The Party Crasher(69)

  “What?” I shout, and the rear window of the estate car descends.

  “On the roof!” comes a disembodied shout. “Violins!”

  For a moment I can’t move. Violins? Violins?

  “Gus,” I say, in a trembling voice as I sit back down. “Did you by any chance leave the violins on the roof of the car?”

  “What?” He jolts. “Shit. No! I…Shit! Did I?”

  “You were pretty distracted,” I remind him.

  “But I can’t have— Fuck!” He shoots me a wide-eyed look. “No!”

  “That’s why everyone’s waving!”

  “Oh God.” He’s silent, then swivels his head briefly. “OK, quick, Effie. You need to get them.”

  “Do what?”

  “Just climb out onto the roof and get them,” he says, almost impatiently. “Simple.”

  Simple?

  “You climb out on to the roof and get them!” I retort, glaring at him. Then, almost against my will, I lean out of the car again. I pull myself up, using the window frame as leverage, and catch a glimpse of violin case—then a Mercedes zooms past, making me scream and duck back in again.

      “There’s not a chance in hell I’m climbing up there,” I say breathlessly. “You’ll have to stop the car.”

  “I can’t! If I stop the car, they’ll fly off!”

  A snort of laughter rises up through me before I can stop it.

  “It’s not funny!” exclaims Gus hotly.

  “I know.” I clap a hand over my mouth. “Sorry. It’s very bad. It’s a terrible situation. What do we do?”

  “OK. I need to stop gradually,” he says, staring ahead tensely. “Decrease our momentum little by little. Yes. I should be able to work it out. If P is momentum and M is mass—”

  “Gus, we’re not in a bloody maths problem!” I erupt, although to be fair, this is exactly like a maths problem. I can even see it on the exam paper: Gus and Effie are driving in a car with two violins balanced on top (see diagram).

  “I’m just trying to think it through!” he snaps back irascibly.

  “Well, you’ve forgotten we’re on a dual carriageway! We can’t stop gradually.”

  “Shit.” Gus screws up his face. “Shit! This is…OK. Let’s think. Maybe I can turn off at the next exit. Very gently. Before anything happens to them.”

  “But how long are they going to balance on the roof for?” I demand. A bump answers my question and we both jump.

  “Fuck! That was a violin!”

  “Stop the car!”

      As Gus frantically signals and pulls off the road onto the verge, there’s another bump. I scramble out of the car and see something black on the road, already meters behind us. As I watch, the tire of a passing lorry crushes it with ease, and I wince.

  “One violin is toast!” I call.

  “This can’t be happening,” says Gus wildly, as he gets out. “It cannot be happening. How did I leave them on the car?” At that moment his phone buzzes, and he winces as he glances down. “It’s Romilly. She says, if I like, I can stay to hear the lesson.”

  “It’ll be tuneful,” I say, biting my lip.

  “Oh God.” An almighty roar of laughter breaks through Gus, as though months of unbearable tension are being let out, and he clasps his head tightly in his hands. “Oh God.”

  As we’re standing there, a car pulls up on the verge, and an old lady gets out, followed by a teenage boy.

  “We saw it all!” she says. “So distressing!” She pats Gus’s heaving shoulder as though to console him. “But luckily my grandson was able to salvage some pieces.”

  “There was a gap in the traffic,” says the boy. “I picked up what I could.” He thrusts a bundle of pulverized bits of twirly wood and dangling strings at Gus, who stares wordlessly at them.

  “Thank you,” he manages at last. “Very helpful.”

  “Perhaps it could be mended?” suggests the old lady earnestly. She plucks at one of the strings, which gives a dismal twang. “They can do wonders these days.”

  “Maybe.” Gus seems about to explode again. “Well…we’ll deal with it. Very helpful of you.”

      As the woman and her grandson drive off, we sink down on the grassy verge. Gus dumps the assortment of shattered wood fragments and strings on the grass and stares up at the sky.

  “Well, there we are,” he says. “I guess it really is over now.”

  “Guess so.” I pat his shoulder, just like the old lady did. “Now, go on. Make the call.”





  Half an hour later, we pull back into the drive of Greenoaks. Gus parks the car and we both exhale.

  “It could have been worse,” I say after a moment. “Imagine if we’d driven to Clapham. She might have actually torn your head off and fed it to the wolves, rather than just threatening to.”