My Thoughts Exactly by Adam Rutter

 

Olivia was relaxing in the courtyard outside Beryl’s Tea Room, texting her friend, Felicity. Her mug of latte; half drunk, cream clung to the glass, placed on an ornate table. The river Teme flowed softly at the foot of the courtyard; its gentle currents sparkling in the sunlight. Rows of texts were streaming faster than the currents, sliding endlessly up her phone screen as her thumbs tapped ferociously on the virtual keyboard, keeping pace with the speed of communication. The constant bleating from the sheep was as relentless as the streams of texts. Olivia’s shiny black hair was tied in a ponytail, resting against her long red flowery dress.

The texts were a barrage of complaints sent from Felicity.

Felicity: I have been stuck in traffic for half an hour.

Olivia: No way.

Felicity: The A49 is chock-a-block.

Olivia: How long is the tailback?

Felicity: About two miles.

Olivia: You’re joking.

Felicity: I could be stuck here for another half an hour.

Olivia: It’s gonna take you an extra 15 minutes to get to the tearoom.

Felicity: My thoughts exactly.

From the riverbank, a duck mounted onto the courtyard with ducklings trailing from behind, tucking into a quiet, deserted corner. Olivia snapshot the furry juveniles with her phone camera.

She texted the photo. 

Olivia: I thought this might cheer you up.

Felicity: Aw, they’re cute.

Olivia emojied a smile and a duck. Felicity reciprocated the emoji smile. She was unconsciously tapping her fingers on the steering wheel, making a hopeless effort to smooth out the long thirty minutes. Her car engine was off. The car in front, latent. The car behind chugged incessantly. It had been idling for the first ten minutes – the same amount of time that Felicity had been stuck in the gridlock. The temperature inside her car was oppressively hot. She had the window open, which did nothing to ease the sultry air. The sun turned the car into an oven, making the seat as hot as a grill. The driver’s seat was burning Felicity’s back. She felt the cushion padding scorch through her dark dress. Her flowing blonde hair clung to the sweat on her back. The phone buzzed every half a minute; an endless chatter of texts, like sparrows twittering constantly. 

The traffic was flowing as easily as the river in the opposite direction with the occasional motor passing in wide gap intervals. Felicity tuned in to a pop station on the car radio, her fingers tapping to the beat of the music on the steering, sending her into a trance-like daydream. The car revved up in front, throwing Felicity back to the reality. She started the engine, and the traffic moved a few paces; then halt. Once again, the engine cut itself off, causing the gridlock to linger. Felicity spotted a signpost for Stokesay a few metres away, bearing to her right. That’s it, she wondered. That’s the shortcut to the tearoom. If the traffic moved on, even just a little, she would be able to break free from the gridlock. All that Felicity could do was wait. The wait seemed to go on forever instead of minutes. Her hands gripped tightly to the steering.

‘C’mon, c’mon’, growled Felicity.

She clenched her teeth.

The car was revving. It moved a few inches forward. Felicity turned on the ignition and pulled out. She swerved right, heading for the country lane. Emerging from the other direction, a heavy goods vehicle blared at Felicity, missing her by a few centimetres.

‘Oh shut up’, mumbled Felicity.

She blew a huge sigh of relief, breathing out all the agony of waiting, the feeling to be freed from the never-ending tailback, made her fly down the narrow, twisty lane. The ride may not have been as smooth or straight as the A49, but she was gliding as freely as a bird. Curving a tight bend, she slammed the brakes. Stopped on the corner was a tractor. The bulky farm machine filled the width of the lane, matching hedgerow height. Both vehicles needed to pass. The space. There was simply not any. One of them would have to back-up. The driver’s face was expressionless, though easy to read. There was no other alternative. Which one was going to give way? Felicity relented. My thoughts exactly. She put the car in reverse, driving back a quarter of a mile. Her car reversed another three quarters of a mile until it was pulled into a gap leading to a field. The lane was clear after the tractor passed. Felicity put her foot on the pedal. The engine was revving, but there was no movement. The rear tyres skidded, kicking up mud and cow dung. Keeping her foot on the pedal, it was becoming clear that she was not going to get away any time soon, which meant she had no choice, but to get out, and push.

So she reluctantly stepped out onto the muddy patch, her high heels slipping and sliding. The mud was ankle deep, the stiletto sank, pulling a shoe from her foot. She knelt down to pick it up from the rim. A thin strip of mud dropped below the tip of the stiletto. Felicity hopped round to the rear of the car. She pushed the car forward; then fell flat on the ground. When Felicity pushed herself back up, she looked down. Her beautiful dress – covered in mud. As she toiled through the patch, her feet squelched. Back inside the car, she restarted the engine. Her hands left muddy fingerprints on the steering. She drove on. This time, she continued at a slower pace. The lane was as sleepy as the surrounding countryside, a maze of interconnecting junctions, leading to farms and small holdings.

The tyres screeched as Felicity swerved to miss a cattle truck. Her car hurtled through a field, bouncing and bumping on uneven ground. At the far end, the hedgerow was broken by a narrow gap, though still wide enough to get through. The car cut through and sped along a lane in open country. It whizzed past a signpost. Felicity stopped; then reversed. Signposted was Beryl’s Tea Room. She turned off, heading in the right direction at long last. Sliding out from behind a wide oak tree was a small white building with three gable windows and lozenge leaded panes. Standing, waiting, on the roadside, was Olivia. She walked across to Felicity.

‘Oh Felicity’, cried Olivia, holding her hands to her nose. ‘You need to shower when you get back home’.

‘My thoughts exactly’.