Couldn’t Have Happened to a Nicer Bloke Th e Fr o m e Fo s s i l
W
e pedalled towards Tucker’s. There was a cloudless sky above, a dry road beneath, and – from our saddles – we
could see the bluey wooded hills beyond Great Elm and Faulkland in the distance. The first leaves were unfurling in the hedgerows, and the first lambs (now pretty tubby) were bouncing about the fields. Before us dangled the prospect of a pint and a packet of Nobby’s very excellent Nuts. Downsides were few – muddy puddles, clouds of thunder flies, the odd pothole, protruding brambles – as we bowled beatifically along. Then came the cars. Country lanes are narrow and modern cars are big – in some cases, laughably so. Mere cyclists, especially those over seventy, have to be as jumpy and quick-witted as said lambs if they’re going to survive. Keep looking behind, keep listening, go slow round blind bends, be very afraid. And, in fact, most drivers are the soul of courtesy and either slow right down or stop and wave you by as if you were royalty. But a few do not (generally insecure males in gargantuan SUVs). On the final stretch, we heard cars growling up behind us. So we pulled in, left legs braced nonchalantly on the bank, and watched them ease slowly past, before pushing off again up a gentle slope and resuming our lengthy discussion about lawn mowers. But, hist! was that yet another vehicle approaching, at a worrying speed? Yes, it was: a Beamer, of course, and in a hurry. As we scrambled once more into the bank, it roared up, horn blaring. The driver – a smoothlooking gent in a cravat – sneered at us and mouthed something unrepeatable. Then he was gone, over the hilltop. Blessed silence descended.
30
THE LIST FROME
Fo s s i l o n F r o m e
Yet again, we brushed ourselves down and resumed our innocent way. The talk, if I recall rightly, moved on to the planting of early potatoes. But the encounter still hung in the air, like the stench of petrol fumes. We crested the slope and freewheeled round a wooded bend, and there, halfway up the hedge at an angle of forty-five degrees, like a discarded toy, sat cravat man’s car. CM himself stood fuming beside it, and he in turn was being berated by a man whose van he had narrowly missed in his headlong onrush. We cycled silently past, anxious not to spoil this delicious moment.
