The Eyre Affair_ A Novel - Jasper Fforde [327]
It was too late. To Miss Havisham, her way was the right way. The first car braked in time but the one behind it was not so lucky—it drove into the rear of the first with a crunch. I held on tightly as Miss Havisham accelerated rapidly away up the hill into Highworth. I was pressed into my seat, and for a single moment, perched above two tons of bellowing machinery, I suddenly realized why Havisham liked this sort of thing—it was, in a word, exhilarating.
“I’ve only borrowed the Special from the count,” she explained. “Parry Thomas will take delivery of it next week and aim to lift the speed record for himself. I’ve been working on a new mix of fuels; the A419 is straight and smooth—I should be able to do at least a ton-eighty on that.”
“Turn right onto the B4019 at the Jesmond,” I told her, “after the lights turn to greeeeeeen.”
The truck missed us by about six inches.
“What’s that?”
“Nothing.”
“You know, Thursday, you should really loosen up and learn to enjoy life more—you can be such an old stick-in-the-mud.”
I lapsed into silence.
“And don’t sulk,” added Miss Havisham. “If there’s something I can’t abide, it’s a sulky apprentice.”
We bowled down the road, nearly losing it on an S-bend, until miraculously we reached the main Swindon-Cirencester road. It was a no right turn but we did anyway, to a chorus of screeching tires and angry car horns. Havisham accelerated off, and we had just approached the top of the hill when we came across a large Diversion sign blocking the road. Havisham thumped the steering wheel angrily.
“I don’t believe it!” she bellowed.
“Road closed?” I queried, trying to hide my relief. “Good—I mean, good-ness gracious, what a shame—another time, eh?”
Havisham clunked the Special into first gear and we moved off round the sign and motored down the hill.
“It’s him, I can sense it!” she growled. “Trying to steal the speed record from under my very nose!”
“Who?”
As if in answer, another racing car shot past us with a loud poop poop!
“Him,” muttered Havisham as we pulled off the road next to a speed camera. “A driver so bad he is a menace to himself and every sentient being on the highways.”
He must have been truly frightful for Havisham to notice. A few minutes later the other car returned and pulled up alongside.
“What ho, Havisham!” said the driver, taking the goggles from his bulging eyes and grinning broadly. “Still using Count ‘Snail’ Zborowski’s old slowpoke Special, eh?”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Toad,” said Havisham. “Does the Bellman know you’re in the Outland?”
“Of course not!” yelled Mr. Toad, laughing. “And you’re not going to tell him, old girl, because you’re not meant to be here either!”
Havisham was silent and looked ahead, trying to ignore him.
“Is that a Liberty aero-engine under there?” asked Mr. Toad, pointing at the Special’s bonnet, which trembled and shook as the vast engine idled roughly to itself.
“Perhaps,” replied Havisham.
“Ha!” replied Toad with an infectious smile. “I had a Rolls-Royce Merlin shoehorned into this old banger!”
I watched Miss Havisham with interest. She stared ahead but her eye twitched slightly when Mr. Toad revved his car’s engine. In the end, she could resist it no more and her curiosity got the better of her disdain.
“How does it go?” she asked, eyes gleaming.
“Like a rocket!” replied Mr. Toad, jumping up and down in his excitement. “Over a thousand horses to the back axle—makes your Higham Special look like a motor-mower!”
“We’ll see about that,” replied Havisham, narrowing her eyes. “Usual place, usual time, usual bet?”
“You’re on!” Mr. Toad revved his car, pulled down his goggles and vanished in a cloud of rubber smoke. The poop poop of his horn lingered on as an echo some seconds after he had gone.
“Slimy reptile,” muttered Havisham.
“Strictly speaking, he’s neither,” I retorted. “More like a dry-skinned, land-based amphibian.”
It felt safe to be impertinent because I knew she wasn’t listening.
“He’s caused more accidents than you