Entente Cordial: NOT

Entente Cordial: NOT(Veronica Sims) Entente Cordial: NOT
by Veronica Sims


I waited for the AA to turn up. The call center had estimated about thirty minutes; said I would get a call when the mechanic was about five minutes away. I hoped it wouldn't be longer. The afternoon had already been tedious enough without sitting in a car park for hours.
Naturally, as soon as Nanu had seen the flat tire she’d started to complain.

‘Oh this will spoil our plans so much. I am only here for the day; I need to see the Sarsen Stones at Fyfield,’ etcetera, etcetera. Complaints had continued in the background as white noise while I tried to get through to the AA on my mobile. Ryan just looked embarrassed; I supposed because he couldn't take over and change the tire; not his bag, anything practical. I could tell his machismo had taken a hit. I had tried but I couldn’t move the nuts on the wheel.

Having established that help would arrive, I put my phone away, turned to Nanu and said: ‘Why don’t you and Ryan go ahead? I’ll wait here for the mechanic, they said thirty minutes max. It shouldn't take long to change the tire and then I’ll walk up and join you on the Ridgeway: at the gate to where you go through to Fyfield. Ryan knows where it is. You have a look around at the stones and I’ll wait for you by the information board. Then we can do the rest of the walk together.’
Nanu’s expression changed from sulk to beaming smile: ‘Oh you are so kind, dear Millie.’ She then turned her charms onto Ryan. ‘You are happy to look after me on the moor?’ Ryan blushed. ‘Oh please!’ I thought to myself; half irritated with Ryan for being taken in.

Off they went, while I sat in the car half listening to some rather appropriate Wagner on Radio Three. I felt relieved to have a break from Nanu’s continual blathering (my grandfather’s word, but apt). Truth was I would have actually preferred to be back at home; I needed to finish my packing for uni. This excursion was all my wretched stepmother’s idea of course; the woman had a built-in instinct for messing up my plans. She’d even backed up today’s rubbish scheme by letting me borrow her new BMW for the day; that had never happened before. It helped a bit; I’d been dying to drive it for weeks. But Nanu was Deborah’s guest, not mine: some obscure relative’s daughter from France.

True, Nanu was studying archaeology, or so she said; though I found it hard to imagine her kneeling in the mud scraping away at the ground with a trowel. Still, wanting to see the Sarsen Stones was sort of logical under the circumstances I suppose. However it was too much of a yawn to investigate further, I really wasn't interested in the French girl’s motives. Apparently Nanu was ‘very chic’, or so my stepmother kept telling anyone who would listen. I felt mildly aware of the emphasis on ‘chic’. I knew Deborah didn't think I possessed that quality. ‘Whatever!’ My academic achievements were lost on my stepmother. And why Dad had married this airhead when he had been so devastated by the death of Mum I’d never quite worked out. He had gone for a complete contrast to Mum that was for sure. I just longed for the day to arrive when I could escape to college. Not long now. Bliss!

Still I smiled to myself at the outrageous flirting Nanu had subjected Ryan to ever since the journey had started. During the ride to Ave bury this morning she’d kept leaning over the seat and talking to Ryan in the back; every now and again sneaking a quick glance toward me. I soon realized the little idiot was trying to make me jealous, very silly of her, Ryan was my friend, not my boy friend; never in a million years. He’d been included because I’d not been able to endure the thought of wasting a day with Nanu by herself. I hadn't needed to beg him though, he’d been delighted by the idea of spending time with a mademoiselle Françoise.

The AA arrived and the tire was fixed. I locked the car and started up hill to the Ridgeway. Striding out past the last of Avebury’s own circle of stones I took a deep breathe, the day was perfect for a walk. The sun shone gently and caressed my face and bare arms. Tiny clouds, teased along by a south westerly wind drifted overhead. The grass verges along the byway still sparkled with a few bright summer flowers and chattering goldfinches raced along the hedges. I felt fortunate to be enjoying it alone.

On reaching the crossways I sat down on a grassy bank and took out my mobile to send the others a text. Then I relaxed and allowed myself time to indulge in thinking about the following week when I would be off to Exeter and my new life as a university student. A sudden breath of cool wind chilled me and dragged me out of my comfortable reverie. I began to wonder, with a speck of irritation, why Ryan hadn’t yet replied to my text.

‘Perhaps there’s no signal,’ I thought. Looking down the drive to the start of the Ridgeway at Overton Hill I noticed there were people camping there: two camper vans, a tent and one tethered pony. On the other side of the path were several tumuli; but no sign of my companions. Consulting my watch I thought surely they’d had enough of gazing at stones and sheep on the moor by now: it was six thirty.

