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We bowled down the road, nearly losing it on an 'S' bend, until miraculously we reached the main Swindon-Cirencester road. It was a no right turn but we did anyway, to a chorus of screeching tyres and angry car horns. Havisham accelerated off, and we had just approached the top of the hill when we came across a large 'diversion' sign blocking the road. Havisham thumped the steering wheel angrily.
'I don't believe it!' she bellowed.
'Road closed?' I queried, trying to hide my relief. 'Good – I mean, good-ness gracious, what a shame. Another time, eh?'
Havisham clunked the Special into first gear and we moved off round the sign and motored down the hill.
'It's him, I can sense it!' she growled. 'Trying to steal the speed record from under my very nose!'
'Who?' I asked.
As if in answer another racing car shot past us with a loud 'poop poop!'.
'Him,' muttered Havisham as we pulled off the road next to a speed camera. 'A driver so bad he is a menace to himself and every sentient being on the highways.'
He must have been truly frightful for Havisham to notice. A few minutes later the other car returned and pulled up alongside.
'What ho, Havisham!' said the driver, taking the goggles from his bulging eyes and grinning broadly. 'Still using Count "Snaill" Zborowski's old slowpoke Special, eh?'
'Good afternoon, Mr Toad,' said Havisham. 'Does the Bellman know you're in the Outland?'
'Of course not!' yelled Mr Toad, laughing. 'And you're not going to tell him, old girl, because you're not meant to be here either!'
Havisham was silent and looked ahead, trying to ignore him.
'Is that a Liberty aero-engine under there?' asked Mr Toad, pointing at the Special's bonnet, which trembled and shook as the vast engine idled roughly to itself.
'Perhaps,' replied Havisham.
'Ha!' replied Toad with an infectious smile. 'I had a Rolls-Royce Merlin shoehorned into this old banger!'
I watched Miss Havisham with interest. She stared ahead but her eye twitched slightly when Mr Toad revved the car's engine. In th
e end, she could resist it no more and her curiosity got the better of her disdain.
'How does it go?' she asked, eyes gleaming.
'Like a rocket!' replied Mr Toad, jumping up and down in his excitement. 'Over a thousand horses to the back axle – makes your Higham Special look like a motor mower!'
'We'll see about that,' replied Havisham, narrowing her eyes. 'Usual place, usual time, usual bet?'
'You're on!' said Mr Toad. He revved his car, pulled down his goggles and vanished in a cloud of rubber smoke. The 'poop poop' of his horn lingered on as an echo some seconds after he had gone.
'Slimy reptile,' muttered Havisham.
'Strictly speaking, he's neither,' I retorted. 'More like a dry-skinned land-based amphibian.'
It felt safe to be impertinent because I knew she wasn't listening.
'He's caused more accidents than you've had hot dinners.'
'And you're going to race him?' I asked slightly nervously.
'And beat him too, what's more,' she replied, handing me a pair of bolt-cutters.
'What do you want me to do?' I asked.
'Open up the speed camera and get the film out once I've done my run.'
