The Journey

© Tony Holkham 1971

The sun beat hard on Paul's head as he strode through the market towards the car park. The market place was almost deserted and the tradesmen were already beginning to dismantle their stalls. It was five o'clock, as the church bell had just previously indicated, in the afternoon of a beautiful September day.

Paul's face bore an expression of intense relief. Any onlooker might have imagined him to be thinking - Good God, what a day - and, of so, they would have been perfectly right. Though, in truth, no one looked at Paul, let alone his face, as they were all too busy rushing to get home to mow the lawn, or some other such thing with which to take advantage of the weather. Paul's thoughts were deeper than those which could be seen in his expression, however, his thoughts were five hours and nearly two hundred miles away.

He walked quickly through the lines of cars, their many colours flashing in the sun like a psychedelic painting, stopped abruptly and inserted a key into the door lock of a small, grey saloon. The door squeaked as he opened it and he sat down in the driver's seat. He was on his feet instantly, stung in a sensitive place by the heat of the seat, which had been in the sunshine nearly all day. He looked around him, a little embarrassed, and then sat down again, slowly and carefully. Paul laid his jacket, which he had not worn all day, across the green suitcase on the back seat, tucking the sleeves down the back of the case so that it would not slip on to the floor. He took the cigarettes and matches out of his trouser pocket and placed them on the dashboard shelf.

These actions had taken but a few seconds, and Paul was now ready to go. The ignition and oil lights glowed for a moment, until he pulled the starter, when the engine roared to life and then settled down to the chuckling rhythm which always made Paul feel more contented than any other sound he had ever heard. Apart from the Moonlight Sonata, of course, but that was not a sound, anyway, it was an experience.

Many and various thoughts occupied Paul's mind as he and the little Austin picked their way with practised ease out of the town and into the open countryside. The relief was still on Paul's face as they 'chugged' up the hill to the junction where he was to turn left to Farnham. This was the point where one life ended temporarily and another, a much better one, began, for when he normally went home from work, he would take the right fork. He was a little tired, he realised, but not too much so. Not physically tired, but the sort of tiredness one feels after a hectic day. He resolved, as he always did on Fridays, to forget the bank, and as he sped along the Farnham road his thoughts were running wild about the sun, the traffic, the car and tomorrow. Tomorrow; Paul laughed quietly to himself at the thought.

Once through Farnham, the villages and towns seemed to Paul to fly past at an incredible rate - Fleet, Eversley Green, Reading, Pangbourne, Wallingford - he hardly noticed them. Before long the Oxford by-pass road signs loomed ahead. Paul sat up straight in his seat and put his foot down to the floor. The little car leapt forward and soon was hurtling like a grey bullet at the fantastic speed of seventy miles an hour. She kept the pace up for some fifteen minutes, slowing only when roundabouts impeded the dual-carriageway. She knew the way, or seemed to, so Paul relaxed a little once he had negotiated the last roundabout, and the car pointed her grey, squat nose in the direction of Woodstock.

The air was cooling as half-past seven drew near, and Woodstock and the gates to Blenheim Palace appeared out of the haze of the A34. The traffic was thinning out now and Paul was able to maintain a steady sixty miles an hour on the winding road. The signs whipped by - "Stratford, 20", "10", "5". The advancing of the evening was becoming evident now as the moon had just climbed over the hill behind him. Paul turned the car into a lay-by just outside Stratford and both he and the engine heaved a deep sigh of relief. He got out and stretched his legs, then refreshed himself with his usual travelling meal - a cup of coffee from a pint flask, and a banana. He dug into his jacket for a fresh packet of cigarettes. He had smoked ten in the last three hours, but, he thought, no matter - it helped him to keep awake.

The car came to life again after its short rest, Paul patted the steering wheel out of friendliness and to encourage his grey friend and soon they were through Stratford, with its river awash with swans and coloured lights, and were doing sixty again, flashing the lights as he overtook the occasional lorry going home for the weekend. Alcester, Redditch, and Bromsgrove, with its long main street, all passed by almost unnoticed, and, as he topped the hill a few miles further on, Paul could see the sun disappearing in a blaze of crimson behind Kidderminster.

Once the sun had gone from view, it became dark quite suddenly, and Paul had to concentrate to find the little fish and chip shop at which he always called. He found it and bought sixpence worth of chips. Half a mile further on he stopped outside a telephone box and a milk machine, which stood, side by side. He drank a cartonful of milk, two cups of coffee, ate his chips, made a phone call and paid a quick visit to the garage across the road. Once on the road again, refreshed and happy after the 'phone call and the sustenance, he switched on the radio and tuned in quietly to Radio Luxembourg. He suddenly felt drowsy. I'm tired, he thought. I'm thinking too much about tomorrow; let's get today over with first. Bridgenorth came and went, as did Shrewsbury, with its string of roundabouts and three-lane roads, which were not unlike the Oxford by-pass in places.

Once on the A5, the little car picked up speed and was soon making over seventy miles an hour on the straight stretches. Soon there would be a radiant, expectant face pressing against the window, watching for the lights coming up the lane.

Soon there was. At half past ten a face was at the window, watching and waiting. Her mother was listening to a concert. The music stopped and the announcer's voice droned on for a while, meaningless at first, but gradually piercing the wall of her drowsy contentment. She had been thinking that, if he hurried, he would hear the last movement - something to relax him after the journey… the monotonous voice continued… What did he say! Northbound lane… will anyone who saw the accident contact Shropshire County Police… asleep at the wheel.

Someone turned the radio off. The dress on the bed, the veil and the shoes on the sofa seemed all at once to lose their identity. The silence broke several minutes later when complete realisation flooded in, soft crying, hopeless and helpless, filled the room and salty tears dropped on to the neatly-wrapped presents. Tears that led to hysteria and utter madness.

A trembling hand turned off the radio, and removed the ignition key from the dashboard of the mangled wreck. The front wheel stopped spinning with a final agonised squeal, and the lights glared like angry eyes at the starlit sky. How could you be so cruel to me, they seemed to say. The ticking of the engine of the car that had stopped sounded like crying in the still night, crying for the dead car, and the man who was now making his last and longest journey.

Paul walked, a little unsteadily with shock, away from the blue, twisted Mercedes, and back to his own car and started the engine. He drove carefully round the remains of the other car and off into the night. How young he was, he thought.

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