I turned to glance along the path back to Avebury and noticed the weather was changing: a black rain cloud was being blown along by the freshening south westerly breeze. There looked to be a strong chance of rain very soon. I felt annoyed, hadn’t the others noticed the weather deteriorating? Pulling my mobile from my pocket again I prodded at the keypad:
‘Ryan can’t you see the clouds? Get a move on.’

Then I began to realize, as I started to shiver, there wouldn’t be time now to finish the circular walk of the original plan; the car park closed at eight. I began to pace up and down in an effort to keep warm; the breeze had become a wind. The rain started. Looking at my watch again I saw it was now nearly seven. I felt my jaw tighten with increasing anxiety. If they wouldn’t or couldn’t answer my texts how could I leave them a message? I looked about me but felt certain that neither of them would take in signs on the ground made with twigs or any such boy scoutish contrivance. The metal information board seemed the only thing they might notice; slim chance but...
Using one of the spare looking keys on the bunch holding the car key I scratched a message:
Nanu/Ryan: I waited until 7pm. I’m going back to the car park now. CU Millie

I felt guilty about the damage to the notice board: vandalism wasn't usually my thing. Yet half of my mind wondered if I should go out on the moor to look for them. Common sense told me I needed to get back to the car before it became barricaded in; if I didn't get the wretched thing out we’d be stuck until morning or have to get a taxi. Anyway dear Deborah would be worried about her flash motor and probably insist we (or probably, just I) stayed in the car park to guard it. I didn't fancy that somehow.

The weather had continued to worsen: it was seriously raining and I was already soaked through. I tried my phone again but it was also wet and the screen had gone black. Great! The ruts in the path were filling with water and I cursed the farmers and four by four idiots who had spun their wheels and gouged out the path. The swearing made me feel a bit better but it was almost impossible to hold a straight line; I first tried walking on the grassy bank and then in the middle of the trail where sometimes a high piece of track survived. Just to keep my balance I needed to concentrate hard. The rain continued to fall down in sheets; I could barely make out the hedges on either side of the road. Any progress became a battle and all the irritations of unreliable companions, stupid stepmothers, and water logged mobiles faded; my effort focused on the now, the living minute. I felt exhilarated. The grass and mud smelt clean and washed, my skin tingled with the sharp pulsing of the fierce raindrops on my face and arms.

The high did not last long though and soon the damp cold penetrated my bones and I returned to stomping implacably forward; my boots inexorably filling with muddy water.

Then, of course, I slipped. My ankle twisted and I fell in a heap into a pool of ooze. The pain I now felt vanquished all my previous discomforts and this time a stream of even more colorful expletives didn't alleviate the agony. Eventually I managed to haul myself out of the sludge and onto the grassy bank. I looked around for something I could hang onto to pull myself upright; a near-by fence post seemed a possibility. Slowly I heaved my body over the grass and clinging onto the wooden upright I managed to drag myself erect: I stood, wobbling, on my good leg. I tried touching the ground with the injured foot but the pain made me cry out again. How was I going to walk? I could have wept but I bit my lip instead.

The noise of a motor broke through the sound of wind and driving rain. I looked back up the hill and saw an ancient Land Rover picking its way down the drove. It stopped as it drew level. The window wound down.
‘Problems?’
‘I think I might have broken my ankle.’ The door opened and a middle aged man in high vis. jacket and substantial wellies got out. He walked over to where I clung to the fence post. He looked down at my leg which was already showing signs of swelling. Bending down he untied the laces on the boot and gently removed it.
‘You’d better come with me girl. You won’t get far by yourself on that.’ I felt a flush of relief.
‘I’m not sure I can even walk to your car,’ I said.
‘Don’t even try. Come on, put your arms around my neck and I’ll carry you.’ He leaned forward. I suffered a moment of embarrassment as my face pressed into soaked Barbour jacket. Easily lifting me clear of the ground he carried me over to the vehicle, set me down to lean against the side of the pick-up, while he opened the door, then lifted me in. We started off down the road.
‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘I thought I might just have died there.’ It was no exaggeration: it had occurred to me I might die of exposure if I’d been forced to stay there all night.

