‘ DIRECTIONS’
BY
JEAN MALLENDER

 

He decided to leave the car on the drive. She might want to look. It took up more space than the old one. I’ll have to get the gardener to trim that bush, he thought. Can’t get scratches on the paintwork. He stood admiring it as the neighbour peered over the fence.

‘Evening Jack,’ said the neighbour. ‘I like your new car. Been promoted?’

‘No, that comes next. It’s a different company car that’s all.’ If he got that promotion, they’d have a bigger house too, if Elspeth had anything to do with it. Jack nodded vaguely, pushed the front door open, and went inside.

‘I’m home!’ he shouted as he strode into the lounge, towards the whisky. He could hear his wife’s shrill voice, but she didn’t come in.

‘Do you have to bang the door like that, and why didn’t you say you’d be late? I could have popped in to see mother.’ He shrugged as he went into the kitchen.

‘Now I’ll have to go after dinner, you know how she relies on me,’ she said.

‘Can’t think why,’ muttered Jack. ‘It’s not as if she’s either alone or helpless.’

‘What was that? Do stop muttering.’ Elspeth could be heard flouncing upstairs.

Jack took two packets from the freezer, shoved them in the oven, and turned it on full.

‘Twenty minutes,’ he shouted.

‘And don’t shout, I can hear you,’ she said as she came into the kitchen.

He tried to smile. 'I've got the new car. Of course it’s a double upgrade. They might change their minds, but if I’m to get this promotion, it wouldn’t have been worth…are you listening?’ She was clattering plates as she laid the table.

‘What? Yes, I heard you.’

‘Do you want to look at it, I left it on…’

‘Later, later.’ It seemed to Jack that her voice had not only got higher, but also harsher with age - and so had her face. Everything about her seemed coarse, angular and pointed from her nose to her figure.

‘I’ve booked that holiday,’ she interrupted his thoughts.

‘What holiday?’

‘The one I told you about last week. George and Rosalind are going and Max and Samantha and of course mother and dad.’

‘Oh!’ He remembered. Two weeks in a log cabin on a golf course, and he would be the only one who didn’t play. He should have stopped the idea dead when she had first mentioned it. How was he managerial at work and wimpaterial at home? How had the gentle girl he’d married, turned into a sour faced, bossy shrew. Yes, shrew was good, right down to the nose again and the squeak. He mimicked her behind her back, nodding her head, closing her eyes and squeaking.

They ate in silence. She always cleared the dishes, because she said he couldn’t stack them in the dishwasher properly.

‘I’m off.’ She put on her coat. ‘Well! Show it to me then.’ She seemed to approve. The new car had leather-covered seats, like mother and father’s. She usually walked to her parents, who lived a few streets away, in the posher part of town.

‘I’ll have a lift,’ she said. So, the car was impressive enough to be displayed.

‘Right.’ It took him a moment to sort it. As Elspeth closed the door, a pleasant female voice said:

‘You can commence your journey. Please follow the arrow on the display.’

‘What’s that?’ Elspeth spun round.

‘The G.P.S.,’ he replied, ‘global positioning system – they’re standard in this model.’ Her eyes fastened on the bright blue display of the on-board computer.

‘Prepare to turn left in one hundred yards,’ said the disembodied voice.

‘Look, it’s got the name of our street on it.’ She was intrigued.

‘Now turn left,’ interrupted the computer.

‘And it knows where we are. Mother doesn’t have one of these.’

‘At the next roundabout, take the third exit on the left onto the B 531,’ came the gentle instructions. Elspeth was so impressed, she insisted he take her for a drive after she had ‘sorted mother’.

The evening sun was dipping low in the sky as they returned home. Golden light spread over them and the scent of elderflower wafted in through the open windows. Elspeth sank back and closed her eyes. The soft computer voice eased them along. He didn’t have to think – it was all done for him.

Elspeth sat up. ‘Is there a choice between male or female voice to direct you?’

‘Yes – you can even have it in French or German.’

‘Oh! Does it cover Europe?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’ It was a mistake to tell her that, Jack thought. She’d have him driving all over Europe. He’d be the lead car followed by all her cronies.

‘You have reached your destination,’ the computer cooed.

‘Jack, it’s waving two flags.’ They both laughed. She took the G.P.S. instructions into the house with her when she got out.

Jack found he enjoyed his drives to the office and to distant branches. He always programmed the route, before he set off. The contrast between Elspeth’s late, staccato commands when she was map reading, and the easy phrases delivered by the computer, was noticeable. He found he was talking to ‘the lady’. He must give ‘her’ a name.

‘Avis, Joan, Jacqueline…no they aren’t right. I need something more musical,’ he pondered. ‘Perdita, Amelia, Lara…that’s it.’ He was reminded of Doctor Zhivago. Now as he got in the car he would say, ‘Good morning Lara,’ or ‘I’m whacked Lara.’ She didn’t reply. She never got cross either - even if he went wrong.

‘Please make a u turn, if possible,’ sounded like a casual reminder coming from her.

‘All right darling, I’ll do just that,’ replied Jack. If it took longer, he didn’t care.

One morning he greeted Lara as usual.

‘You can commence your journey,’ said a modulated masculine voice.

‘Wah! Who are you?’

