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A Ride For Miss M
By Vanessa Gebbie
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Ambrosia Martin and Selwyn the peripatetic librarian had been in a meaningful
and energetic relationship for some weeks. Selwyn, who was acutely aware that he
had to make up for lost time, was trying to be inventive. Having waited for
certain experiences longer than most, he wanted to keep these as fresh and
exciting as possible. His imagination was working flat out, as he filled
the shelves of the mobile library, ready for its next visit to Miss Martin’s
hometown. He held a colourful tome ready for the cookery section, with a garish
cover depicting some sort of glutinous sweetmeat, and toyed idly with the idea
of covering the naked Miss Martin with something delicious, then slowly and
seductively licking it off her. The idea was fine, until two things got in the
way. Jenkins the cat, and his, Selwyn’s, own tastes. Selwyn could picture
Jenkins arriving uninvited at the feast, noisily licking whatever it was off
Miss Martins, and quite killing the moment. Also, the only thing Selwyn really
liked on his bread was Sandwich Spread, and he didn’t think springing a bath
of this on Miss Martin would have the desired effect. The idea of his
arriving at Miss Martin’s house clutching a bunch of crysanths and a catering
pack of Sandwich Spread brought on a bout of depression.
Selwyn went round distracted, and even catalogued some new books incorrectly.
After a while however, inspiration appeared shyly round the corner. Distant
memories surfaced, and slowly revealed themselves to be quite inspirational as
they came into focus. He recalled a visit to a nearby town with a film
club, and a viewing of a rather second-rate but educational film that included
steamy scenes in the back of a car. He resolved to give it a go.
There was only one small flaw in this embryonic erotic plan, and that was the
lack of a vehicle. Although he had learned to drive years ago, Selwyn had never
seen his way to affording a car of his own, and when one was needed, he borrowed
one, usually from one of two trusted sources, Idris and Hank.
Idris ap Griffiths was an old school chum, a regular of “The Prince of
Wales,” and a reader of Dennis Wheatley. Idris was rapidly being promoted
through the ranks at the local undertakers. One of the perks of the job was the
use of the hearse when it was not otherwise occupied. Depending on
bookings, Idris was quite happy for Selwyn to take the hearse on occasion, and
to date, this arrangement had worked satisfactorily. That evening in the pub,
regulars could have overheard the following:
”Here’s your snowball, Idris, and a packet of Salt and Vinegar... is that
right?”
“Diolch, Selwyn, perfect. Duw, there’s a
day I’ve had. I stopped for a fag between jobs, forgot the time, had to rush
to collect dead Mrs. Roberts, and got done for speeding on the way back to the
depot.”
“Oh, there’s a shame, still, Mrs. Roberts
wouldn’t worry would she?”
“No. S’pose not. Now, what did you want to
see me about? Borrow the hearse again is it? What for this time?”
Selwyn told him. Idris paused in mid-snowball, and coughed.
“You mean in the back of the hearse?”
“That’s right.” Selwyn took a sip of his
cider. “I could cover the runners with a blanket, I thought. What do you
think?”
Idris, if nothing else, was dedicated to his job, therefore the needs of his
customers were paramount, and he was not about to offend anyone, alive or
otherwise. “I can’t see dead Mrs. Roberts liking it very much,” he
said. “She has to travel along those runners after you.”
So that had come to nothing, which was disappointing, the hearse having the
potential of such a lot of room in the back... at least you knew you could lie
down in a hearse. Still....
That left Hank. On reflection, Selwyn thought he might be a better bet after
all.
Hank Harris, another old school chum, had been christened Hengist Harris, as his
mother was half way through a very good course on Viking history when he was
born. Following a birthday trip to Florida at the age of nine, he had changed
his name to Hank, and become an Americanophile in the extreme. He was never seen
without his Stetson, and his prize possession and only means of livelihood was a
large pink Chevrolet. This had white-wall tyres, a column change, and very
prominent chrome bumpers both front and rear. He had named the car Dolly Parton
after his favourite singer. Dolly had a neon sign on her roof announcing herself
to be: “Paradise Taxis,” and a slogan painted in gold ran along both her
sides, thus: “Every Trip is a Trip to Heaven.” The Wesleyan Minister had
objected, as he found it threatening, until Hank pointed out that his trips were
much shorter and quicker than the Minister’s, and that if they all ended up in
the same place then what was the matter?
“Paradise Taxis” had been doing rather well recently, as several regular
customers had used Dolly’s services to get them as far as Cardiff for the
Rugby... and back. Hank had increased the fare to cover the spillage, and with
the residue he had installed a tannoy system in Dolly, through which he could
broadcast either music (Country and Western, naturally) or announcements to the
listening populace as he drove through the town. He had stocked up with Dolly
Parton recordings, taped off his old vinyl collection playing on an elderly and
often arthritic Dansette, which lent an interesting twist to records as it
played at varying speeds throughout.
Learning from his mistake of being rather too explicit with Idris, Selwyn
procured the use of Dolly for an evening on the pretext to going to visit his
elderly uncle who lived some twenty miles further into Wales.
***
Miss Martin was ready. In fact, she had been ready for about two hours, and was
checking her new lipstick shade “The Mystery of Mauve” for the umpteenth
time, when she heard music. Country and Western music. Loud Country and Western
music, which was getting louder by the minute. The doorbell rang. Selwyn had
been very mysterious on the phone, and had just said that they were going out,
and to bring a cushion. He stood on the doorstep, wearing a wide grin. Behind
him, parked nonchalantly in the street, engine purring, and attracting not a
little interest from the residents was Dolly Parton. The strains of
“Stand By Your Man” were slowing down to a growl as the tannoy picked up and
amplified the last dying part of Hank’s tape. Miss Martin and Selwyn locked up
and walked to the car. As if to welcome them the loudspeaker emitted a loud
purring sound, together with what sounded like a burp. “Jenkins...” muttered
Selwyn, marching to the door. He had left the window open; Jenkins had jumped
in, and was becoming frantically aroused by the microphone. Selwyn was
determined that the wretched Jenkins should not scupper this romantic journey.
