’t a bus route I have ever taken, but I reckon it should get us there. 

We settle down in the front seats and relax. Jayne is wide-eyed and as excited as a five-year-old. Having grown up in France, this is her first ever trip on a double-decker. 

“At least one cool thing is happening today,” she beams, sitting on the edge of her seat and peering out of the window as we brush through leafy branches of tall trees lining the road. 

After half an hour or so, I begin to feel mildly concerned, as we are still meandering through suburban housing estates and leafy green avenues. We are the only passengers left on board when the bus eventually grinds to a halt and the engine stops.

“Everybody off,” drones the driver through a microphone. “Terminus.”

Jayne and I exchange bewildered looks in the ensuing silence. We gather our belongings and creep downstairs.

“Uhm, excuse me,” I venture timidly. “Doesn’t this bus take us to the airport?” 

“Ah no, not today, it doesn’t, love, sorry. Not with this marathon on,” the driver says. “You’ll be wanting the corresponding bus. There’s a stop about a hundred yards up the road there. The Number Four B. That’ll get you to the airport.” He points a finger in the general direction without glancing up from his paperwork.

Time passes us by as we await the next bus. This is just not funny. 

My phone rings. It’s the car rental company, telling us the car we reserved online is actually unavailable today.

“Seriously?” Jayne whispers. “WTF is going on here?” 

The only reason we chose that particular company was to have a car today: Sunday. There are plenty of companies offering cheaper options for during the week nearer where I live. I request a refund.

“You’ll have to cancel online,” the lady chirps. 

When we try to do that, the option is not there… which seems about par for the course today. After unsuccessfully trying to call her back, we attempt to stop the payment at the bank, which we cannot do as the transaction shows up as ‘pending’. Jayne looks close to tears. 

We eventually find a contact number on the rental company website which directs us to a call centre in India, where, to our immense relief, a cheerful sing-song voice tells us she has managed to cancel the car and will refund us. The two of us breathe simultaneous sighs of relief!

One thing is certain, however. We’ll have to cancel our trip to Gran’s for today. 

Trudging wearily back to the bus terminus to return home, we pass a mini-supermarket and Jayne catches my eye. No words needed; we’re on the same wavelength. 

Armed with a bottle of prosecco, we make it home and ruminate upon the inexplicable ways of the universe. It seems that some things are just not meant to be. When we call Gran to break the news about our disastrous failure to get to her, she tells us cheerfully not to worry and that Luciano’s is open on Mondays. 

“Ooh yes! Now you’re talking,” I grin, raising my glass to my sister’s. “Three servings of their deliciously spicy Spaghetti Vongole, here we come. Now, let your holiday begin.” 

“Yeah, think positive.” Jayne adds with a wink.  “Tomorrow's another day.” 

 Sometimes, you have simply just got to let the universe have its own way.”