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‘Your daughter? She won’t want an old woman like me around. She’s got a little one to look after.’
‘We’d manage.’
‘I think I’d prefer to stay here. In my own bed. With any luck I’ll sleep right through it.’
Why does she have to be so stubborn? I blank out the ticking clock and offer to make her a cup of tea, hoping that perhaps she just needs a little more time. Hellie calls while I am in the kitchen. ‘Mum, where are you? Are you on the road yet?’
‘At Minnie’s. I’m trying to persuade her to leave.’
‘You need to get going; they say the roads are jammed already.’
‘I will.’
‘Please get out of there.’
‘As soon as I can.’ There is a wail from the end of line.
‘I must go. Toby needs me. Call me when you’re on the road.’ She hangs up.
With renewed urgency, I return to the sitting room, only to find that Minnie has fallen asleep. Her mouth is open, her head droops forward on her lap. She often does this, drifting in and out of wakefulness for short intervals. I have to leave, but I can’t just abandon her. I put the cup on the coffee table and wait, watching the rise and fall of her chest. It is just like sitting with Grandma, in the days before her final illness. I was in my twenties, then, a time when old age seemed remote and unreal. Forty years have passed since and though I still have the energy and health of the well-off retiree, a life like Minnie’s can’t be too far away. Perhaps she is right. Perhaps it would be best to sit and wait for the wave to take us away rather than escape to battle through years that will only weaken my body into helplessness. I shake my head. What am I thinking? I’ve only been retired a couple of years. There is so much I want to do still.
‘Margaret? Are you still here?’ Minnie suddenly raises her head, ‘You must be going, dear.’
‘Not without you.’
‘It’s all right, dear. I’m too old to start a new life. I’d rather stay here.’
‘But …’
‘I’ll be asleep, anyway. I never get up before eight. Much the best way.’ She waves away further protest. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. I’ve got Misty to look after me.’ Right on cue, the grey cat enters the room, meanders across towards his mistress and sits on her lap, purring contentedly. ‘You see? I have everything I need right here. You have a daughter and grandchild to live for. Go.’
I hate to do it, but Minnie is insistent, and she’s right – I do have more to live for. I head out to the car, drive off down the lane and onto the road to Penzance. At first all is well. I speed along, hopeful that the reports of traffic jams were exaggerated. Even so, the sight of the vivid green grass, the bright blue sky and the sea sparkling in the distance is filled with menace. As if, underneath the surface of the water, there is a malevolent being that will bring the sea to life and destroy me. I feel sick and anxious, a mood not improved when I hit a queue of cars four miles from Penzance.
The traffic moves slowly. I inch forward and now the traffic reports are of solid jams further ahead. By three o’clock I have just reached the outskirts of Penzance. This is a nightmare, made worse by my engine beginning to steam. In my hurry, I forgot to check the water levels. Something else Hellie is always nagging me about – this car has a propensity for overheating if stuck in traffic too long. I switch off the engine to cool it down – the cars ahead aren’t moving, anyway – and try to think. I glance down at the map. They say Dartmoor is safe, but that’s still over eighty miles away. I’ve driven four miles in two hours. At this rate, I’m never going to make it. That can’t be right. It can’t be possible that I won’t get out of this alive, that I’ll not get to see Hellie and her family ever again. I pull out my map to see if I can find an alternative route. But the radio announcer is reporting pile ups at Bodmin and Redruth and gridlock on every road going north. There are no alternatives, this is my only way out.
