Page 37 of Where Do We Go From Here?
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Wendy says, though as she says it her hands start to tremble. She folds them beneath her armpits and forces herself to breathe. ‘Boy, that was…’ She’s momentarily lost for words.
They sit like this for a moment, trying to take it all in.
‘That has to have been the slowest, quietest car accident in history,’ Wendy finally says.
‘Like slow motion,’ Jill says.
‘Like in a dream.’
‘Do you think we can get the car back on the road?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Wendy says. The ditch they’re in is only about a foot deep, but will the car want to leave it? Will the tyres now decide to grip the snow?
She releases her seatbelt and tries to open her door but it’s impossible to push it further than an inch because of the height of the embankment to her left.
‘Shit,’ she says, turning to Jill. ‘Try yours.’
But – and they both gasp in relief at this – Jill’s door does open, so they tumble inelegantly from the car and stand in the cold light of the headlights from where they attempt to appraise the situation.
Things aren’t looking good, it has to be said. The ridge of the road is higher than the bumper of the car and the snow is falling more heavily now than before: huge, fluffy, in any other circumstances beautiful flakes drifting past the headlights.
‘It’s not going to work, is it?’ Jill says, with a shiver. ‘It’s too high.’
‘No, I don’t think so. Unless… maybe in reverse? It’s a bit lower there,’ Wendy says, pointing.
So Wendy climbs back over the gearstick to the driver’s seat. She starts the engine and engages reverse. But the second she releases the clutch it becomes apparent that the car isn’t going anywhere. The wheels merely spin and slide more deeply into mud that’s lurking beneath the snow.
‘Stop. Stop!’ Jill shouts. ‘You’re just making it worse.’ She rounds the car and climbs back in beside Wendy. ‘Bloody freezing out there,’ she says, fiddling with the heater controls.
‘Quite literally,’ Wendy agrees.
‘So what now? Do we call a breakdown truck? I suppose they have French AA or something, don’t they?’
‘There’s a number on the paperwork in the glovebox,’ Wendy says. ‘But d’you think they’ll come out in this?’ A wave of despair washes over her and to avoid crying she buries her face in her hands and makes an angry ‘agghhhh!’ sound.
Jill pats her shoulder. ‘Oh, honey,’ she says.
‘If we phone for breakdown I’m worried we’ll get the police,’ Wendy says, her voice trembling.
‘And?’
‘The drink,’ Wendy says. ‘I can’t afford to lose my licence. What would I do if I couldn’t drive up here? Or back home. Life would be impossible.’
‘I’m sure you’re fine by now, aren’t you?’ Jill says. Even she’s feeling sober after all the drama.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t. But am I willing to take the risk?’
‘And why would the AA call the police anyway?’
‘Because it’s a hire car? Because I’ve wrecked it? Because that’s maybe what they do when you have an accident in France? How would I know?’
‘You can barely call this an accident,’ Jill says. ‘You just slid off the road, really, didn’t you? And the car’s probably fine. It’s notlike we hit anything.’
‘Maybe,’ Wendy says. ‘Maybe not. That was quite a drop. We’re lucky it didn’t roll over.’
‘God,’ Jill says. ‘Don’t!’
‘Anyway, no, I’m not calling the hire company until the morning.’
