‘I just wanted to be certain, that’s all.’ I could have told him that for nothing.
For the second time, we prepared for ‘take-off.’ Or so it felt. For goodness sake, it was Glasgow, not Timbuktu!
The traffic jam reached us at Doncaster. Mum was tired. Dad was angry. I was fed up and my sister was asleep. Instead of sitting in a queue of foul smell-emitting vehicles, dad pulled up in the service station. My sister woke up suddenly.
‘Are we there yet?’ She asked hopefully. No-one answered. We clambered out of the car and made for the entrance.
‘Mu-ummy can I have some sweets?’ She returned, on cue, clutching a gigantic bag of mints.
‘Can I have some money? Pleeease?’ Dad’s jaw dropped at the sheer size of the bag.
‘You’re not goin-!’
‘Shhh! They’ll keep her quiet!’ Mum prompted tactfully. Dad dug into his pocket, pulling out coins. Had I been younger or a particularly jealous sister, I would have turned green with envy.
‘There!’ He said, pushing them onto the counter. ‘Make them last until we get to Scotland.’ I could bet my life she couldn’t. And wasn’t I right!
Miraculously, all the traffic had cleared when we returned. Dad was especially pleased.
‘When will we be there?’ My sister offered optimistically.
‘Why don’t you stop asking such ridiculous questions, and go to sleep or something?’ I hissed across the back seat. She remained quiet for a considerable amount of time.
We settled down for the next stage of the journey. My sister slept, like an exhausted puppy. She had her precious “blankie” draped round her. Honestly, I don’t know why she persists with that disgraceful thing. Mum keeps trying, to throw it out. It’s more of a mini duvet than a blanket, and if under “blankie” she sucked her thumb, she’d look like a proper toddler!
She awoke when we were almost at Scotch Corner in a foul mood.
‘I’m hungry,’ she announced forcibly. No-one listened. ‘Hello? Are we stopping, ‘cos I’m starving?’
Reluctantly, dad pulled up at the café. She (controversially) announced they made the best bacon rolls in the whole world. Well, she’d definitely travelled the world at the age of nine! Bacon rolls, at eleven o’clock in the morning did not seem such an attractive prospect to me. I opted for water instead. My sister returned clutching a greasy paper bag with a bottle of Irn Bru clamped under her arm. That juice is revolting! It looks too artificial, and how many synthetic colourings must it contain?
With lunch finished, we prepared for the next leg of the journey. The next part (the desolate A66 to Penrith) consists of single carriageway, normally occupied by HGV’s and petrol tankers. It’s depressing when it snows though. We’ve done that journey more times in my lifetime than I can remember. We travelled steadily, over a rough patch of road. My sister selected that moment to unscrew her drink, and preceded to spill it. Everywhere.
The traffic, obligingly ground to a halt, whilst mum assessed the calamitous situation. Dad was impetuous. She was wearing a pair of cream trousers, two weeks old, and what’s more, also to join them in the bin was…beloved ’blankie’.
‘Blankie!’ She wailed. Mum was more concerned about dad’s car interior. And the trousers. And how she’d look in the bungalow of my grandparents in her grimy attire. I, in my tactful manner, spotted the warning printed onto the edge of the label –
“CAUTION: PRODUCT WILL STAIN.”
Both stressed parents now presented themselves in a hyper state of mind. Shutting my eyes tightly, I tried blocking out the sounds of the angry parents an upset little child in the rear. They could at this stage be considered as “scary.” Since we were in the lay-by, mum ordered,
‘Put that in the bin!’
‘No! Don’t do public bins!’
A heavy silence hung over us. I shall spare you of the minor details. She was “placed” outside and then the bottle reached its destiny.
All that was audible now was the unusually heavy fire-breathing of the two people seated at the front of the vehicle. Inhale…exhale…inhale, like angry rhinoceroses, normally confined to “Discovery Animal Planet.”
We continued the nightmare journey, after our latest setback. Dad reached over and turned the radio onto “Five Live.” Dad and I are football fans and wanted to catch any breaking news. As we were travelling on high ground, the reception was patchy. My sister protested; Dad turned it up louder, to compensate for the mediocre reception and partly to annoy her. It’s funny, if I did that, dad would yell at me for “provoking her!”
Eventually, we crossed the border and at last, were on the M8. More traffic, as conventional.
‘I know another route,’ he declared defiantly. Well, he would, wouldn’t he?
We skipped the queues like we were flying.
‘F-f-eel sick.’ My sister announced cautiously. Alarm bells ring.
‘Are you going to be sick?’ Mum asked, gingerly.
‘Dunno!’ She replied. How helpful!
She emptied the remains of her breakfast onto the dewy grass.
‘I told you not to drink that juice too quickly!’ Mum uttered, almost triumphantly.
She rapidly turned a vile shade of green; I winced as she coughed.
We reached the suburbs of Glasgow. The smoke, the smog and the exhaust fumes hit me suddenly. Dad turned the CD down and proceeded to lecture my sister.
‘Now come on, I want you to be very good at your Grandma and Grandpa’s. They don’t get a chance to see you very often, so just try and act normally, eh?’
‘No! Normal people worry me! Who’d want to be normal?’ She retorted bitterly. An ugly silence engulfed the packed car.
‘Carry on like that and you’re not going to the football. Simple as that!’ There was no reply (for once) from my sister. Did she care? No, she knew she’d get go anyway. She always does. No matter how much they threaten or negotiate with her! The ironic thing is that she doesn’t like football. She hates being left out!
We pulled up the long road to the bungalow. I almost breathed a huge sigh of relief! The car ground to a halt in a vacant parking space. All the aggravation and frustration was too much!
‘Come on!’ I yelled impatiently, ‘Let’s get out of here!’
So there we were, sitting on the sofa. My nine year old sister; a glass of juice in one sticky palm and cookies in the other. How could she eat after she’d been sick? But she insists she has a cast-iron stomach. My little sister, a round freckled face, cream trousers (now sporting a tie-dye effect,) and messy hair. Honestly, she seems to favour the “just out of bed look!” She must think it looks natural or something.
My Gran asked,
‘Good journey?’ My dad answered (predictably)
‘Yeah, one of the best we’ve had in a while actually!’
I put my head in my hands and shook my aching head. They just didn’t get it!