I put my head on the steering wheel and howl. I’ve had long and happy life; in a previous era sixty-seven would have been considered a good innings, but I’m not ready to die yet. I still have too much to do. I am booked on a tour of Greece and Italy in the summer. I have signed up for a Masters in Theology in the Autumn. Hellie is pregnant. It cannot be possible that I will miss out on all that. But … there are too many cars, the road is too packed. If we don’t get a move on, nobody in this jam is going to make it. None of us. By tomorrow morning we might have reached Truro – and it won’t be far enough. Even if we could outrun the wave, the constant rain this summer means that the water table is so high the whole county will be awash with water. A line from the Bible comes to me: ‘The water prevailed more and more upon the earth, so that all the high mountains everywhere under the heavens were covered.’ So God, you gave Noah fair warning – why not us? And don’t tell me a wild theory about a possible volcanic collapse was a divine message. Not on the basis of that flimsy evidence. Why didn’t you give us more? Why didn’t you allow us enough time to build ourselves an ark? Why are we left behind to drown?
I cannot stand any more news, so I switch to the CD player. Immediately the sound of French monks singing Vespers in plain chant calms me.
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit:
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
Amen.
I stare at the crowded road ahead. It may be my only chance of escape but I’m beginning to believe it’s no chance at all. I am hot and tired and I can’t stay in this car for much longer: I need some air. I passed the turn to Dowetha Cove a mile or so back. Perhaps if I go down to the sea, spend a bit of time by the water’s edge, the fresh air will revive and renew me. Perhaps by then the traffic will have died down and I can try again. I am not giving up yet, I tell myself, I am just taking a breather. I turn the car round, passing the long queue of drivers heading towards Penzance. Ahead of me flecks of golden sunlight light up the blue sea, calming my spirits. I text Hellie, traffic slow, but on my way. I don’t want to worry her yet. I just need to get out of the car for a bit, breathe some sea air and then I can be on my way again.
James (#u6801ab08-7652-56dc-8acf-7838d25b6a40)
I hate it when Yan is right. He’s always so smug about it. Even in these circumstances, if we meet again, I bet he’ll be smug. Because he always is. It’s infuriating.
I was so sure he was wrong three hours ago when I turned up on his doorstep, telling him we had to go, NOW. He just replied in a maddeningly patient voice that due to the number of cars on the road, the average speed of traffic, bottlenecks and likelihood of crashes we wouldn’t be going anywhere. He smiled like a patronising professor, putting me right on the glaring errors of my pathetic dissertation and was totally immune to my increasingly panicked pleas that he leave with me. I couldn’t understand how he could stand there, so resigned to the fate I was certain we would be able to escape. I know he’s always had a fatalistic streak, but this deliberate refusal to move seemed stupid beyond belief. Though I begged and begged, he wouldn’t budge. In the end, I had to give up on him and go it alone. I hated leaving him, but if he was going to be such a stubborn bastard there wasn’t much I could do about it.
I was still sure once I was on the open road. Though it was busy, the traffic kept moving initially, while sunshine, green fields and glittering sea lifted my spirits. Poor Yan I thought, as I raced towards Penzance. Poor Yan. I put the radio on, singing along to Uptown Funk to push my fears away, as I pretended that this was just an ordinary summer’s day and I was heading north to see friends. It worked for a while, but my optimism was short-lived. The road stayed clear for only a few miles. As signs to Penzance began to appear, suddenly cars were coming from every direction. Red brake lights flashed up in front of me. Drivers beeped their horns, yelling obscenities at each other as I found myself at the end of a long queue of traffic and came to a grinding halt. I wound the window down, pushed my seat back, grabbed a sandwich and told myself it was a small setback. It wasn’t time to panic yet. I switched on the radio to hear the tune that has tormented for too many months …
Never Leave Me, Never Leave Me
Believe me when I say to you.
Love me, darling, love me, darling,
Cos I’ll never, ever be leaving you.
Lisa’s first big hit as she transitioned from dreamy ballad singer to techno pop artist, the song that told me that she was gone for good. The song she wrote for the man she said had broken her heart, that she dropped from our set because, she said, she didn’t need to think of him any more. The minute I heard her new version, the version she had released without telling me – same lyrics, same basic melody, but surrounded by a thudding beat and a swirl of technical effects – I knew it was the goodbye she hadn’t got round to saying to my face.