‘Please follow the road.’ It sounded like Richard Burton. Jack snapped it off and went back into the house. His wife had been in the car the night before.

‘Elspeth, come down at once. Did you meddle with the G. P.S.?’

‘ Speak up!’ she stood at the top of the stairs.

‘Did you interfere with the G.P.S., it’s gone wrong?'

‘ I changed the automatic diction to male. I don’t want some floozy bossing me about in traffic I…’

‘She’s not a floozy, she’s… O.K. how did you know what to do?

‘I read it up, stupid.’ Elspeth retreated. Jack picked up the instructions and went out.

The versions in German and French didn’t appeal to him. He’d stick with his Lara. Maybe she had Russian ancestors? As he drove along he wondered how old she was.

‘So, how old are you sweetheart?’ he asked. There was a crackle then:

‘Thirty …yards,’ said Lara

‘Thirty yards what?’ Jack was amused. He tried again. ‘How old are you?’

Back came the reply, ‘Thirty yards.’ Did she mean she was thirty?

‘Thirty Eh?’ He drove on. ‘You have a lovely voice - you’re the ideal mate - better than the wife any day. If only I could tell you…’ said Jack more to himself than anyone.

‘Please commence…’ said Lara.

He took to telling Lara all his troubles – chiefly ‘Elspeth’ and ‘work’. She offered caressing words of encouragement, with either, ‘Please follow’, ‘Right’, or ‘Now’. Hearing her gentle replies was a joy to him. He lay in bed at night, wondering what she might look like. Dark, he thought, petite, but nicely rounded…and he imagined her mellow tones lulling him to sleep.

The weeks went by, and he spent more and more time in the car, and less in the office. He slept in the car now, not a motel. ‘Sleepovers with Lara’, he called them. One morning, when he was in the office, the boss summoned him. It could only be one thing – his promotion - at last. He sat down, smiling. But what was the boss saying – work falling off, not attending to detail, rarely able to contact him? Five minutes later, cardboard box in hand, he was back clearing his desk. They’d have to ‘let him go’ the boss had said – and with immediate effect.

He drove home in a dream, tears dripping down onto his suit. He poured it all out to Lara and she encouraged him with, ‘left’, ‘please’, and ‘next’. He didn’t bother to put the car away, or have dinner and went to bed early, muttering about a bad headache. Elspeth could understand that – didn’t she have a permanent one?

A noise in the street woke him up early. He peered out as a breakdown vehicle, from a garage across town, finished anchoring his car – and Lara - to the back, and clanked off. He dressed quickly.

‘Jack, Jack, they’ve taken the car. How dare they. Phone the police.’ He watched her face contort as he explained. He could not cope. He ran outside just as he was. He’d walked halfway to town, before he realised it was raining.

He didn’t know where he was going. A vandalised phone box provided some shelter.

‘I’m like a down and out,’ he thought, ‘but - that’s what I am.’ He sat among the broken glass, his legs tucked under his chin. The acrid smell of urine sharpened his senses. He decided to go to the garage where the pick up truck came from. He’d be able to negotiate with them. He ran all the way. Good, he was in time, he could see his car.

The Receptionist looked at him oddly.

‘Yes?’ she glared.

‘I’ve come about the car outside. There’s been a mistake. It’s mine and I’m willing to pay the full price for it, immediately.’ Could he do that he wondered…there was some money in the bank, but if he didn’t get a job straightaway… He’d write a cheque and worry about that later. He put his hand to get his chequebook out of his pocket. There was no pocket, no jacket even. He realised he was still wearing his pyjama top, his slippers, and his old jeans - and they were all wet through.

‘I said, just a moment Sir.’ The girl had been on the phone and from the corner of his eye Jack could see a burly mechanic, spanner in hand, easing his way towards them.

‘Oh! O.K.’ He feigned a left turn, then took the next exit on the right. Please follow the road, he thought, as he dived into the car. Now turn left. Keys? Where are the keys? Got them. He whipped them out from behind the sun-visor and flicked the computer switches as he drove. He’d outwit anyone who followed. No one could catch them. He and Lara were invincible.

Her voice lulled him. ‘You can commence your journey.’

‘Darling, we’ve commenced. We’re going to drive off into the sunset, you and me together. I’ve programmed in Paris. It’s the place for lovers isn’t it? I’ll have to pick up my chequebook, and we’ll buy clothes when we’re there. Can’t go on honeymoon without a trousseau, can we?

‘Right, please,’ replied Lara. ‘Please.’

‘You're happy are you? Hey, you're not telling me where to go! Never mind, I know the way. Left then sharp right. Oh! We are going to have a wonderful time we’ll…’He started to sing, waving his arms and conducting, head nodding to the beat – what a life was opening up before him.

He swung the car carelessly into the bend, barely watching the road at all.

‘Under the bridges of Paris with you…’ he sang, closing his eyes. The car grazed the wall and bounced off the barrier. As it spun across the road it burst into flames - a fireball blocking all the lanes. No one could survive such a crash.

The motorcyclist, who was first on the scene, was talking to a reporter afterwards.

‘It was weird,’ he said, ‘they only found the body of a man, but I distinctly heard a woman’s voice. She wasn’t screaming or any thing. She was repeating this phrase, over and over again:

‘You have reached your destination. You have reached your destination.’

© Jean Mallender 2006

 

 

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