a criticism but a truthful observation, and I’m allowed to make truthful observations whenever I want.”
Ollie was suddenly regretting the two pints of slightly stale milk and feeling decidedly green on the inside, so without too much further argument he climbed out and dropped the keys into Skint’s hand.
They began.
Ollie had to get him to pull over before they’d even left the driveway as he scrambled out and vomited discreetly behind a triffid. He was half-expecting a cool hand to land on his neck in that comforting buddy-buddy way it had the day before, but Skint remained in the car, staring ahead. His gaze might have been thoughtful, but as he had the dark shades on again, it was hard to tell. Ollie wasn’t all that fussed what the man was thinking. It was his car. The silence, however, was worse than a lecture, so as they were descending the hill to the highway, Ollie was debating lightening the mood with a witty observation on vomit, but Skint interrupted his thoughts with, “Route?”
“Huh?” Jesus. Six years at Cambridge and huh was the result.
“Which way? You’ll have to navigate.”
“Navigate?” Ollie almost laughed, but his head was hurting so he didn’t. “There’s only one road.” He pointed left. “Just keep going.”
“One road?”
“One road to Invercargill, although I don’t think anyone has ever gone there and actually confirmed it exists. One road to Christchurch, or where Christchurch used to be, and one road west to the lakes. That’s it.”
“Blimey.”
“It’s because of the Moas.”
“The Moas? Those big, extinct ostrich things?”
“Absolutely. They had set paths between their nesting grounds—they ran of course, as they couldn’t fly—and when the Maoris ate them all, they kept the pathways as sacred routes to honour the food. Then we came, and it was obviously the easiest way through the bush.”
Skint appeared to be thinking about this, his mouth pursed, his fingers tapping on the wheel. Ollie reckoned his version of history was as likely as any official one, and who was going to call him on it?
Skint drove smoothly and much slower than Ollie would have. But Ollie had never worried too much about losing his licence. Or his life, come to that. This man clearly didn’t live enough in the now. After half an hour, Skint was clearly starting to get restless, checking his mirrors, frowning. After another five minutes, he muttered, “I need some lunch. When’s the next village?”
Ollie consulted his watch. “About two hours.”
“What! But…”
Ollie suddenly grinned and rummaged in the glove box. “Shortbread?”
§§§
Feeling a lot better after a large pasta meal in Alexandra, Ollie took over the driving. They were coming to the start of the scenic part of the trip, and he wanted Skint to be able to enjoy it fully. Concentrating on the road also meant he didn’t feel the need to make conversation, which he had as a passenger. For some reason, the one thing he’d always relied on, his quick tongue and acerbic wit, utterly deserted him whenever he got to within striking distance of this man. And thinking of it as striking distance was probably a big clue as to why he felt continual awkwardness around Skint.
Skint now seemed fascinated by the parade of blossom passing them by from the vineyards and fruiters that lined both sides of the road. It wasn’t so much that it was blossom, but that it was there in October. Six weeks wasn’t nearly long enough to overcome the brain’s natural tendency to think in seasons. Say October; envisage golden leaves, harvest festivals, conkers, and chestnuts. Christmas in the summer—it defied belief. And it was much hotter here in Central than it had been down on the coast in Dunedin. The tarmac gave off an evocative smell beneath the tyres, the scent of the flowers disturbingly invigorating. Again, Ollie felt that sense of hollowness in his core, the need for something he couldn’t identify—clearly not
Ollie was suddenly regretting the two pints of slightly stale milk and feeling decidedly green on the inside, so without too much further argument he climbed out and dropped the keys into Skint’s hand.
They began.
Ollie had to get him to pull over before they’d even left the driveway as he scrambled out and vomited discreetly behind a triffid. He was half-expecting a cool hand to land on his neck in that comforting buddy-buddy way it had the day before, but Skint remained in the car, staring ahead. His gaze might have been thoughtful, but as he had the dark shades on again, it was hard to tell. Ollie wasn’t all that fussed what the man was thinking. It was his car. The silence, however, was worse than a lecture, so as they were descending the hill to the highway, Ollie was debating lightening the mood with a witty observation on vomit, but Skint interrupted his thoughts with, “Route?”
“Huh?” Jesus. Six years at Cambridge and huh was the result.
“Which way? You’ll have to navigate.”
“Navigate?” Ollie almost laughed, but his head was hurting so he didn’t. “There’s only one road.” He pointed left. “Just keep going.”
“One road?”
“One road to Invercargill, although I don’t think anyone has ever gone there and actually confirmed it exists. One road to Christchurch, or where Christchurch used to be, and one road west to the lakes. That’s it.”
“Blimey.”
“It’s because of the Moas.”
“The Moas? Those big, extinct ostrich things?”
“Absolutely. They had set paths between their nesting grounds—they ran of course, as they couldn’t fly—and when the Maoris ate them all, they kept the pathways as sacred routes to honour the food. Then we came, and it was obviously the easiest way through the bush.”
Skint appeared to be thinking about this, his mouth pursed, his fingers tapping on the wheel. Ollie reckoned his version of history was as likely as any official one, and who was going to call him on it?
Skint drove smoothly and much slower than Ollie would have. But Ollie had never worried too much about losing his licence. Or his life, come to that. This man clearly didn’t live enough in the now. After half an hour, Skint was clearly starting to get restless, checking his mirrors, frowning. After another five minutes, he muttered, “I need some lunch. When’s the next village?”
Ollie consulted his watch. “About two hours.”
“What! But…”
Ollie suddenly grinned and rummaged in the glove box. “Shortbread?”
§§§
Feeling a lot better after a large pasta meal in Alexandra, Ollie took over the driving. They were coming to the start of the scenic part of the trip, and he wanted Skint to be able to enjoy it fully. Concentrating on the road also meant he didn’t feel the need to make conversation, which he had as a passenger. For some reason, the one thing he’d always relied on, his quick tongue and acerbic wit, utterly deserted him whenever he got to within striking distance of this man. And thinking of it as striking distance was probably a big clue as to why he felt continual awkwardness around Skint.
Skint now seemed fascinated by the parade of blossom passing them by from the vineyards and fruiters that lined both sides of the road. It wasn’t so much that it was blossom, but that it was there in October. Six weeks wasn’t nearly long enough to overcome the brain’s natural tendency to think in seasons. Say October; envisage golden leaves, harvest festivals, conkers, and chestnuts. Christmas in the summer—it defied belief. And it was much hotter here in Central than it had been down on the coast in Dunedin. The tarmac gave off an evocative smell beneath the tyres, the scent of the flowers disturbingly invigorating. Again, Ollie felt that sense of hollowness in his core, the need for something he couldn’t identify—clearly not
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