Driving with Jehu

By Ronnie Bray It seemed like a good idea at the time. The top half of Lockwood Cemetery was the Victorian end where no one visited anymore, all part of the remoteness of death and the fact that few people know their grandparents very well or care for them at all. Yet still stand the sentinels that were to mark the resting place of beloved parents, and sometimes children, forever in the memories of their living kin, but who now are as if they had never lived. It does not take long to reach that status once death has overtaken us. We had taken flowers to Normas grave; our weekly visit to that hallowed spot, where we tended and cared for her memorial and its surroundings, before standing and weeping together over our memories and our anticipations, lost in the sense of powerlessness that we may taste at other times, but only know face to face at the death of a loved one. Driving away from her graveside was always as difficult as it had been on that day when I laid her to rest in the earth among places where some of her friends would someday rest, but Norma knew that life had to continue and she had given me some very explicit directives the week of her death or I would have gladly sought lodging with her. When the worst of the winter 1999 had passed and mildness took away the teeth of winters frosts and snows, persuading the fresh green buds on the low boughs of the woodyard trees to open, like a childrens eyes at dawn, and the bright blades of daffodils slid upwards through the melting earth, and squirrels were initiating complaints from gardeners after their winter absences, I suggested to Gay that she should practice her driving so that she could enjoy more freedom by going where she wanted when she wanted. Gay was willing to try although she did say something about our Russian Lada Car being a stick shift and the gear stick being on the wrong side, but in England all cars are stick shifts so that is normal, and where else would the gear stick be but on the left? Heading up the hill to the main entrance road to the cemetery, I nosed the car onto the narrow road that ran around the Victorian end, knowing that no other vehicular traffic would be present or likely to arrive that Saturday morning. I left the car facing the short straight part of the road so that Gay would have a nice straight piece of road on which to get used to the car before having to negotiate any corners. We changed places. Gay settled into the drivers seat and adjusted her mirrors. Ahead, the road narrowed a little before describing a tight arc to turn uphill to the right. She turned the key and the engine purred into life. Her right hand searched for the gear lever as she bent her head down below the steering wheel to find the clutch pedal. Its over here, darling, I warbled sweetly. Her head came up to look at me, and her face betrayed the slightest dissatisfaction with the gear lever being on the non-American side of the car, but as everything else was on the wrong side, what else could she expect? She grabbed the stick a little fiercely as if it was to blame for its location and depressing the clutch pedal she put the Lada into first gear, hit the gas a little, and eased the clutch out and she was on her way.

It was easy to see that the bend came too soon, for she was struggling to find the elusive lever to shift into second and almost forgot to steer. The low wall above which the thick hedge grew seemed alarmingly close to my side of the car, and I thought this was worth mentioning to her. You are running into the hedge, I breathed, as casually and indifferently as I could. The speed with which she recovered was amazing. We turned into the corner with a determination that would have frightened Jehu, and I was not one whit behind the bold charioteer. Gay collapsed into laughter and brought the car to a shuddering halt. I cant do this, said the colonial. All my affirmations availed nothing, and it did not seem to help when I told her that I was sure that some of the old Victorian graves had opened and their inhabitants had fled for the hilltop clutching their winding sheets. We enjoyed the moment, but Gay decided not to drive in England. She was, she said, afraid of getting lost in the winding streets that strayed today where the sheep had strayed yesteryear. She had a point. She was used to the chequerboard layout of the American west where you could not get lost if you could read and count. In England, my premise is that you knew where you were by the shape and composition and contents of each unique stretch of road or street. There was no meeting of the minds. Gays English driving epoch was short, remarkably fast, and, like the Old Testament charioteer Jehus, furious.

Copyright October 2001 Ronnie Bray All rights reserved