Page 8 of Knot a Tie
Driving out of the village and through the winding country roads, I finally reach the, what passes for, a main road about twenty minutes later. Indicating to turn left, I wait for the big black Audi A8 to go past. I ease out and around the first bend and put my foot down. I shoot forward with a smile, not even seeing the obstruction in the middle of the road until it’s too late.
“Shit!” I cry out and swerve, but it’s too late.
Gripping the steering wheel as the car jostles, I drive over the plank of wood with a soft, “Eek!”
The motion causes me to yank the steering wheel to the left and I hit the curb, mounting it before I thunk back down and onto the road.
“Shit!” I gasp and slow down to an almost crawl, the sweat beading on my forehead. “Why the fuck is there a fucking plank of wood in the fucking road!” I expostulate, my nerves getting the better of me. Luckily, this road is deserted, and no one was behind me, nor a pedestrian on the narrow pavement.
Motoring forward, I turn another bend and then hear the pfft-pfft-pfft.
“No! No! No!” I wail as the smooth drive becomes bumpy and I fear the worst.
A punctured tyre.
“Whyyyyyy?” I cry out and flick my hazard lights on before pulling up onto the curb outside of an abandoned old mill. Glancing in the side mirror to check for traffic, I crack the door open and slip out. Shutting it, I glare down at the flat tyre and huff out a breath.
“Great. Just great. Fucking plank wanker.”
Now, I like to think of myself as fairly capable. I can cook, clean, sew; I’m fairly handy with a screwdriver and arts and crafts are my jam, but changing a tyre or anything beyond checking the oil and water on a car is a big, fat nope.
Stomping onto the pavement, I yank the passenger door open and root around in my handbag for my phone as well as the breakdown service information.
Chewing my lip, knowing Ihaveto make a phone call, I inhale deeply and then exhale slowly, calming the anxiety at having to speak to some stranger through the airwaves.
Hoisting my handbag onto my shoulder, I dial and listen to it ring. I go through the whole automated spiel before the muzak comes on and I wait. Tapping my foot impatiently, I hear another car coming and cringe. This road is pretty narrow and I’m taking up half the road. I frown when I see a black Audi A8 sail past me, again, but then brush it off. It’s a pretty popular car, especially around here where luxury saloons are the thing.
I jump when the man on the other side of the phone line answers my call.
“Hello!” I shout louder than necessary. “I’ve got a flat tyre. I need someone to come out and change it for me.” I close my eyes and shake my head. I sound like a helpless arsehole.
“No problem,” he says. “Which tyre is it?”
“The front one.”
A small, awkward pause.
“Offside or near?”
“Huh?”
He sighs. “Passenger side or driver’s?” His slow, condescending tone immediately fires up my anger. Fucking prick.
“Driver’s side,” I grit out.
“So offside.”
“If you say so.”
I can practicallyfeelthe smugness radiating down through the phone line.
“Do you have a spare?” he asks, tapping into his little computer.
Closing my eyes, I wince. “Uhm…” I rack my brains. Daddy did say something about a spare tyre…what was it again? I wasn’t paying attention, thinking if I ever got a flat, the fucking RAC would sort it out. Why aren’t they doing that?
“Go to your boot and lift up the bottom like a lid,” he says slowly, inthattone again.
Gritting my teeth, I do as he says, noticing as I open the boot, a black Audi A8 driving past me going the other way.
