Page 31 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

The rain has eased and now there’s just a murderous-looking black cloud disappearing towards the east, which is perfect, as we are heading west, to Wales.

Someone comes out from a side door and walks towards their car: a middle-aged woman wearing a smart navy trouser suit. Her heels click on the surface of the driveway and her leather bag swings from her shoulder. When she catches sight of me she stops altogether and stares. Then she changes direction and begins to head my way. I think for a moment what I must look like to her – an ageing hippy with a camper van, stopping for tea on this strip of grass in the grounds of Bishopthorpe Palace with my dog.

‘You can’t camp here,’ she says sharply, and I immediately begin to acquiesce like I always do. But then I change my mind and take another sip of my tea. We’ll be gone shortly, and I’m hardly causing a big problem.

‘I’m not camping,’ I say in my best Waitrose voice. ‘I’m waiting for my friend who has business with the owner. She won’t be long and then we’ll be gone.’

She begins to say something and then seems to decide otherwise. She nods briefly and then turns back towards her car, but Bardo has chosen that exact spot to defecate and I leap out of my chair to clear it up. I can hear her hissing something all the way across the car park. I take my phone out and look up Bishopthorpe Palace, to find out who the owner actually is.

I read from the site that it’s a multi-functional building, hosting working offices, meeting rooms, worship areas and living quarters. The house and its grounds are also used for charity open days, retreats, evening receptions, village fetes and more. Wow, what a place and what an unusual mix of uses. The photo of the building is stunning and I quickly tap on the history to read more. My mouth dries instantly when I see what it really is: the home of the Archbishop of York. It’s only then that I really see all the tabs around the edges of the screen and how often the word archbishop is actually used. The website is even called archbishopofyork.org for goodness’ sake. I am very much going to vacate this patch of grass. I tip the remains of my tea into a flower bed and fold up my chair as quickly as I can. I shuffle Bardo back into the van and even consider parking up the road a bit, but then, Alex reappears sans painting and with a large smile across her lips. My heart leaps a little at the sight of her.

‘All done,’ she says, and I give her a hand back into the passenger seat. She seems to have stopped worrying about my help, but I’m still cautious. Alex can turn on the sharpest of edges.

‘What do we do with this?’ I say, the bag of dog poo swinging from my fingers.

‘We take it with us and pop it in the first bin we come across.’

Bardo wags his tail as I drop his bag of waste into the back of the van. He seems very pleased with himself.

‘Quite the place,’ I say, stepping up into my seat. I should have had coffee, not tea. I feel a bit weary and there’s miles to go. ‘Who bought your painting?’ I ask, but Alex presses her lips together tightly. ‘I looked up who lives here,’ I say. ‘And your dog crapped on his grass.’

‘I cannot betray my client confidentiality,’ she says, with a smirk.

‘Amen to that, then,’ I say, and we both giggle as I turn the key to start the engine. For a moment I think it’s not going to happen. There’s a splutter and I can feel Alex’s hot gaze boring into the side of my head. Then it does start up and I breath an inward sigh of relief. She turns to her phone while I listen to the sounds coming from the engine. I’m not sure how happy it is. I’m pushing it, really.

‘Right, next painting stop is Preston or near enough. It’s a good couple of hours. Do you think that will be all right? Do you think she’ll make it?’ she says, giving me a sideways look. She’s listening to the engine too. ‘If we stick to the A59 it does take a little longer than if we head south and skim Leeds on the motorway, but I know people in Harrogate and Skipton. We could stop there.’

‘You want to visit friends?’ I ask, but she laughs.

‘No, Connie, I don’t want to visit friends, but if we need a garage, I do know people who can help.’

‘Right, of course, but I think it’ll be fine. I promised you it would be, and I keep my promises.’ I say this with a light touch, but no sooner are the words out of my mouth than I want to shovel them back in.

‘Aye, well, that’s why we might need a garage,’ she says grimly.

I pull out of the archbishop’s front garden and back onto the main road. Alex begins her navigation again, but she’s lost her touch and I don’t get any commentary this time as I head away from Bishopthorpe a long-lost friend, her dog and a bag of his poo on board.

*

For the next few miles the road is flat and the fields either side stretch out like parched blankets. It’s been weeks since we had substantial rain and the countryside is showing how it’s feeling the full effects. Everything has a golden, dehydrated tinge to it and even the hardy grasses swaying on the verges look as if they’re praying for a few more drops of water. What we’ve had recently just isn’t enough.

We are quiet inside the van and Alex has her face turned to the window. I’d dearly love to know what she’s thinking about. Is she remembering the past like I am? Is she thinking about how close we were back then and how we could be again if we could only just talk? Or is she focused on her paintings and getting them safely to their new owners?

I want to remind her of all the good times. How we’d hike up into the forest and hold hands while we walked, away from prying and judging eyes. How we’d swim and run and dance and what it felt like to kiss, how wonderful it was to touch. I won’t though, of course I won’t. It would probably be the last I’d see of her.

I sigh and turn on the radio. We haven’t had much music since we’ve been in the van. It’s mostly been Alex and her commentary, but the silence is too much now and I’d like to lighten the mood. I scroll through the stations of chat until I hear music, but as I return my hand to the steering wheel the voice of Kate Bush comes through. This Woman’s Work is playing. I nearly turn it off. The lyrics, although written from a man’s point of view, cut close to the bone. Alex continues to stare out of the window as the song fills the van. Kate singing about words left unsaid and things left undone. It could be the soundtrack to our lives.

I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away and try to stay focused on the road. Alex suddenly turns to me, her eyes shining too, but she’s smiling; no, she’s laughing.

‘For Christ’s sake, Connie, you were always good at killing the mood.’ She turns the dial and finds something with a heavy bass and winds down her window. The breeze blows her hair around her face, but she’s still smiling. My breath catches in my throat. ‘There’s a petrol station just up ahead. Can you pull in? I need some chocolate and a pee,’ she says.

We’re on the outskirts of Knaresborough and Alex directs me to a garage with a Co-op attached to it. I pull in reluctantly. The van is going for now and I want to keep it that way.

I take the opportunity to fill up with fuel and use the toilet too. Alex buys a tonne of chocolate, which she throws into the pocket on the back of her seat before grabbing a ball from her bag. She whistles to Bardo and he trots across the road with her. I back out of the garage and pull up to wait. There’s a sign for Knaresborough Town Football Club. Surely she’s not going to exercise her dog on the pitch! I get out to tell her, but can already see her throwing the ball and Bardo sprinting after it. I get back in and sink in my seat, disassociate myself from the situation.

She’s back after ten minutes with a happy dog who laps at a bowl of water she puts down for him. Now with three empty bladders and a van full of snacks we’re back on our way, the van cooperating for now.

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