The Coach Party

 

The red icon flashed malevolently on my dash.

Low on petrol.  On a motorway.

I’d passed a service station a few miles back, a gaudily lit affair with a wide bridge spanning the road.  I hadn’t even glanced at the petrol gauge.  And I hadn’t noticed the sign telling me the distance to the next services. I was going to pay heavily for my inattention.

Come on, I said.  Come on. Don’t let me down.

You get foolish when helpless.

On my own, late winter, dark evening, the road lit only by pairs of headlights – those in my mirror creeping slowly up behind me, those on the other carriageway passing at a relative 140 mph. Or more. My turn off was at the next junction fifteen miles away and the last road sign had given the distance to my destination. Only thirty seven miles to go in total, but I wasn’t going to make it.

I moved over to the outside lane, slowing down in the hope I’d use less fuel. I didn’t relish a sojourn on the hard shoulder. I know the stats. Between 2000 and 2004 nearly a thousand people were injured on the hard shoulder on English roads and nearly seventy killed.  Many had run out of fuel.

Where was my mobile?  I fumbled in the side pocket, swerving.  An overtaking car hooted as I straightened up.  No, not there. Not slung on the passenger seat with the maps. Oh yes, in my holdall in the boot.  I’d dropped it in without thinking as I finished packing. New job, new town, staying a couple of nights with my supervisor’s family while I found digs. Starting over. Putting the past behind me. Stupid! As if there is anywhere else to put the past.

A pantechnicon swerved out behind me and lumbered past like a moving cliff. A double container lorry, tyrannosaurus, loomed up, thundering into the middle lane.  My small car shuddered at its passing.

A services sign.

Already?

Half a mile.

They build them close together on this stretch.

The icon mocked silently.  I laughed, ignoring it. Even if the car doesn’t make it, I can walk.

After refuelling I visited the shopping area. A small building by today’s standards. No breakdown insurance salesmen welcoming with false smiles. No automatic doors. The chill air gusted in with me as I pushed my way into the lobby. No shops or stalls, no maps or leaflets of local attractions, no bunches of drooping flowers.  One rack of dogeared magazines and a rundown cafeteria, the lights dim and the tables covered in debris. Half a dozen guys sat silently at separate tables.

Why would anyone want to eat in this dump when there was a cheerful up to date service station only a few miles behind us?

I visited the gents, bought a computer magazine. Walked around a bit getting my bearings after the long journey south. Mobiled Geoff  I’d be with him shortly. Slowly the tension of my recent anxiety left me as I relished the quiet after hours of constant motorway hum. I was anticipating an interesting future.  Free of responsibility. At peace with myself and the world. No hurry.

Eventually I bought a strong coffee and blueberry muffin and settled down with my magazine, but before I could open it cold air surged round the tables as the doors groaned open and a coach load of elderly folk grumbled their way into the cafeteria. They queued with the grouchy fatalism of Brits everywhere before carrying cordilleras of chips and overweight beefburgers scattered frugally with healthy salad to their chosen tables.

Next to me a pink tracksuited female with heavy dewlaps ordered her man to clear away the greasy dishes left by former eaters. She collapsed onto the nearest chair, its tattered leatherette and chrome bouncing in terror as her immense thighs flopped either side of the seat.  Her eau de cologne perfume eclipsed the stench of overused cooking oil. I knew which I preferred and I half rose to find a more congenial place but she started to moan at volume that the chair pinched. Table filthy.  How could anyone eat at such . . . her complaining faded away as she waddled away. Her man followed like a forlorn duckling.

Her place was taken by a screech of grandmothers with unnaturally dyed hair. I didn’t want to hear how daughter’s marriage had broken up because son-in-law was (unmentionable), of course I didn’t, but it was unavoidable. The dubious sex lives of the neighbours; did I really want to know? Or about drug addicted grand children and the failure of family discipline?

There weren’t many men in the party. Worn to an early death no doubt by the constant nag nag. A few huddled together in a distant corner, eyeing the women in predictable trepidation. Any singletons among you, brothers?  Watch out. A determined widow is scarier than a hungry lion on the loose.

