Writing for Fun
June 2017
Out Of The Mist - Anne Wilson
To children of any age car journeys can seem interminable – the tedium being compounded by lack of scenic distraction. It was therefore with a heavy heart that twins Alex and Damien discovered that much of the route to the family’s intended destination to visit their aunt and uncle would encompass a lengthy journey on one of the dull expediencies otherwise known as a motorway.
Though precocious in many respects for children just approaching their teens, scarcely one junction had passed before each resorted to the child-like venting of their respective spleens by kicking the seats immediately in front, causing inevitable irritation to both parents.
‘Alex, do you mind?’ snapped his father. ‘I’m trying to drive.’
‘It’s not just me,’ said his older offspring by two minutes defensively. ‘Damien’s doing it too.’
‘I know. I can feel it,’ protested the woman in the front passenger seat, who had come to resent giving birth to either.
Too sharp to be unaware of the parody of the question the twins chorused in unison: ‘Is it much further? How long have we got to go before we get there?’
‘Are you being deliberately irritating?’ asked their father.
‘Definitely not,’ the older one countered drily. ‘I just wanted to savour every minute of this fascinating journey.’
‘Why don’t you read something?’ their mother asked, unaware of the attraction of modern technology as a more popular means of passing time for the young. In any event her son’s response negated this possible alternative.
‘I can’t look down,’ was the lament. ‘It makes me feel sick.’
‘Me too,’ came an echo from the back seat.
Although she knew the derision it would cause, the words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.
‘Well, how about a game of I-Spy?’
There were hoots of sarcastic laughter from the passengers behind her.
‘Wow!’ the voice of their elder son boomed in a voice laden with irony. ‘With the mist coming up we’ll be spoilt for choice. It must be one of the best ideas you’ve ever had.’
‘That’s enough,’ warned his father, feeling an obligation to defend his wife’s naiveté.
After a few minutes, vexation gave way to unease. Visibility was diminishing rapidly and the scenery, such as it was, had surrendered itself to a surge of dazzling lights radiating from other vehicles. She touched her husband’s arm and he immediately slowed down. Many other cars were following suit and as they advanced towards the next junction signs flashed before their eyes exhorting cars to reduce their speed.
From the ominous silence at the back of the car she worried that her own concerns may have transmitted themselves and her maternal instinct suddenly rose within her.
‘We haven’t got far to go,’ she said managing to sound remarkably unconvincing, despite her best efforts. ‘As long as everyone drives carefully there shouldn’t be a problem.’
‘Fraulein Maria, I’m scared,’ piped up her elder son, ever the humourist. ‘Can you sing to us?’
‘Alex, will you please shut up,’ said his father testily, gritting his teeth.
As he inched forward the car jolted. He turned the key in the ignition saying a silent prayer that the car would re-start without a problem. Despite infrequent communication with the almighty, it did so, only to stall again after a few yards. This pattern continued and the air turned steadily bluer. His call to the A.A. and the conversation that took place between them was terse and he banged his phone on the dashboard petulantly once he had rung off.
‘This is all your fault,’ he said unreasonably to no-one in particular, looking at his watch. ‘Junction 12. That’s as far as we’ve got. Now we’re going to be stuck here for hours waiting for the emergency services. It’s two thirty now.’
‘They guarantee to be with you within an hour,’ his wife reassured him soothingly.
‘Oh, of course they will be,’ he fumed, demonstrating the inherent sarcasm passed down to his older son. ‘They’re going to create a pathway, turn on their sirens and charge as quickly as possible through a never-ending stream of stationary traffic in nil visibility, just to get us going again.’
She knew in her heart or hearts he was right and decided not to voice another opinion, as was her usual custom. ‘What’s the time?’ asked Damien, after a couple of minutes, taking the easy option of tapping his mother on the shoulder from behind rather than addressing the enraged figure in the driving seat.
‘Two thirty-two,’ she responded with precision.
‘At the third stroke . . .’ intoned Alex.
When the unexpected happens, it becomes difficult to remember events in detail, but it seemed to all four of the stranded passengers that almost immediately the fog evaporated into mist which then lifted entirely before their eyes and the traffic started to flow. The driver turned the ignition again, this time successfully and decided that renewing his acquaintance with the local church might be more prudent than paying his next A.A. subscription.
The journey passed in tedium but without incident, with the twins as silent as two Trappist monks during prayer time, both possibly chastened by the fact that it could have taken so much longer and grateful for small mercies.
They tolerated their mother’s older sister and her husband as they did so many things, basking as they did in their own superior intellect. Their aunt and uncle were an undemonstrative, taciturn pair, possibly due to a feeling of being overwhelmed when confronted by two boys a quarter of their age but four times as clever. Usually only persistent ringing of the doorbell resulted in eventual admittance, even when expected as today. It was tacitly accepted that whilst they were pleased with the visits inasmuch as it maintained contact between the two female blood relatives, their gratitude did not extend further. This time, though, the door opened with alacrity to reveal a worried male face and a fretful female by his side.
In an unusual show of affection, the twins’ aunt threw herself on each one of the quartet in turn.
‘We were so worried,’ she said. ‘We were just watching the news.’
‘We’re not much later than we said, are we?’ her sister protested gently.
Her sister ushered them into the hallway.
‘You don’t know, do you?’ she said.
Their bewildered faces confirmed her question.
‘There was a terrible accident on the motorway this afternoon. Cars piled up one behind the other. When you didn’t ring to let me know you were all right . . .’ her voice broke but then she pulled herself together. ‘Why didn’t you let me know?’ The twins’ mother took her arm as they both went into the living room.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, explaining the sequence of events. ‘The fog cleared quickly and once we were on our way I didn’t think it was worth phoning you.’
Her sister looked baffled.
‘There’s no way you could have got here,’ she said. ‘Look at the television.’ All four did as they were instructed.
A reporter, or what could be seen of him was reporting events of that afternoon earnestly into his microphone.
‘There is no likelihood of the motorway re-opening again until tomorrow,’ he concluded. ‘The fog is making it almost impossible to carry out an efficient rescue operation and it looks currently unlikely that those already on the way to their destinations will be able to move until it clears. This is Jerry Barber talking to you from Junction 12, the scene of this afternoon’s accident.’
The twins’ mother sunk down onto her sister’s couch. Not usually possessed of a vivid imagination, she couldn’t resist the urge to ask a question that bothered her.
‘Junction 12,’ she said in a faltering voice. ‘What time did all this happen?’
She didn’t need to await a reply. The time flashed up on the screen in captioned form underneath the picture, as if anticipating her question.
‘Two thirty,’ murmured the twins slowly, for once bereft of any witty repartee.