The Skeleton Tree by Diane Janes (reading women TXT) 📕

knowledge that unlike most other drivers, the person behind the wheel of this vehicle was unlikely to merely curse the stupidity of women drivers and continue on his way. She had come to a halt at an angle to the road, with one wheel on the grass verge, and a glance in her mirror confirmed that the other car had also stopped, though in a much more orderly fashion, a few yards down the lane. As one of its uniformed occupants got out, she briefly entertained the idea of driving off. It would take them a moment or two to turn the car in the lane. No, that was a stupid idea. Even if they hadn’t already clocked her registration number, they would easily catch up with her. Far better to be contrite. Tell them she was sorry. It was not as if she had actually hit them or anything. There was no harm done.

The approaching officer did not look much older than Tara. Wendy wound down her window and smiled up at him, launching off immediately. ‘I’m really very, very sorry, Officer, but I’m afraid I misjudged the bend … so tricky in the dark … didn’t realize it was coming up … have to take it more carefully in future …’

‘May I see your driving licence please, madam?’ He was deadpan.

Her handbag was on the passenger seat. She fumbled inside the bag until her fingers closed on the slim plastic wallet.

‘Is this your own car, madam?’

‘Yes. Well, I suppose technically, no. It’s registered in my husband’s name, but we share it.’

‘Would you mind getting out of the car please, madam?’ He opened the door and held it for her, like a flunkey at the front of a posh hotel, she thought. There was something slightly surreal about it. She thought about declining, but she wasn’t sure of her rights, and anyway, she wanted to follow up on the good impression she must surely have made by her apology, so she climbed out and stood on the tarmac, separated from him by the car door, which formed a chest-high barrier between them. He considered her driving licence and she found herself thinking that he must have jolly good eyesight to be able to make it out with only the car headlights to help him.

‘Have you been drinking, Mrs Thornton?’

‘No … I mean … well, yes, not drinking exactly. I’ve had a sherry.’ Actually, it might have been more than one. Joan had topped up the glasses while they were looking at the albums – once … maybe even a couple of times? She had not been paying that much attention.

She was shocked at the mention of the word ‘breathalyze’.

‘But this is ridiculous. I only took the bend a little bit too quickly. I haven’t been in an accident.’

‘It’s an offence to drive a motor vehicle when under the influence of alcohol, Mrs Thornton.’

There was something vaguely obscene about the way he assembled the little kit at the roadside, she thought. It induced the same nauseous panic as seeing a doctor putting on a pair of plastic gloves in readiness to conduct an internal examination. A couple of cars went by in quick succession, slowing in order to pass them safely, the occupants taking the opportunity to have a good look and see what was going on. She prayed that it wasn’t anyone she knew.

There was something equally surreal about being handed the kit and asked to blow into the plastic tube. The crystals turned green.

‘That’s a positive result.’

‘What happens now?’ she asked. Was she shaking because it was getting colder, or was it the thought of being arrested?

‘You will have to accompany me to the station, Mrs Thornton, to give us another breath sample and, if it’s positive, you’ll be charged.’

‘But I want to go home.’ Wendy knew it sounded childish. It was shameful, standing at the side of the road, trying not to cry. ‘My husband will be getting worried.’

‘You’ll be able to call him from the station. One of my colleagues will drive your car there and your husband will be able to pick you and the car up from there. He’s licensed to drive, is he? Your husband?’

She nodded dumbly. What would Bruce say about her being arrested? Drunk driving was detestable. Something she had always associated with sozzled, middle-aged men who drove recklessly and killed other people’s children. She was barely able to concentrate on the policeman’s questions. Had she had a drink in the last twenty minutes? Did she smoke? It all had a bearing on the test, seemingly. I’m not a drunk driver, she thought. How can this have happened? I’ve never so much as had a speeding ticket before. She half wished that the policeman would stop being so polite and correct. If he had bawled her out, she might at least have had the satisfaction of shouting back and maybe kicking his shins.

At the police station they asked her to blow into a bigger, static machine. The station was quiet, with Wendy the only source of interest for the greying desk sergeant, who seemed surprisingly cheerful for someone confined to such a barren environment. The only decorations were a very old poster showing different breeds of dog, and an African violet dying in a pot on the windowsill. By the time the machine had spat out its official verdict, she had begun to cry in earnest. The desk sergeant gave her a tissue to wipe her nose, while they filled out various forms.

With the formalities completed, she was allowed to sit in the waiting area, head cast down, not making eye contact with the flotsam and jetsam of people who had begun to trickle in as the hour grew later. An auburn-haired officer came to confirm that her husband was coming to collect her, but Bruce didn’t actually appear until almost eleven o’clock.

One look at his face was enough to see that he was furious, but just the same, she assumed