Oh Lisa … It had been weeks since I’d allowed myself to think of her. Having wallowed in a miasma of self-pity for the six months that followed her departure, I had been trying to put her behind me. I’d almost been successful, too. It was only when I caught a news article, or heard her on the radio like this, that the familiar sickness returned, the longing for the woman I could no longer have.
Lisa, Lisa, Lisa … I loved the way her red hair fell in front of her face and she had to flick it aside. I loved her talent and the force of her ambition that drove her to make the most of her gifts. I loved the way she could single me out in a room with a look that said I was hers, she was mine. The whole time we were together, she made everything right. I thought she was all I ever needed, which made her absence, when it came, so unbearable. And even after all these months, hearing her voice was painful. It made me wonder whether she had seen the news, whether she was thinking of me at all. Whether somewhere her stomach was lurching like mine as she realized that I was in danger. I took out my phone. Despite my attempts to eradicate her from my life, I’d not managed to delete her number yet. I’d stopped the late night calls pleading for her return, but I hadn’t quite had the strength to let her go all together. I scrolled through my contacts to find her smiling face, the last picture I took, one day on the beach just before she left. I pressed dial – and then stopped immediately. What was I thinking? There was nothing she could do to help and I shouldn’t ask. Even if she did respond, it would only be out of pity. I don’t need pity now. Actually, thinking about it, pity would be the worst. I put the phone away, relieved to see the car ahead was moving forward. I followed suit. We crawled around the outskirts of Penzance as I raised the clutch, pressed the accelerator, shifted forwards and stopped. Clutch, accelerator, stop, clutch, accelerator, stop, clutch, accelerator, stop. I tried not to think about how long this was taking, but instead that every move forward was taking me out of the danger zone.
Even so, I was beginning to doubt myself, so I was pleased by the distraction of the sight of a young black woman at the junction to the A30. She was standing by her backpack and, although all the cars were going past, she had the confidence of someone who knows they will get picked up soon. I pulled over.
‘Want a lift?’
‘Please.’ I climbed out, put her backpack in the boot and opened the front for her.
‘Thanks,’ she said, kicking of her shoes. ‘I wasn’t sure if anyone would stop. Everyone’s a bit …’
‘I always stop for hitchhikers,’ I said. Now I could see her face more clearly, she looked familiar, but I couldn’t place her and I didn’t want to say anything for fear of sounding creepy, ‘I’m James, by the way.’
‘Nikki. You haven’t got anything to drink have you? I’m gasping.’ I handed her some water. ‘How come you’re hitching?’
‘Couldn’t get a train.’ She looked out of the window. ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘After all that rain. Lovely to have the good weather again.’
‘Yes.’ Clearly she wasn’t keen to talk about our situation. I took her lead. Tried to pretend we were just a couple of people who had just met, travelling together for a while. It was better than giving into the gnawing anxiety that Yan was right, that we wouldn’t get out of here alive. ‘So what do you do then?’
‘Right now? I’m a waitress in a chippy in Penzance.’
That’s where I’d seen her before. ‘I was in there the other week. You probably don’t remember …’ She stared at my face a moment, ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘I do. You wanted a saveloy and we’d run out so you had to wait. The wanker behind you was less patient, and kept shouting at me to hurry up, even though I couldn’t cook them any faster. You told him to shut up, which was nice of you, given how big he was.’
‘I wouldn’t have done it after hours,’ I said, grinning. ‘But 6.00 p.m. in daylight, with loads of people around? I’m very brave in those sort of situations.’
‘Well, anyway, I appreciated it.’ Nikki smiled back, filling me with a sense of joy that I hadn’t felt in a long time. It was crazy considering the fact we had just met, but somehow it seemed as if we’d always known each other.
‘It’s just a summer job,’ she said. ‘I’ve just finished a Masters in French Language and Literature. My parents are in Lagos with my brother and sister, so I offered to look after their house, while I sort out what next. How about you?’