“Out you go,” he said between clenched teeth as he ejected the cat none too
gently. Miss Martin settled herself into the passenger side of the bench seat.
“Oh, this is lovely,” she said, patting the cream leather. Dolly’s
throaty engine increased in volume. Selwyn smiled enigmatically, and crunched
the gears: “You just wait.”
***
Dolly Parton made her regal way deeper and deeper into the countryside, down
ever-decreasing lanes. She slowed down eventually as Selwyn persuaded her
through an open gateway into a field. They bumped somewhat unceremoniously
across the tussocks, until they stopped at the very edge, well away from the
lane, under an overhanging ash tree growing in the hedge. Selwyn switched
off the ignition, and turned to Ambrosia, one arm along the back of the bench
seat. “Here we are,” he said. Miss Martin looked round. “And where’s
that?” she asked suspiciously, eying the muddy and churned ground outside the
car. “Providence.” said Selwyn. “Providence” was the name of a farm
owned by Horace Hughes, yet another of Selwyn’s old school friends, but this
time, he had not asked permission, for he knew that the said friend was away for
the day on a trip to market with his best ram. The ram was to be sold, so
Horace had said, as he was a fertile and expensive pedigree beast, and Horace
was hoping to replace him with a cheaper version, and maybe a few ewes into the
bargain. The field was therefore quiet, and gloriously empty. Selwyn leaned over
to the back seat, from which he produced a basket, containing a bottle of
champagne and two glasses, together with a small packet of sandwiches. Miss
Martin blushed and giggled as Selwyn handed her the glasses. Then, and with not
a little twisting, screwing and pulling at arms length, he uncorked the bottle,
causing a parabola of foam to cascade into the waiting glasses. He took one from
Miss Martin, and held out the accompanying delicacies... “Sandwich Spread?”
he enquired, innocently.
A little later, Selwyn realised that he ought to have manoeuvred Miss Martin
into the back seat, but things had moved on a little too quickly for that, as
she was, having drunk two glasses of Mr. Evan’s best champagne, rather
willing. Dolly Parton’s front seat thus became the site of a very
successful interlude, one that came up to Selwyn’s expectations in every way,
and even surpassed them in one or two.
Horace, having been to market, having sold his ram for a good sum, and having
purchased a replacement cheaper version and a convenient harem, had returned
home later that afternoon, via several watering holes of his acquaintance.
Backing his horsebox none too steadily into the gateway of the field, he had set
his new charges free in a haze of alcohol, only just remembering to shut the
gate behind them, and then he had gone home to sleep off the days exertions.
The sheep tumbled about the field, sticking together in a large mass of greyish
wool on thirty-odd spindly legs. The ram, angered by his ignominious bundling
into the trailer, partitioned from his women, was feeling the need to assert his
position fast, and he careered after the sheep with a hopeful and somewhat
desperate look in his eye. Understandably, the women, having just endured a
stop-start journey, in which Horace had consumed all the drinks and offered none
to them, were in no mood for frivolity. They rushed away from the ram in an
unbreakable knot, and took refuge between a convenient large pink car and the
nearby hedge.
The ram continued his charge, his devious intent obvious. When he got closer he
was enraged to see his harem being sheltered by Dolly Parton, the interloper,
rocking purposefully on her white wall tyres. At some point in the proceedings
Miss Martin’s foot had knocked against the control button of the tannoy,
switching on the microphone again. The sheep were listening with varying
degrees of interest to the sounds emanating from the loudspeaker. The ram,
believing this to subvert his new authority, pawed the ground and challenged
Dolly to a duel. All she did was continue to rock and to make odd noises. This
insolence enraged the ram beyond endurance, and he charged at Dolly, butting her
rear bumper hard, causing her to rock even more.
“
Oh Selwyn, you are amazing,” the loudspeaker said to the sheep.
The ram continues to assault Dolly’s rear. The loudspeaker continued to regale
the sheep with choice words of love. Then, four things happened almost
simultaneously. The ram’s horns became caught under Dolly’s bumper.
Selwyn’s elbow caught the handbrake lever and moved it a fraction. Miss
Martin’s foot hit the tape controls, and Horace, having fallen into a pleasant
doze by the Aga, was woken by loud pop music coming from the direction of his
new sheep. Cursing, he pulled on his coat to go and see what had happened.
Reaching the field, he stumbled sleepily in the direction of the music.
A bright pink car was slowly bumping her way down the gentle incline at the end
of the field, pushed from behind by his new ram. Horace blinked, and shook his
head to clear it. The vision persisted. A line of sheep followed the ram, whose
head was down, shoving the car for all he was worth... or so it seemed. This
procession was accompanied by the strains of “Stand by Your Man” rising and
falling in pitch as the car rocked its gentle way towards the duck pond.
Horace shrugged, and turned to go back to his warm kitchen. “That’s the last
time I go to The Red Fox," he
vowed. “I knew the ale was off.”
____________________
Vanessa Gebbie says: “I was born. I was potty
trained and learned to talk. Then there was no stopping me. V, I thought, what's
the pinnacle of achievement in life? What is Nirvana apart from a group?
And verily it came to me one night, Defenestration. I subbed by pigeon, was
accepted by limerick. Three times. Life was sweet. But the downside...? What is
there to live for, now? Now that I've been here? Three bloody times? Oh God,
life is so cruel….” (Dies).
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