Rules of the Road by Ciara Geraghty

Author:Ciara Geraghty [Ciara Geraghty]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2019-03-31T16:00:00+00:00

18

IT IS ADVISABLE TO DRIVE YOUR VEHICLE IN A DEFENSIVE MANNER. BE PREPARED TO STOP, SOUND THE HORN AND BRAKE.

In the morning, there is cause for cheer.

Cheer might be overstating it. After all, I am still in France, still driving the wrong way out of Calais – that is to say in a Swiss-direction – and still on the wrong side of the road.

The cause for cheer might have something to do with the road itself. A quiet minor road instead of the motorway that Iris favoured.

Or perhaps it is the spring weather. There is something cautiously optimistic about the white fleece of occasional cloud, the vastness of the milky-blue sky and the brightness of the young leaves unfurling green along the boughs of the trees lining the road.

Perhaps the cause for cheer might be Iris, who seems to have accepted that Dad and I are her travelling companions for the moment. Accepted might be a little strong. Resigned is probably more apt.

Or perhaps Vera and my mother were right; I just needed a good night’s sleep.

I think we are in the Champagne region now. As far as the eye can see, flat fields filled with neat rows of vines, interrupted by stone farmhouses with wooden shutters and smoke curling from chimneys.

Dad farts and says, ‘Good arse,’ in a matter-of-fact kind of way, which makes Iris and me laugh, and the sound of our laughter is so ordinary and that is also a cause for cheer. I roll down the window and imagine the sound drifting outside, reaching across the fields like a warm wind carrying nothing but good intentions.

I remember Vera then. What she said. About the road to hell. And then I sweep her out of my head with the brisk, decisive movements I employ when brushing the kitchen floor and, just like that, she is gone.

I replace her with positives. The fact that it is only Wednesday. We don’t have to be in Zurich until Friday evening. I still have time to turn this around. To turn us around. Facing for home.

And the fact that I have learned the route for the next four hours off by heart. I don’t need to consult the map. That’s a positive. Reading in the car – even road maps – makes me nauseous. I certainly could not be described as a good traveller. I once threw up on an escalator in the shopping centre. I take the stairs now.

As the day gains, the light from the sun intensifies, splashing against the windows like soft rain. I pull the visor down.

‘Do you need your sunglasses?’ asks Iris.

‘No, it’s fine,’ I say. The glasses are in my handbag, which is on the back seat. Iris would have to lean and stretch, and, after her fall in London and yesterday’s incident on the cliffs, I’d say she’s as stiff as an ironing board.

‘Look,’ Dad says, pointing out the window at a graveyard. I was hoping he wouldn’t notice them. They appear regularly on both sides of the road.

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