‘I work in an antiques shop in St Ives.’
‘That’s unusual.’
‘For someone my age? I would have thought that a few years back when I was working in the City. But the job bored me, and I wanted to make music. So I jacked it in to come down here to play on the folk scene. The shop was supposed to be a stopgap, but I got hooked on the smell of old furniture and the music thing didn’t work out, and here I am …’
‘That’s cool.’ Phew, unlike Lisa she didn’t think it a dead-end job that made me dull. The conversation flowed for the next hour, enabling us both to pretend we haven’t noticed how long it has taken us to reach our current location. There’s been a white van in front of us for ages, blocking the view, but the road has dipped and now we can see over it to the long line of cars stretched ahead. They are barely moving. I have been driving for three hours and travelled eight miles. At this rate, we have no chance of reaching safety in time.
‘Shit,’ said Nikki. ‘That doesn’t look good.’
‘No.’
She looks away. I have a feeling she might be about to cry and not want me to see. I am close to tears myself. I was so sure Yan was wrong and I was right, but now, as I sit here and weigh up our chances, I have lost that sense of certainty. I switch on the radio to hear the news that every road north is blocked, a fact confirmed by my satnav, which is helpfully stating that the current estimated time of arrival will be eighteen hours. Eighteen hours? That’s three hours too late. We sit, staring at the road ahead, unsure what to do. It seems impossible that we could die tomorrow. We are too young, there is too much we haven’t done. Keeping moving is our only chance of surviving. The hopeful side of me wants to keep moving. Wants to pretend that the satnav is broken, the traffic reports are exaggerated. But I can hear Yan’s voice in my head, ‘You’ll get as far as Falmouth before the wave sweeps you off the face of the earth.’ Despite his tendency to over-dramatize, I’m reluctantly beginning to concede his point …
And it’s terrifying. I am twenty-nine years old. I don’t want to die tomorrow. I should have years ahead of me. Years to achieve all the goals that seem to have eluded me. I had such grand plans when I left my corporate hell hole and moved down here. I was going to record an album, live the life of a simple artist. I’ve managed none of it. I enjoy my job but all I’ve got to show for the last few years is the hours I’ve put in to pay my rent. And when Lisa came into my life, all my ambitions became subsumed by hers. What a waste.
‘I was thinking,’ says Nikki softly, ‘that woman on Facebook might be right …’
‘The one at Dowetha Cove?’
‘I saw the post while I was standing there. I didn’t want to believe her, but I’ve seen the station, and …’
‘My friend Yan is already there.’
Ahead of us, the white van moves forward but it is belching smoke and is forced to pull over to the side of the road. As we pass, I see the driver standing looking grimly at the steaming, overheated engine. I think about offering a lift, but almost immediately we come to a halt again. I look at the map, my watch, the tachometer. I look at the queue of traffic ahead that’s going nowhere. It is hot in the car and the sandwiches are getting stale. I gaze at the blue sky and the glowing yellow sun. At this time of day the sea will still be warm and I wouldn’t mind a swim. I think if I spend another hour in this car, I am likely to go mad. Nikki looks at me and nods, even though I haven’t said anything.
The road ahead is blocked, but the south road isn’t much better. Despite Nikki’s news about the station, it seems as if some still think there might be trains and are travelling in the opposite direction. Either way, we aren’t getting anywhere in a hurry. Weighing up the odds, I come to a decision. If it’s a choice between sitting here for hours waiting for the inevitable, or sitting on the beach … I rev the engine, indicate, turn out of the traffic queue, point the car in the opposite direction, and take the road south.
Nikki (#u6801ab08-7652-56dc-8acf-7838d25b6a40)
The sun streaming through the curtains wakes me, but it takes a while for me to come to my senses. I feel hot, my body sluggish. What time is it? I only turned over for a quick doze at nine, thinking the street noises would wake me, but I’d forgotten I switched rooms last night after being freaked out by noises in the graveyard. The back bedroom is much quieter and so I have slept on undisturbed. Shit, it’s nearly one o’clock. I’ll have to get a move on if I am going to make my train.
