‘Actually, Howard, I thought I’d let Luke drive,’ I said, one hand circling Luke’s waist.
Howard’s chin quivered. ‘But he doesn’t have a licence!’
‘So what better way for him to learn!’
Howard was pulling on his tie, a panicked look back at Grandad, who had appeared in his car to take Howard back. ‘Oh, well, maybe, perhaps I wouldn’t, well, you know, she’s probably, um—’
‘Joke! Ha, your face,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry, Howard. Luke is a complete imbecile, I wouldn’t let him near the wheel.’
‘Oh!’ Howard let out a bark of laughter. ‘Christ, you had me there. Very good, very good.’
‘I can’t even be trusted with a bicycle,’ Luke said cheerily, running round to throw himself into the passenger seat. ‘I once chipped my tooth falling off a scooter.’
Grandad had started beeping his car. ‘Well, I must go but Luke tells me you’ll return her later, and of course I trust you,’ Howard said in a deeply untrusting voice. ‘So, enjoy the day.’ He put a hand on the side panel of the bonnet. ‘Go slow, no need for excessive speed, take in the weather and—’
More beeping from Grandad.
‘Best be off then,’ Howard said, one finger still making contact with the car until he heaved himself away.
‘Road trip,’ Luke said, pointing both hands forward.
‘Great.’ I got into the car, readjusting the driving mirror and tightening the knot in my neck tie. Looking sideways at Luke I placed the key in the ignition. ‘So, Thelma – where to?’
Luke had booked us a pub lunch on the river in a small village in Hertfordshire. The drive was wonderful. We took the A roads and felt the sun streaming above us, the wind lifting our hair, swirling around us in the car as the radio played and we sang along unashamedly. It seemed for that journey as though nothing else in the world existed, just two people heading through the countryside, trees meeting in speckled canopies over our heads. We couldn’t really talk, could only hear the roar of the wind in our ears and feel the warmth of the sun on our skin.
As we turned into the small pub car park and switched off the engine, we sat in silence for a second, noises heightened: the cheeping from the trees, the distant bleating of lambs in a field, the chatter of insects in the verge.
‘It’s lovely,’ I said, staring up at the thatched public house, an enormous pub garden stretched along one side with a view over the hills, most of the picnic tables free.
‘Only the best for you, your majesty,’ Luke announced, stepping out of the passenger seat and coming round to open the driver’s door.
I took his hand, letting him pull me into a hug, both hands round my waist, my head resting against his chest. ‘Thank you for finding it, and arranging the car: it’s already a brilliant surprise.’
We ordered drinks, two gin and tonics in honour of the absent Gin o’Clock Club, and headed out into the pub garden with two menus. The garden sloped down towards the narrow road, hedgerows high on either side casting shadows, a few houses and a wood beyond. The sun was warm on my back and I breathed in the scent of freshly mown grass. We ordered our food, sharing a wooden platter filled with different meats, a wicker basket of fresh bread, small bowls of olives dripping in oil. By the end of it all I was licking my fingers, soaking up the last of the oil with the final piece of bread. Luke was smiling at me indulgently.
‘What?’ I said through the final mouthful.
‘You’re a delight,’ he said, squeezing my knee. ‘And also you have some kind of herb in your teeth.’
He stood up, holding out his hand for me. ‘Walk?’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘Er . . . my company?’
I paused, tilting my head to feel the sun on my face. ‘Hmm.’
‘Blackberries?’
I stood up immediately, Luke crossing a hand over his heart. ‘That hurts.’
‘A girl’s gotta have pudding.’
‘Full disclosure,’ he said, ‘I’m not absolutely sure it’s the right time but we can have fun looking!’
Twenty minutes later, with not a blackberry bush in sight, we found ourselves meandering through the village, heading for the shade of the wood behind. The day had heated up and the sun was slicing lines across the road ahead, highlighting cheerful window boxes crammed with bright pink, red and purple flowers, wooden doorways, thatched roofs, and bouncing off the glass of casement windows. Someone was mowing their lawn, the familiar hum of the motor reminding me of afternoons at Grandad’s watching him move slowly up and down the grass, the strips neat and lush.
A sudden movement caught my eye and I turned my head to see something streak across the road. The movement was jerky and unfamiliar, a squawk making me startle. Luke raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you just see a chicken? A chicken that crossed the road?’
I nodded. ‘I did.’
Then there was a gentle cluck and more movement and two more chickens appeared, following in the wake of the first one.
‘What’s going on? Is this a country thing? Who owns these chickens?’
‘They’re free range,’ Luke said, shrugging and laughing.
I gave him my most scathing look.
The three chickens had congregated in the shade of the house opposite. One ginger chicken pecked at the dusty pavement and two others, both small and white like balls of cotton wool with beaks, strutted back and forward as if on a chicken catwalk.
Luke lingered. ‘Do you think we should help them?’
I looked at him. ‘Help them how? Offer them directions? Give them a lift back to London?’
‘Not sure,’ Luke said, biting his lip.
A red-faced old lady, cardigan on inside out, appeared in an alley opposite, bent over a walking stick. She pointed the stick at the chickens. ‘Bastards,’ she hollered.
Luke and I both jumped.
She shook her stick at us. ‘Catch them then!’ The chickens, having heard the profanity, had set off in different directions.
Luke and I responded to the order as if she were our headmistress, immediately chasing after the chickens, which only made them run faster, their scrawny legs furiously pedalling them away from our clutches.
‘Jesus,’ I said, leaning over and clutching my side, feeling beads of sweat meet on my brow, ‘chickens are fast.’
Luke had backed one of the cotton-wool ones into a corner and it was trying to squeeze itself behind a large stone pot full of carnations.
He dived forward, there was a flapping noise, and he emerged, hair askew, cotton-wool chicken clamped under one arm.
More confident now, he approached the ginger one, who decided to play ball and sank low on her knees as if waiting for Luke to simply scoop her up, which he did.
‘You’ve got two chickens,’ I said, watching him manage to keep a handle on both.
Luke motioned with his head at the last cotton-wool one. ‘Just get round behind it and head it back over the road towards the woman.’
‘Bravo, bravo,’ the old lady was saying as Luke approached her with the fugitives. ‘It’s the second gate on the right. If you could just pop them there, I’ll be along.’
The last chicken, sensing her friends were no longer roaming free, clearly decided she wanted to return home too. With little effort from me she trotted down the alley behind Luke, streaking into the gate before he closed it on all of them.