Are We Nearly There Yet?

They leave while it's still dark, like they're doing a moonlight flit. Susie’s squashed between her brothers in the back of their Ford Anglia. Richie’s on her left, his long-trousered legs scrunched up against the door as if he’s trying to escape, Bobby’s on her right, his big soft body taking up more than his allocated third. She shoves him away. He laughs, holds his hands up to his eyes like binoculars and squints through them, twisting his head up, down, out the window, into her face.

‘Mum, he’s doing it again,’ she says.

‘Doing it again,’ Bobby sing-songs.

Mum turns in her seat, unimpeded by a seatbelt, reaches through the gap, and slaps his leg. He chuckles. Slaps himself. 

Through the polished windscreen the sky is turning pink, like streaky bacon. They’re the only car on the A31. ‘Beating the traffic,’ Dad says. 

‘Tea?’ Mum holds up the tartan flask. Dad nods. Concentrating on the road. The empty road. Susie holds her breath as Mum passes the small cup into Dad’s outstretched hand. Hot liquid, one-handed driving, anything could happen; a bump in the road, Bobby doing something daft, but Dad’s dexterity is heroic. Tea drunk, he lights a Piccadilly. The familiar smell of burnt tar hits Susie’s throat. She follows the curls of smoke rising above their heads, filling the back of the car, mingling with the scent of cracked leather. Bobby wafts his hands in the air.

‘I’m hungry,’ he says.

Mum and Dad exchange a glance. They always stop for a picnic breakfast at Stonehenge because it’s half way but that look says it’s ages yet. 

‘I’m hungry NOW!’ Bobby says. Susie’s tummy is hollow too but she wouldn’t dare say so.

‘Now, now, now, now, NOW!’ her brother says, bouncing up and down, getting faster and louder. Susie sits very still, shrinking into the back of the seat, waiting for Dad to shout, ‘for Chrissake!’ and stop the car, drag Bobby out, and right there, by the side of the road, smack his bare legs.

But Dad just keeps driving, squashing his cigarette butt into the tiny drawer that's an ashtray. Instead, with deliberate calmness, Mum says, ‘I Spy with My Little Eye,’ and as if she’s cast a spell, Bobby goes quiet and still. He leans forward, like he’s listening.

Susie becomes right-sized again as Mum starts the game.

Richie won’t play, says it’s too childish. Dad can’t, he’s still concentrating on the road.

‘Dog!’ ‘Sky!’ ‘Lorry!’ Bobby calls out in-between Susie’s proper guesses.

She wins Steering wheel, Mum wins Mirror.

‘Car!’ ‘Clouds!’ ‘Shoes! Bobby shouts.

Susie win Indicator, Mum wins Gear stick. And then, Mum says,

‘I spy with my little eye something beginning with double-U,’ and before Susie can say anything, Bobby says, ‘windscreen!’ And he’s right!

There’s a moment of astonished silence. Dad starts to chuckle. Mum joins in, and then they’re all laughing, the whole family.