As I draw the curtains I remember I promised Mum and Dad that I would mow the lawn. They’ll be pretty pissed when they get back – they’re so proud of their English country garden, it makes them feel like true Brits. They’ll be mad as hell when they see the tangle of brambles smothering their rose bushes and the grass almost as high, but I couldn’t help it. I’ve been doing lates all week and just haven’t had the energy. I will scribble them a note and hopefully they’ll ask my brother, Ifechi or Ginika, my sister to do it and will be over it by the time I’m back.
I take my scarf off, rub my hair with pomegranate oil and comb it through, tying it in a pony-tail to keep it off my neck. I’m hot and sticky and still smell of chip fat. There’s no time to shower; instead, I have a quick wash, moisturize and hope the coconut oil masks the smell. I throw on blue shorts and a lilac T-shirt, stuff clothes and beauty products in my bag and rush downstairs. I’m hungry, but there’s no time to eat either, so I grab an apple and a packet of crisps. I’ll just have to hope the train’s buffet is well stocked.
I am out of the house and down the alley in no time. There is no one much about; they’re probably all at the beach. I speed right at the corner, then left. It is only as I’m approaching the Longboat Inn that I notice something is wrong. The road ahead is jammed with cars in both directions and the station is densely packed with people, all the way through the car park round to the harbour. The queue spills out into the road and stretches back alongside the railway tracks down to the pub. What is going on? I fight my way through the crowd and join the end of the line. My train is in the station, but I can see it is already full; I doubt I’ll even get on the next one. I find a place behind two middle-aged white men. One is hunched, with a worried expression on his face, the other rocks back and forwards besides him. I take off my backpack and place it on the ground.
‘What’s up?’
‘Eh?’ The worried man is about to respond, when the other one, starts saying and over again, ‘The wave, the wave, the wave,’ as he rocks. My neighbour turns to him in soothing tones, ‘It’s OK, Paul. We’re getting on the train and we’ll be fine.’
‘Will we, Peter? Will we, will we?’
‘Of course. Why don’t you get your DS out and play a bit of Pokemon?’ Paul acquiesces. He pulls the DS from his pocket. It has an instant calming effect; he sits down on a suitcase and is soon absorbed in his game. The worried-looking man turns back to me. ‘My brother. Gets a bit anxious. He’s autistic, you see. What did you say?’
‘What’s happening?’
‘Haven’t you seen the news?’ I shake my head. He shows me the headlines on his phone. A volcano collapse, a megatsunami, and the whole of Cornwall under water. I can’t take it in. It explains the crowds, but it just doesn’t seem possible looking at the calm, sparkling sea. I scroll through my phone to find the story is everywhere. My inbox is full of messages. Nikki it’s Stef, are you OK? Niks it’s Max, ring me. Nikkidarling it’s Mum, where are you? Even my little sister Ginika has texted, though I note wryly Ifechi hasn’t bothered. There are too many to respond to, and I don’t know what to say anyway. But I reply to Mum telling her I’m waiting for a train, and send Ginika a message to say I’m having an adventure. After that I sink to the ground, my legs shaking. If only I hadn’t been so tired last night. If only I’d stuck to my original plan and travelled through the night after work. I’d be with Alice in Manchester, glad of my lucky escape. That last-minute decision to have a lie-in has come at quite a cost.
‘Are you all right?’ Peter says as the train pulls out of the station. I’d have hoped it might mean the queue would move forward but it doesn’t shift.
‘What do you think?’
‘Sorry, stupid question. But it’s too early to panic. It’s only an hour and a half to Plymouth. They’re bound to lay on extra trains, aren’t they?’