One of the younger men sat himself at my table without so much as a by-your-leave. Yes, he told me, breathing alcohol fumes all over me, they were on their way to Plymouth for an oldies’ out of season week.  Coach broke down near Birmingham and they were all late.

Like the other men his hair was grey but it was well cut, neat, almost severe. Dark red sweatshirt over black trousers. Casual but smart.  Well built, not fat.  He talked about the motorways, nerves of the country he called them. ‘Ridden with multiple sclerosis,’ he joked but he wasn’t smiling. ‘South Mimms! Ever tried to get to the service station anticlockwise from the M25? Five sets of traffic lights. Four more when you rejoin the motorway. Or the M1 and M62 interchange? Traffic from Newcastle, Manchester, Sheffield, Leeds all meeting at one roundabout. Rush hour! Don’t even think about it!’ He shook his head and whiffs of alcohol assaulted my nostrils.

I broke in with my story of the unfinished Wirral motorway but he ignored me.

‘Black Cat in Beds. Don’t ever go there. Or Great Barr interchange.’ I guessed he’d been a traveller before taking early retirement. He looked at his watch. ‘It’s seven thirty,’ he said emphatically. Then he repeated, ‘Remember that, seven thirty.’ He stirred his coffee with a plastic stick. Then he took a flat bottle from his back trouser pocket and added a large dollop. Knocked it back with relish. ‘Women,’ he said. ‘Deserting you. After all her promises.’

I made a sympathetic noise, but I couldn’t blame her. Who’d want an alcoholic partner like him?

‘You’re young. You don’t know what they’re like. She took the kids,’ he protested. ‘Went to her mother’s.’ He eyed the old dears at the next table. ‘Just like them, her mother.  Pulling people to pieces. I was never good enough for her lovely daughter. Huh!  She should see her daughter in a rage. Throwing things. Swearing. Never heard a woman swear so bad.’

He went for a second coffee and repeated the addition. ‘Going far?’

I shrugged. Not his business.

He glared at me with bleary eyes. ‘Not very chatty are you?’

I got up.

He pushed back his chair and the table creaked as he leant on it. He stared at me belligerently, then turned away, mumbling to himself.  I read the logo on the back of his sweat shirt, but didn’t appreciate its significance until I was driving past the coach park. There was only one coach. It had the same logo painted on its side.

I rejoined the busy road telling myself it was impossible he could be the driver. What firm would employ an obvious alcoholic? And it wasn’t my responsibility.  Was it? Of course it wasn’t.

I slowed onto the hard shoulder. Even obese women in pink track suits and malicious grandmothers deserve a sober driver. I mobiled the police. Checked the time. The driver’s watch was fast; it was just on half past seven now.

Over a welcome meal Geoff and his wife asked about the journey.

Nancy said, ‘So you dropped in to our new motorway services? Only been open a year.’

‘Not up to standard. Small, pokey and dirty.’

They stared in surprise.  ‘Restaurant’s famous.  Guys come there from all over.’

‘Rather them than me. And I was sold an out of date magazine. OK, so I should have checked before buying. I was tired, I guess.’ I passed the offending item to Geoff.

‘Nine years!’ He started to laugh at my stupidity but Nancy said sharply, ‘And today’s the fourth. Have you forgotten?’

He sobered. ‘How could I?’  He turned to me, ‘Do you remember the motorway fire of ninety nine?’

‘I was living in Australia then.’

‘We remember it because Nancy’s mother died in it.  Dreadful. She was going on holiday to Plymouth.  They stopped at the old service station not far from here. Coach driver drove into the petrol station as he exited. Inferno. No one survived.’

‘No one?’ My mouth was strangely dry.

Nancy said angrily, swearing, ‘The driver was drunk.’

I opened my mouth but no words came out.

‘Never rebuilt the place. Eventually replaced it at a different site,’ Geoff said. He paused to eat a mouthful of salmon. ‘Oddly enough, the police were alerted by some guy at the very moment the coach crashed. Seven thirty in the evening. Announcements repeated on Crimewatch asking him to get in touch but they never managed to track him down.’

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