We live in a town now, so we can’t pass the filth of the car off as country dirt
My brother appreciates the two new textiles, he says, and it’s nice to see the stone bust with flower-crown in a new setting but he wants less of the aesthetics and more of the hard stuff.
I would send him a photograph of the heating system, but that means going outside in the rain.
“The heating is very grown-up,” I Whatsapp back, by way of reassurance, “it’s got it’s own special shed. So many dials in there you could launch Apollo from it.”
“Does it work?” my brother Whatsapps.
“At the flick of a switch,” I say.
“Mum says, do you know where the switch is?”
“Tell Mum our farmhouse days are over,” I say, “freezing to death is no longer a daily risk.”
“Mum says she’s sure that’s true but go to the switch anyway and turn it up.”
8am, Tuesday, the morning of the State Visit. My brother’s personal driver, James, is picking him up from his hotel.
Then James will collect my mother from my sister’s flat and drive them both to Gatwick. He’s trying to limit the potential for catastrophe all-round, he says, darkly. Mum gets anxious when she travels now.
To be honest, I’ve been so busy concentrating on reducing the risk of freezing to death I haven’t given limiting “the potential for catastrophe all-round” any thought at all.
8.15am. I shake my husband awake.
“I have to use your car to collect them from the airport,” I say, “mine’s got issues.”
“What do you mean, ‘issues?’” he says.
“Builder’s rubble-dust,” I say, “too late to tackle now.”
“But mine’s got issues too,” he says.
“What kind of issues?” I say.
“Needs a good clean,” he says, “I know, we’ll get it valeted.”
We fall silent: we are familiar with valeting as a concept but not as a reality.
8.45am. We’re standing outside, looking at our cars. It’s incredibly dispiriting. I can’t decide which car is more disgusting.
“We don’t have any excuse anymore,” I say, “for the state of our cars. We live in a town now, so we can’t pass the filth off as country dirt.”
9am. We begin emptying my husband’s car.
9.15am. I reach a decision: my car looks more disgusting but his smells more disgusting.
9.30am. We are still emptying.
9.50am. As car-residues go, I very much prefer “Long Term Builder’s Dust” to “Long Term Sport”.
At least Long Term Builder’s dust doesn’t have a smell.
10.05am. I’m breathing through my mouth. The depth of my trauma is hard to measure.
We’re driving in my car to collect my husband’s car from the valeting company. The man who valeted the car hands us my husband’s keys and points to the car.
10.06am. We look inside the car: clean as a whistle. I glance back at the man. He looks deeply traumatised. I feel for him, I really do.
11am. As I’m leaving for the airport, my husband says, “just to warn you, I noticed a funny smell in the car when I was driving back from the valet place.”
“Maybe there are certain smells that need never to be disturbed,” I say, “let’s just hope this is not the case.”
My brother Whatsapps me, ten minutes into my journey; I’m on the side of the road, all car-doors open wide, spraying its interior with “Rose Mist” room-spray and fearing that the act of valeting, which seemed a small and innocent act at the time, appears to have had appalling and far-reaching negative consequences.
“Just boarding,” he says, “journey smooth so far. Hope all good in the Wild West.”
“All good in the Wid Wist [sic]” I reply (I am very light-headed, what with all the mouth breathing).
12pm. I’m waiting outside Arrivals. Every crevice in the car is sweaty with Rose Mist. I am sweaty with nausea.
12.02pm. My brother and mother get into the car. Best to brazen it out, I think.
“We had the car valeted in your honour,” I say.
12.06pm. I’m driving home. My mother’s head is hanging out of the window. So is my brother’s. I turn on the heating. Heating plus open windows might help.
12.10pm. “What’s the name of your valeting company?” my brother says, “is it called, “The Hot Old Sock?”
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