He’s being kind and I can see he is trying to reassure himself as much as anything; but I’m not so sure. They have struggled with staffing on this line lately, and what if there isn’t enough rolling stock? I have too many questions, and I am so hungry and thirsty I can’t think. I open the pack of crisps, wishing I had brought a drink. I daren’t go into the shop in case I lose my place. The sun is hot and I feel dizzy. I close my eyes. There is something of the heat, the stink of petrol, the beeping horns that reminds my first trip to Lagos when I was eight. I was such a pampered child! What a fuss I’d made about everything, the crowded streets, the dust, the lack of amenities in my grandparents’ house. It was a wonder, Dad would say in later years, that they hadn’t packed me on the first flight home.
The sound of an engine makes me open my eyes as a sleek red train comes into view. The crowd cheers as it arrives at the station until they spot the number of carriages. Only six! They should be laying on twice that many. There are shouts from the passengers on the platform who rush forward as the railway guards try and keep control. Gradually the train fills and the queue moves forward. By the time it is ready to depart, we have moved a few hundred yards further up. It’s not far, but it is progress. I eat the apple slowly. With any luck, I’ll be away by six. The train leaves. Hopefully the next one will be along soon. But nothing comes and there is no information when I check the website. I try to calm my nerves by listening to Rihanna, try to imagine this is all over and I’m out of the danger zone heading to Manchester. It works for a while, but then I sense the mood of the crowd change. I take off my headphones and catch the tail end of an announcement over the tannoy. I cannot make out the words, but ahead of us there are angry murmurs that quickly become shouts. The rumour passes along the line until it reaches us. Trains are needed for evacuation of the northern coasts. There will be no trains from Penzance after five.
Two more trains. That means only two more trains. Everyone is making the same calculation and suddenly the patience of the queue is exhausted. People rush forward from every angle, jumping in the road between cars to get ahead of their neighbours. Everyone is yelling and ahead of me I can see a couple of fights breaking out. Peter pulls his brother to one side, clearly intending to wait it out, but I can’t see any point in staying here. I jump to my feet, pushing against the throng surging forward, fighting my way down the road until, at last, I am clear. Now what? Hitch a lift? It seems the only option left. I walk up to the junction for the A30. The road ahead is filled with traffic. My heart sinks; this looks as bad as the trains. The cars are moving slowly, but none seems inclined to stop. I check my phone; I’m thirsty. I really wish I’d brought a drink with me. To distract myself, I scroll through Facebook, looking for some signs of hope that people are getting out. But all I find is a post that is being shared widely. A woman called Poppy inviting people down to Dowetha Cove because she thinks we can’t get away. It seems defeatist, but then, looking at the road ahead, maybe she has a point.
This is ridiculous. I can’t believe escape isn’t possible, that someone won’t stop for me. Right on cue a car pulls up and the driver sticks out his head. He is older than me; I notice dark wavy hair, kind eyes. Not another beautiful white boy. I swore off them after Patrick. But then he smiles at me and, despite myself, I smile right back.
‘I’m James,’ he says as I slip into the passenger seat.
‘Nikki.’ I kick off my shoes and somehow, white boy or not, I feel immediately at ease. He offers water when I ask and is interested in me and interesting to listen to. If I don’t think too much, I can continue to pretend this is just an ordinary summer afternoon. That I have just met a man who might be worth a bit of time and effort. I’ve always been quite good at telling stories, and this one is a reassuring one. I am happy, I am safe. Good times lie ahead.
Handsome white boy is as good as I am at keeping it light and the hour passes swiftly, particularly once I discover he was the one to send a prize arsehole packing the other week. Even so I can’t help noticing we’re not moving as fast as we’d like. Every time there is a break in the conversation, I try not to glance at my phone which is full of news of bad traffic. I try not to think about how slowly we are travelling or how long it will take us to get anywhere. It is when we reach the top of the hill that I cannot stop pretending. The traffic is almost stationary for miles ahead. The radio and James’s satnav confirm it. We cannot get out.
