Page 43 of The Golden Girls’ Road Trip

‘Why don’t you go and buy some wool and get your bloody blanket done!’ she snaps.

She disappears down the steps and onto the sand, while I watch her go. I am so stupid. I suddenly remember why she might suggest we detour here. It was on our list of places to come when we planned our trip in 1970.

*

We were in her uncle’s boat one day, out on the loch and Alex suddenly said that she wished we could keep going and not look back. I made some stupid joke about the loch having an end and that we wouldn’t get far, but she took great lengths to explain that we could sail right out of the end into Loch Oich and then into the Caledonian Canal and beyond. But she agreed we wouldn’t get far in her uncle’s boat with limited fuel and really she could hardly steal it. She said she’d been thinking about borrowing her brother’s Morris Minor and suddenly we had a plan in motion. We stretched a paper map of the UK out on her bedroom floor and drew rings around the places we wanted to go with a red felt-tipped pen. Aberystwyth was on Alex’s list because her friend had been there on a family holiday and hadn’t stopped talking about it. Alex did think her friend’s enthusiasm was mainly because she’d snogged a lad from the arcade, but we stuck it on the list anyway. Our travel aspirations weren’t terribly exotic at the time.

Neither of us were going to tell our parents. Her brother was working away on a building site in Carlisle and wasn’t using his car. He wouldn’t have minded anyway, apparently. I had saved the small amount of money my aunt had given me for cleaning the hotel, and Alex was planning on raiding her piggy bank and then selling her art on the road. We were irresponsible and stupid and so in love that we couldn’t bear to hang around until someone noticed.

*

I can picture that map with the red ring around this town we’re now leaving. Alex wasn’t gone for long. The rain arrived and put her off of her sulk, so she soon came back. I put the radio on now, and Alex picks up her sketchbook. I keep glancing her way to see what she’s drawing, but she has her book turned towards her, like a child trying to hide their schoolwork. Annoyance radiates from her and it’s a sulky drive as we head south.

We leave the rain behind us and the clouds roll away as we drive through the pretty town of Lampeter. The Welsh flag is flying along the side of the road and bunting hangs from houses and shops. It seems to cheer Alex up a bit and she lowers her drawing and asks if I wouldn’t mind stopping for a takeaway coffee.

‘Left at the mini roundabout,’ she says. ‘Pull in here.’

I manage a first-class parallel park into a bay and can’t help smiling to myself as I switch off the engine.

‘There you go,’ she says bluntly, pointing to the shop next to us. Calico Kate, the sign reads and there’s a sewing machine in the window. ‘You can get some of your wool while I grab some coffees.’ She crosses the road and disappears inside the café opposite. I push the door open to the fabric shop and am delighted to see shelves stacked with wool. The blanket is really taking shape now and I choose a soft sand-coloured wool, reminiscent of the beach at Aberystwyth. It is hard to only buy one ball with all the colours on offer, but that is the rule I’ve set myself, and anyway, I don’t crochet fast enough to buy any more.

I’m happy to see that Alex has bought pastries out with her as I missed my fish and chip lunch and it seems a long time since I nibbled on that tea cake. We set off again leaving the town and its pretty ice-cream-coloured houses behind us, the sky becoming darker still over the hills beyond. We’re losing light fast, despite the fact it isn’t that late, and I switch on my headlights.

Alex still isn’t talking; in fact she’s stuffing her cake into her face and gulping her coffee, but the atmosphere has lifted and as we cross the River Towy just outside Llandovery, she’s almost lost the scowl.

She directs us out of the town before we’ve really got into it and then south on the A40, through a tiny hamlet called Bethlehem and onto the tightest of roads. It’s already rained here because my tyres squelch in a puddle of mud as I take the bend, and for a moment I think I’m going to get stuck, but luckily the tyre gets purchase and eventually we arrive at a converted chapel. The front garden is a collection of old gravestones, which I think is a little gruesome, but the building has been renovated and is a substantial family home. Alex takes a painting from the back and doesn’t say anything, but disappears around the side of the house. I take out the blanket and begin a row in the lemon wool that I casted on last night, and the clouds let go of the downpour they’ve been holding on to. The house disappears from view as the windscreen is battered with huge raindrops. I continue to crochet and try not to think about getting back round that tight, muddy bend. Bardo has curled up in the spot that Alex has vacated and is watching me with no intention of getting out.

