ROUND THE BEND
It was raining; a cold hard rain that picked relentlessly at the screen as he drove deeper into the darkness.
He was feeling snug and secure in the warmth of the heater, and with the soft music from the radio a slow sense of invulnerability swept over him.
It was not yet midnight, the witching hour, and he was miles from anywhere driving to his annual Lodge Dinner. He had made the convention a priority in his social calendar ever since the war and every year, except last, he would go back and they would all talk of Rimini and the campaign. All except one or two. Each year took its toll; and they would talk of that also; their platoon suffered casualties in peace as they had in war, but they still fought on, he thought. This, he knew, was the one battle they were all going to lose, and not together, on the field, in heroic pain; but alone, cold and desperate, in some little room in the back of nowhere.
Still, he mustn’t get depressed; there were moments; like now, when he felt good and had something to look forward to. The sleet had turned to a fine flaky snow that flew from out the night in a blind effort to mount its way round the windscreen; but the wipers fingered hollow segments that ever threatened to close and shut out the world.
He glanced at the car clock; he had been driving for over two hours, and now it seemed like a slow motion dream, conjuring about him a cocoon of isolation. He had often heard of the hypnotic effect of snow and so decided to pull over and rest for a spell.
How long he slept he wasn’t sure for the clock was still and silent when he awoke. He swore softly as he realized he had left the heater on, but his anger faded to fear as the empty click of the starter told him he was stranded for the battery was now completely flat! He realized he would now have to walk for help as the car, like most recent models, had no starting handle fixture.
He got out and made a vain effort to shift the car for snow had built up round the wheels and was impossible to budge. He decided to walk the remaining few miles to the Inn. God knows why the boys picked this place for the annual get-together. He remembered Chalky once saying it was because of the privacy or something.
He had trudged in silent solitude for some thirty minutes and had forsaken hope of a lift when he heard the crunching swish of a car coming up behind him. It was an old red station wagon. He frantically waved his arms for it to stop but the car cruised slowly past him. He was tempted to run after it or shout some remark at the driver when the car slowed and stopped just down the road. Was the driver playing games with him? But no, the rear door swung open, so he ran up and jumped in, exhausted.
He muttered his thanks and lay back in the rear seat. He did not notice the driver’s face but the fellow seemed to be soaked to the skin and in no mood for small talk. He was just getting his breath back when he realized he was being driven very fast; too fast for comfort, considering the condition of the road; which didn’t even seem to be salted. He was about to ask the driver to slow down when they approached a hill. The car took it quite slowly to the top but he sensed danger as it picked up speed going down the other side. When he saw the bend at the foot of the hill he choked with fear, and found the metallic taste of it rise in his throat. His mind went numb and he froze in a state of shock. He realized the car would never make it and would plunge over the parapet and into the river.
As they swept into the bend itself, everything went very quiet for a moment and it seemed as if some giant hand had taken hold of the car and guided it round the deadly corner; there was no screech of tyres, but of course he reasoned there was a cushion of snow on the road. He was still trembling when the car stopped just further on and he quickly jumped out without a word of thanks. He was afraid to speak in case his anger got the better of him. He entered the Inn and was soon lost in a swarm of greetings that surrounded him.
Swallowing a couple of Scotches, he told the boys about the car and the miraculous way it had manoeuvred the bend. When he finished, and by this time everyone was staring silently at him, he looked at the assembled company and asked “Where’s Harry, then?” “You don’t know yet”, said Chalky, “for you weren’t here last year, but Harry was killed on the very bend you spoke of, when his old red station wagon went into the river!”
© Radical Rooney
He was feeling snug and secure in the warmth of the heater, and with the soft music from the radio a slow sense of invulnerability swept over him.
It was not yet midnight, the witching hour, and he was miles from anywhere driving to his annual Lodge Dinner. He had made the convention a priority in his social calendar ever since the war and every year, except last, he would go back and they would all talk of Rimini and the campaign. All except one or two. Each year took its toll; and they would talk of that also; their platoon suffered casualties in peace as they had in war, but they still fought on, he thought. This, he knew, was the one battle they were all going to lose, and not together, on the field, in heroic pain; but alone, cold and desperate, in some little room in the back of nowhere.
Still, he mustn’t get depressed; there were moments; like now, when he felt good and had something to look forward to. The sleet had turned to a fine flaky snow that flew from out the night in a blind effort to mount its way round the windscreen; but the wipers fingered hollow segments that ever threatened to close and shut out the world.
He glanced at the car clock; he had been driving for over two hours, and now it seemed like a slow motion dream, conjuring about him a cocoon of isolation. He had often heard of the hypnotic effect of snow and so decided to pull over and rest for a spell.
How long he slept he wasn’t sure for the clock was still and silent when he awoke. He swore softly as he realized he had left the heater on, but his anger faded to fear as the empty click of the starter told him he was stranded for the battery was now completely flat! He realized he would now have to walk for help as the car, like most recent models, had no starting handle fixture.
He got out and made a vain effort to shift the car for snow had built up round the wheels and was impossible to budge. He decided to walk the remaining few miles to the Inn. God knows why the boys picked this place for the annual get-together. He remembered Chalky once saying it was because of the privacy or something.
He had trudged in silent solitude for some thirty minutes and had forsaken hope of a lift when he heard the crunching swish of a car coming up behind him. It was an old red station wagon. He frantically waved his arms for it to stop but the car cruised slowly past him. He was tempted to run after it or shout some remark at the driver when the car slowed and stopped just down the road. Was the driver playing games with him? But no, the rear door swung open, so he ran up and jumped in, exhausted.
He muttered his thanks and lay back in the rear seat. He did not notice the driver’s face but the fellow seemed to be soaked to the skin and in no mood for small talk. He was just getting his breath back when he realized he was being driven very fast; too fast for comfort, considering the condition of the road; which didn’t even seem to be salted. He was about to ask the driver to slow down when they approached a hill. The car took it quite slowly to the top but he sensed danger as it picked up speed going down the other side. When he saw the bend at the foot of the hill he choked with fear, and found the metallic taste of it rise in his throat. His mind went numb and he froze in a state of shock. He realized the car would never make it and would plunge over the parapet and into the river.
As they swept into the bend itself, everything went very quiet for a moment and it seemed as if some giant hand had taken hold of the car and guided it round the deadly corner; there was no screech of tyres, but of course he reasoned there was a cushion of snow on the road. He was still trembling when the car stopped just further on and he quickly jumped out without a word of thanks. He was afraid to speak in case his anger got the better of him. He entered the Inn and was soon lost in a swarm of greetings that surrounded him.
Swallowing a couple of Scotches, he told the boys about the car and the miraculous way it had manoeuvred the bend. When he finished, and by this time everyone was staring silently at him, he looked at the assembled company and asked “Where’s Harry, then?” “You don’t know yet”, said Chalky, “for you weren’t here last year, but Harry was killed on the very bend you spoke of, when his old red station wagon went into the river!”
© Radical Rooney