Diary of a bad housewife

Diary of a bad housewife chapter 21

Chapter 21

We needed to rent a car at one end of BritRail or the other, so at Gatwick, Colin rented a Peugeot from Europcar and loaded the luggage as I glanced around. He mapped out an itinerary up the M1 connecting with the A1.

Although I slept well on the plane, Colin had barely napped but he was pumped with determination. It was a new day, but overcast. For some inexplicable reason, I felt depressed as the car headed north from Gatwick. Maybe the persistent grey of the climate precipitated my dysphoria, but more likely it was my own gathering storms roiling inside me.

After a couple of hours on the road, Colin pointed off to the left. "There's Sherwood Forest."

I craned my neck, searching in vain for trees. The landscape appeared saturated with housing tracts and industry. Glass and steel buildings looked more or less expected in the U.S. and Asia, but to me, they appeared out of place in Europe and the British Isles. That saddened me and my mood darkened. Perhaps it was the persistent drizzle, maybe it was my approaching period, but I began to feel overpowered by a sense that innocent matters important to children and idealists were falling behind.

Colin switched over to the A1. I leaned back in the left seat and stared at oncoming traffic. A convoy of cars driving past wore black wedges covering the lower right segment of the headlamps, reminding me of cat's eyes. I remembered seeing filmstrips from World War II in which cars had the upper half of their headlights covered by tape on the theory that it gave German night bombers fewer visual cues to lock on to.

"Why do some of the cars have triangles over part of their lights?"

Colin glanced at the string of cars. "Oh, they're probably Europeans on tour. They'll be from France, Belgium, or somewhere on the continent where they drive on the right side of the road. Continental car lights dip to the right when dimmed. Since the British drive on the left, the dipped lights aim directly at oncoming traffic. Britain requires that segment of the lens to be obscured."

Colin's knowledge about the most obscure subjects never failed to surprise me, but the man didn't know a damned thing about women.

After two more hours of driving, Colin turned off major roads and came to a rotary. Spotting a pub sign, I started to say that I wanted stop for a lager but, frowning in concentration as he whipped the wheel, Colin shushed me.

"Bear with me, hon. We don't have far to go, but I have to concentrate through roundabouts since they're on the contrary side of the road for me."

I felt insulted and gritted my teeth.

Traffic thinned and tall trees thickened, larches and broad oaks. By now, we drove along secondary roads. Within a mile or two, the road width further shrank while the number of fields and meadows grew. We passed through villages with signs pointing onward to Chipping Cleghorn, Bronwyn Green, St. Mary's Mead, and Little Storping, towns in picturesque miniature where both roofs and streets seemed to be of tile and cobblestone.

Colin pointed to a roadside attraction sign that bragged, The World's Smallest Mountain. "So someone made a mountain out of a molehill," he said.

I grunted acidic annoyance at his dorky humor and continued to ignore him. Three weeks from now I'd be rid of him.

He pulled onto a narrower way, the roadside lined with posters for bait shops, camp sites, and brands of tobacco no one ever heard of. One placard read Walking Supplies, which puzzled me until we passed a man with a knapsack, staff and heavy shoes, oddly dressed in a long sleeve shirt and short pants. Ah yes, I supposed 'walking' was the British equivalent of hiking.

By now, we were still driving on asphalt but adorned neither with kerb nor painted centre line. Trees closed over us, forming a canopy that must look cool and lovely in midsummer, but presently darkened like a tunnel into dimmed centuries past.

The country road dead-ended in front of an iron gate framed by a massive stone arch. Age badly eroded lettering in the stone, but it appeared to say St. Hillis Academy of something. A discreet brass plaque set into the stonework read, The Ponds Retreat, Glenchester Close Institute.

Colin pulled to a stop before the gates and waited.