The man turned and looked at her: ‘perhaps I should take you straight to a doctor in Marlborough.’
‘Oh no! I have to get the car out of the National Trust car park in the village before it’s locked ...and I've lost my friends...’ At this point it became too much for me and I began to cry. With a great effort of will I stopped. ‘Sorry,’ I said wiping the tears away with the back of my hand.
The man looked a little embarrassed: ‘Ah well, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll take you to home instead, and my wife, she’s a nurse, will take care of you. You give me your keys and my son and I will go for the car. Then I can decide what to do about your friends. My wife can decide about a doctor.’

It was a plan and I couldn’t think of a better one. What sweet relief for someone else to be making the decisions! I knew there was no use trying to contact either my father or Deborah: he never turned on his mobile when he was writing and she didn't when she was shopping. Anyway there was little chance she would know what to do: except panic.

The farm entrance was only another two hundred meters down the track. The farmer stopped the Land Rover as near to the front door of the house as possible and went in to get his wife and son. I gave up trying to help myself and allowed them to manoeuvre me out of the Land Rover and into the house. I handed over the car keys explaining what sort of car to look out for. My rescuer and his son disappeared and I was left with the farmer’s wife.

‘It's dry clothes and a cold compress I think,’ the woman said, eyeing the football that used to be my ankle. ‘I don’t think its broken but you have a nasty sprain and sometimes they swell much more than a break; and hurt more.’ She helped me out of my clothes and gave me an ancient but warm dressing gown to wear, taking the filthy jeans and tee shirt away; soon after I heard a washing machine start. The woman came back with a bag of ice which she wrapped around the swollen ankle; then disappeared again. The pain began to retreat and I started to feel comfortable enough to begin worrying about Nanu and Ryan again.

The farmer’s wife returned once more with tea, biscuits and a couple of paracetamol. ‘How’s it feeling now?’ she asked. ‘I’m Jean by the way.’ She placed the tray on the coffee table and sat down beside me on the sofa.
‘Masses better. Just a dull ache; thanks for your help. I’m Millie.’
‘No problem, glad to help. What were you supposed to be doing, rather than spraining your ankle?’ I started to explain about the original idea of a circular walk which would include the sarsen stones. And then, for some reason, went on to say how I hadn’t really wanted to waste the day as I still had to pack for uni.
‘That’s what we've been doing today,’ said Jean. ‘Joss is off next week too. I can understand why you didn't want to be side-tracked.’ I decided I liked this woman.
The tea, biscuits and sympathy soothed both my physical and emotional discomfort and I began to feel, in this stranger’s home, more peace than I’d ever experienced at the, so-called, family house in Marlborough.

The noise of cars arriving in the yard made us both look up and for me all the irritations of the day returned to unsettle me.
Ryan came into the room looking suitably contrite. But I didn't feel very forgiving, despite the relief at seeing him.
‘Why didn't you answer your mobile?’
‘Er I turned it off. Nanu said it would distract from the spirit of the place.’
‘The spirit of the place! And what about me? I waited for ages.’
‘Well when we finished at the sarsens you weren't there.’
‘You couldn’t have been with the precious sarsens for long. And anyway why didn't you phone me then?’
‘No signal.’ Ryan had the grace to look rather stricken when he said this. I wasn't convinced of the truth of this reply.
‘Then what?’
‘Nanu thought we should go on and finish the walk as it was obvious you were held up with the car.’ I stared at him.
‘And I thought you were my friend,’ I said sadly. At this point Nanu burst into the room. I assumed Nanu had waited outside while Ryan endured any metaphorical beating I might have dished out. So mademoiselle did feel a tiny bit of guilt...perhaps?
‘Ma Cherie how is your ankle. Joss (Oh! already she knows the farmer’s son’s name I thought) told me it might be broken.’
‘We think not, now.’ I replied.

The others came in.
‘Look we have been discussing what to do,’ announced the farmer. ‘I’d better drive your car as Joss hasn't had his license that long and driving a BMW might go to his head.’ His son smiled and I thought to myself, of course he could drive it, he has probably been driving huge combines for years. I suspected the farmer was keen on giving it a ‘test drive’ himself. ‘Millie you and your friend here can come with me and you, Ryan, isn't it, can go with Joss to show him the way. It seemed to me this arrangement might have been carefully worked out to keep Joss and Ryan away from the attentions of Nanu: but perhaps that is harsh... Meanwhile the French girl pouted.

Jean settled me in the front passenger seat of the car as Nanu flounced into the back. Ryan jumped up beside Joss in the Land Rover. And feeling a bit spiteful I noticed, with a little smile, that the light colored, luxurious carpets under my feet were now covered with mud. I even hoped it was the same in the back. Perhaps my step mother would think twice before ruining my plans another time...

End