Carma

At 6:30pm on the foggiest November evening I’ve ever known the final handover came. My Dad, my son Aaron, my daughter Nell and I were having our farewell meal in a kind of trendy, contemporary yet charmingly rural restaurant/bar. You can tell right away what kind of establishment it’s attempting to be by the fact that it’s named ‘The Mill @ Rode’ instead of The Mill at Rode or just The Mill. Anything with a name that sounds like an email address or a website has got to be just a little bit pretentious.....right? The place was quite empty; we were eating early and were missing the busy time so we had four slick young waiters all to ourselves.

Just our little family party huddled round the corner table. We lit the candle in the centre and talked about the journey my Dad and son would soon be embarking on. It was the first time my boy had ever travelled abroad and he was going without me, he was only fifteen. I imagined it as a kind of initiation, you know, a sort of man thing, driving all the way down through France, over the Pyrenees. Down to the southern coast of Spain to a little village of white walled, red roofed houses tucked high on the mountainside where you can see the sea in the distance and Africa on a clear day. All that way, to renovate a derelict little ruin of a house, it had walls and a roof but that’s about all.

We munched on watermelon and feta salad, then our main courses, I had butternut squash and sweet potato curry but I secretly wished I’d had wild boar and apple sausages with chive mash like Nell. I wondered whether we’d packed all the right things for Aaron. He had packed his guitar, a football, his entire library of music burnt onto cd and a notebook with pens for keeping a journal of his travels. I sensibly packed him socks, toothpaste, a Spanish phrase book and a European adaptor plug.

Over crème brulee we laughed and joked and shared our past travel stories. I felt tiny butterflies in my stomach, excited, anxious. I was gonna miss my number one son, well my only son actually; he’d be gone for two months.

When we’d had our fill of food, drink and talking we paid the bill and started to transfer Aaron’s stuff from my car into the boot of Dad’s car. It was quite a nice car; a big, silver hatchback, very smart. Don’t ask me the make and model, my mind only has room for the important things like the colour and how many people can fit in it. Finally the boot was stacked to the gunnels with bags, boxes, tools, sleeping bags and everything one could possibly need for a foreign trip and house building.

Dad said “Right, come on Aaron, let’s get going. We have to pick up Ben and get to Portsmouth harbour by ten ‘o’ clock. We sail at eleven and we’ll be in France by half seven in the morning”. A flourish of hugs and kisses ensued, I squeezed Aaron tight and said “I love you, have a great time” “Don’t worry” Dad said reassuringly “I’ll look after him”. “Yeah” I replied “and Aaron will look after his old Granddad too, won’t you Aaron”. Everyone chuckled, not because it would normally be funny but because my dad has a habit of being unlucky and random things happen to him out of the blue, I wondered who was really looking after who.

I hope they do look after each other, it’s hard to let your baby go off, even if he is nearly six foot tall, eats steak, goes to bed later than you and could easily pick you up and carry you.

So the moment had arrived, the intrepid two pull away, fog lights glowing red in the night like big round scorching dragon eyes. Mist swirling around the car like a beast exhaling heavily, smoky white breath encircling us, engine growling, retreating up the restaurant driveway, red eyes growing dimmer now. Me and Nell waving frantically all the while right up to the last minute till they plunge out into the road and disappear from view.

At about 8pm I call Dad’s mobile to see if they got on their way ok. “Can’t talk now” Dad says sounding strained “We’ve got a puncture and I’m trying to change the tyre quick so we can still catch the ferry”. Oh God, I can’t believe it, who would have such bad luck? Silly question really, the answer is my Dad would. When it comes to cars my Dad has what you could call difficult Karma or should I say Carma. He bumped one into the car in front of him in a traffic queue and wrote it off. Another was written off when it was pranged by a car that drove into it from a side street because my dad was indicating but didn’t turn in, his indicator was only on because he’d forgotten to turn it off after the last roundabout. The other car had pulled out only to swiftly discover my dad was not turning in after all much to the dismay of all.

The car before that had met its untimely end when it was driven through a fairly deep fast flowing ford, which my dad failed to notice as a potential hazard to his vehicle. The engine and all the power cut out halfway over and hence when the electric windows wouldn’t open Dad opened the driver door to see what was happening. I’ll tell you what was happening, water was happening and lots of it too, it rushed in everywhere. He had to get a tractor to pull the car out but it was well and truly dead.

Numerous vehicles have come and gone, some seemed more promising than others, some seemed unlikely from the start but nevertheless they were all headed mostly sooner rather than later to the same place, that oily automobile afterlife, the scrap yard.

“Oh well” I thought to myself, “their adventure has begun and at least it’s not anything too bad, it could be worse. Let’s hope they get the new tyre on and get to the ferry on time”

Amazingly the small adventure party headed for the Sierra Nevada reached the ferry just on time and were on course to arrive in Cherbourg in a few hours time. I relaxed; pleased they had already had their quota of Carma so they could now get on with their journey unencumbered by such obstacles.

At 9am the next morning I received a text from my son saying “Broken down. Granddad thinks it’s the cam belt” And then another, “Granddad’s friend coming to pick us up. Car is dead” The next morning, “Granddad is flying back to England to buy another second hand car, leaving me at his friend’s house in France for 3 days till he gets back”

I think the next one said “they don’t have normal food here, I’m surviving on baby bell cheese and spaghetti” and then “When will Granddad be back??? I’m going crazy here, there is no computer!!!!”

In the meantime Dad flew back to England, bought another car and drove it back to the ferry, again, and eventually after being diverted for 72 hours, arrived back with my son somewhere near Rennes.

After a good night’s sleep, Dad decided to go and transfer all the luggage and the full tank’s worth of petrol from the old car to the new one and finally get going on the next leg of the journey to Spain. Having had breakfast and said their goodbyes, Dad put his hand in his pocket to take out the car keys to discover them missing. It turned out they were not only missing from his pocket but also completely, unequivocally, and entirely missing from any of his or anyone else’s pockets or in fact any part of his reality.

After about half an hour of searching every nook and cranny the swearing and cursing turned to numb disbelief and resignation. It was a Saturday morning and the only place to get a new key from was closed until Monday morning.

More texts from Aaron ensued. “OMG!! We’re still here. I managed to buy some Pringles”. “Why don’t they have proper cheese in France? Need internet!!” “French people keep trying to kiss me on each cheek when they greet me.... yuk!!!

Many texts later Monday morning arrived and so did the hope of having a new key cut. Out into the garden Dad went to make his way into the town to pick one up and as he strolled through the sunny yard the light caught on something shiny in amidst the autumn leaves on the ground, flashing bright for a moment. On bending down to investigate the tiny shimmer, what should emerge but the car key, yes that very same car key that had spent one long lazy weekend pretending to be missing whilst hiding, nestled among the reds and golds of the leaf strewn yard.

More swearing and cursing followed but this time it was mixed with relief and laughter and more than a small dollop of incredulity. Within the hour the intrepid three were on their way, and yes this time they made it all the way to Spain.

My son stayed for a few more days but soon decided that the combination of hot sunny weather, foreign food and the distinct lack of internet connectivity were too much for his body, mind and soul to bear so he boarded the very next plane from Malaga to Bristol and made his first ever flight all by himself. He was very happy to be home and has had no desire to leave the country again since.

Approximately 2 months later my dad was working away on the house in Spain and had made new friends in the village. He had lent his car to a friend whose own car was in the garage being mended. Driving back late that night on the dark windy roads with a few drinks too many in his bloodstream this friend drove my dad’s car off the road and rolled it over a few times. Instant write off!!! Bad Carma!!!