Race the Blue Train: The Diary of Hally Redoubt

(Extracts from Day One, Nice , Somewhere north of Lyon)

Nice, dusk

I have been kissed goodbye more times this evening than in the whole of last year. The Riviera attracts a certain type: the starlet who thinks a wave is currency, the man in linen who always smells faintly of varnish, the sponsors who talk of “synergy” while wearing shoes that will never touch a clutch pedal. Pimlico Wilde were in full flourish,art dealers turned race patrons, fluttering around my Bentley like exotic parrots. I’m grateful, truly, but the sheer number of silk scarves on display could have smothered a cathedral.

The Bentley, at least, behaved beautifully. She idled with all the arrogance of a duchess waiting for her footman. I confess I stroked her dashboard when no one was looking.

Departure

The train whistled first. A theatrical gesture, I thought. As if to remind me it has timetables, infrastructure, and an entire nation’s railway authority on its side. I have only petrol, a map, and nerves. But what the train lacks,and I cling to this,is the ability to want.

The Last-Minute Passenger

Enter Simon Etheridge, my stowaway. He arrived breathless, with a small case and an even smaller sense of shame, babbling about needing to get to London for a funeral. (Aunt? Cousin? He wasn’t clear.) His flight was cancelled, his options limited. He looked at me with the imploring eyes of a man who has never read an AA route plan in his life. Against better judgment, I let him in. He sat gingerly, as if afraid the upholstery might bark.

We are, apparently, now two against the train.

The Road Beyond Nice

The coast unfurled in ribbons of light, villas glowing, the sea flashing silver. I kept her steady, refusing the temptation to show off. This is no jaunt; this is a measured hunt. Simon tried small talk,“So, er, how fast does she go?”,but soon gave up, hypnotised by the dark and the hum of the engine. I was glad of the silence.

Near Aix-en-Provence

A fleeting glimpse of the train,its lamps sliding past in the distance, like some smug constellation. We were level then, or so I thought. A brief thrill, quickly gone. The Bentley urged me on.

I reminded myself: I will not cheat. The train might, the organisers might wink, but I will not. I must arrive with honour intact, even if only by the skin of my teeth.

Approaching Lyon, late night

Simon has dozed off, muttering occasionally in his sleep. Once he said, “Not the lilies,” which I am choosing not to investigate.

The car feels lighter without chatter. My thoughts keep circling back to the absurdity of it all: a woman in evening gloves, hurtling across France to beat a locomotive. And yet I feel alive,each mile an affirmation, each headlight beam a blade slicing the dark.