(Extracts from Day Three, Calais , Dover , Into the Night)
Dawn, Calais
We reached the port just as the gulls were beginning their dreadful chorus. Salt wind, diesel fumes, a faint reek of chips already frying. The Bentley looked slightly dishevelled, as though she’d been in a bar fight and come third.
The train, damn it, had already been spotted gliding into Boulogne. Too close. Too smooth. I imagined its passengers sipping coffee, folding newspapers, unaware of us chasing them like lunatics on four wheels.
Simon grew anxious, tapping his valise like it was a nervous pet. “We must get across the Channel,” he said, as if ferries operate by whim. The funeral weighs on him,he hasn’t spoken of the deceased, only of “obligation.” I suspect the loss is complicated, perhaps not entirely mourned.
Mid-morning, the crossing
The Channel was choppy, though the Bentley bore it stoically, lashed down among lorries. I stood on deck, hair whipped about, thinking of the Bentley Boys of old, daring, absurd, role models to us all.
Simon emerged from below decks pale and damp, declaring, “Never again.” He doesn’t have the sailor’s stomach. He clutched his case as if seasickness might drown it. I gave him ginger biscuits, which he accepted like sacraments.
The gulls followed us halfway. Spies for the train, perhaps.
Dover, noon
Back on English soil. The Bentley roared in gratitude, her tyres humming on the familiar grit of home. Simon grew animated,too animated,directing me north as though I hadn’t driven these roads since I was seventeen. Still, I let him. It seemed to steady him, to bark out turns and timings as if he were in control of more than the route.
Afternoon, Kent
The countryside sped by in a haze of hedgerows and pubs promising carveries. We refuelled in Maidstone, where a group of teenagers asked if the Bentley was “off TikTok.” I told them no, but perhaps she should be. They took photos anyway.
Simon phoned someone at the funeral church, his voice low, clipped. When he hung up, his hand shook slightly. “We’re in time,” he said. He didn’t say for what.
Evening, nearing London
The roads thickened. The Bentley snarled at the traffic, weaving where she could, elegant even in aggression. The city lights rose ahead like a promise or a warning.
Somewhere, the Blue Train must be closing on its own destination. Perhaps already pulling in, smug in its punctuality. I pressed harder on the pedal. Honour demanded I not cheat,but honour never said anything about speeding.
Simon fell silent. The case on his knees. His eyes fixed on nothing.
I, too, fell silent, though for different reasons. The race is almost done. But the journey,that’s another matter entirely.