‘Yes, I know I’ve messed up with Alex again. What would you do to win her over?’ I ask, but he just lowers his head onto his paws. ‘Well, you’re no use, are you.’

Alex is gone for nearly half an hour and I’m beginning to wonder if she’s hanging the damn thing when she reappears with dripping hair at the side window. She seems more agile today and climbs in without any need of assistance, which is just as well as I don’t fancy getting wet. Bardo climbs between the seats and makes himself comfortable on my sleeping bag. I moved it onto the seat when I was putting stuff in the cupboard and forgot to put it back. I’m about to make him move, but decide that reprimanding the dog of someone I’d like to win over is a bad idea. I’ll just have to shake the hairs off later.

She sits for a moment catching her breath and I bag my blanket and hook ready to get going.

‘Can you check the map and get us out of here? The roads won’t get any easier with this downpour,’ I say, handing my phone over and pulling away from the house. I take the bend in a considered arc, narrowly avoiding losing a wing mirror to the hedge. Alex fiddles with my phone while I take us back up to the point where I remember turning left.

‘Left here,’ she says.

‘I think it must be right, because I thought we turned left to get to the chapel,’ I say, but, in truth, I’m not one hundred per cent sure.

‘No, it’s left,’ she says again, still looking at my phone. And I turn left because she’s the one with technology on her side and really, my memory isn’t what it used to be. This road does look familiar, well, if hedges and trees can be familiar.

‘So, it’s four-thirty now. Are we stopping somewhere or carrying on?’ I ask, hoping she’s going to suggest stopping until the rain eases at least.

‘I thought we could try for Bristol. It’s two hours ish, and then we’re in a better position to be heading down towards Truro tomorrow. But, only if you think you can manage it. Can you manage it, Connie?’ She asks in such a way that makes me feel I have no choice. I remember her doing this before. A question that really isn’t a question, more of a demand, a suggestion that comes with a heavy dose of expectation. ‘I’ve booked us a couple of rooms at The Bristol,’ she adds as if to sweeten the deal. I’m not taken in though. I’d be happier with sleeping in the van here and have Alex in a good mood, but, of course, I don’t suggest this.

‘Sure, if you think it’s best,’ I say.

We trundle along slowly as the wipers are ineffectually clearing the rain from the screen and I can barely see further than a few feet in front of me. If something comes the other way, I’ll be hard pushed to reverse into a passing bay. Alex isn’t looking ahead; she has her eyes firmly on my phone, repeatedly stabbing at the screen.

‘Are you sure this is right?’ I ask, after a sharp left and immediate sharp right. ‘We definitely didn’t do those bends on the way to the chapel.’

‘Well, we’re going a different way now.’

‘We’re trying to get back up to the A40 towards Abergavenny, yes? It skims the top of the Brecon Beacons.’ I try to see the screen, but like her artwork, she has it turned away from me, which is a bit of a cheek, bearing in mind it’s my phone. ‘I think we’re on the Brecon Beacons,’ I say, taking another bend onto an even tighter lane. In fact it’s more of a muddy track. We haven’t passed any buildings or signs for main roads for miles and as we splash through another muddy puddle, I’m wondering how much tighter this track can get. The wing mirrors are clipping the hedging and the overhanging trees are scraping the roof. This lane clearly doesn’t get much traffic.

‘To be honest, Connie, I’m not exactly sure where we are and the signal dropped off a while ago.’

‘I’m going to turn around,’ I say, pushing down my irritation. ‘We’re just heading further towards a dead end, I think.’ There’s a small gap in the hedging and what could be a passing place, so I pull into it and put the van in reverse. The wheels spin and muddy water flies out behind us. I can feel Alex’s eyes on me, but I ignore her and keep trying even though I can feel the back of the van sinking.