I turn away from him. Despite our instant camaraderie, I don’t feel able to show him my feelings yet. I gaze out of the window again at the sea, the beautiful, calm, perilous sea. The sea that will kill us tomorrow. How can that be possible? All my plans, my dreams of living in Paris, of working as an interpreter for the UN, gone in a flash. And my family. What can I say to my parents? To Ifechi and Ginika? Being a teenager is hard enough. How can I do this to them? I think again about that post on Facebook, the thought that if there’s no escape, spending time with others, having fun, might be better than sitting in a hot car going nowhere.
It turns out that James knows about the woman on the beach too; his friend Yan is already there. The thought hangs in the air that we might turn back and join them but we don’t say anything, and when the van in front pulls off, James drives on as if we are going to continue. But shortly after he stops. We look at each other, though we don’t say a word we both know what the other is thinking. James indicates right and turns the car around to join the last stragglers driving to Penzance in search of a train. As we pass the cars driving north, I can see the astonishment on the passengers’ faces. I’m astonished, too, but the die is cast. I was dead before I even woke up this morning. This is the only option left to me now and I am going to take it.
Harry (#u6801ab08-7652-56dc-8acf-7838d25b6a40)
Harry Edwards. Survivor.
That’s me.
Always have been, always will be.
There’s no fucking way a stupid volcano is going to stop me now.
The whole world might have heard the news and panicked, but the minute I found out, I started thinking, as I always do in a crisis.. While everyone else was running scared, I started planning ways to escape. Even though I had a hunch this was a hoax, I wasn’t taking any chances. Watching the pundits on the telly with their charts and CGI images declaring the end to be nigh, I couldn’t help remembering how the same serious people told us Trump would never win and Brexit would never happen. Tonight, when that volcano doesn’t collapse, I’m convinced they’ll all look very stupid. But it’s better to be safe than sorry, isn’t it? So, I weighed up the options and came up with the perfect answer. The road was the obvious choice, but also the stupid one. With so many holidaymakers trying to get along the same narrow route, I knew it would get clogged in no time. And the railway wouldn’t be much better. I knew this was a situation that required an intelligent solution and I found one. I bought myself a boat. I discovered a bloke online who has a holiday cottage in Penzance and a motor cruiser in the harbour. Now Shelley and I are heading into town while all the sheeple are travelling in the opposite direction. I felt smug at first, seeing them all going nowhere fast, knowing we had our way out, but I should have factored all the idiots going into Penzance to try the train. We’ve been stuck in traffic for an hour now, a delay we could do without. I’m trying not to let it bother me. We’re still moving faster than the cars going in the opposite direction, and once we’re on the water there’ll be no stopping us. But I could do without the sun pounding through the front windows; even with the side ones down, the Maserati is hot and sticky. The only thing I have against this car is the lack of air conditioning.
‘Are you sure it’s going to be OK?’ Shelley says for the third time as we crawl past the supermarket by the roundabout.
‘Of course it is. I said I’d sort it and I’ve sorted it. And you know the best part, babe?’
‘What?’
‘We’ve got ourselves a brand-new boat. When all the fuss has died down we can moor it down somewhere on the south coast and spend weekends out on the water. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’
‘That would be lovely.’ Shelley’s voice doesn’t have quite as much enthusiasm as it should have, doesn’t have quite as much faith in me as I’d like. She used to always trust my judgement, but lately she’s been questioning my decisions a lot more. Perhaps it’s inevitable, now we’re living together. But I could do without it right now. Right now it would be nice if she showed a little faith. After all, I’m doing this as much for her as for me.
The road towards the harbour is even more jam-packed than the A30, cars are stuck in both directions, horns beeping, drivers shouting. I look at my watch. Two thirty. I said to the bloke in London we’d be here by two. I text him to say we’re nearly there. The cars ahead are maybe going nowhere, but it’s not far.
‘Come on, we’re walking.’ I pull up in a lay-by.
