‘Go more slowly,’ I tell Alf yet again. ‘Go some winding back route. Go down there!’ I point at a narrow little street.
‘No left turn,’ says Alf, shaking his head.
We’ve told Alf the whole story. Or at least, he worked it out for himself, after Luke had a shouting match with the agent. (Luckily Minnie’s fallen asleep. Two-year-olds can sleep through anything.) Luke’s started calling other rental agencies as well – but so far, no one’s got a house available that can be moved into within the next twenty minutes. I feel like screaming with frustration. Where are all the houses? And where’s all the traffic?
I glance into the wing mirror, just in case by any chance Mum and Dad have peeled off or got lost – but there they still are, sticking to us like glue. Luke’s listening to a message on his phone and I gaze hopefully at him, but he shakes his head.
‘So where d’you want me to go now?’ Alf pauses at a junction, rests his arms on the throbbing steering wheel and looks at me.
‘I don’t know,’ I say desperately. ‘Could you just … circle?’
‘Circle?’ He gives me a sardonic look. ‘Do I look like a plane?’
‘Please. Just for a bit.’
Shaking his head, Alf signals left and turns down a residential street. We go along the canal, then up another residential street and are almost immediately back where we started.
‘That was too quick!’ I say in dismay.
Sure enough, a moment later, a text comes through from Mum:
Darling, is your driver lost? We’ve been down this road before. Dad says, what’s the address, he’ll use his sat nav.
‘Becky.’ Luke has come off the phone. ‘We can’t just drive round Maida Vale until we have a house.’
‘Any luck, squire?’ says Alf. He seems to have a new respect for Luke ever since he heard him swearing at the agent. In fact, despite all his sardonic little looks, I think he’s enjoying the drama.
‘None,’ replies Luke. ‘Becky, we’re going to have to come clean.’
‘No. Not yet. Let’s … let’s stop for lunch!’ I say in sudden inspiration. ‘We’ll find a coffee shop or something. Luke, here’s the plan. I’ll keep Mum and Dad entertained, and you go and see the agent, and force him to give us a house.’
Alf rolls his eyes with forbearance and is soon trying to manoeuvre the lorry into a space opposite a Café Rouge. I watch the others pulling over too, and Janice getting out to guide Martin with lots of beckoning and pointing and ‘Careful, Martin!’
I unbuckle Minnie and we all get out, stretching our legs. I feel like we’ve been on some massive road trip, not just driven up from Oxshott.
‘Hi!’ I wave at the others, trying to look relaxed and cheery, like this was always the plan.
‘What’s going on, love?’ Mum is first to reach us. ‘Is this it?’ She’s peering at all the flats above the shops, as though one might suddenly turn out to be a family house with a basement and a garden and two parking spaces.
‘Trust Becky to live among the shops.’ Martin gives a chortle at his own wit.
‘No, this isn’t where we’re going to live!’ I laugh as naturally as I can manage. ‘We’re stopping for lunch.’
There’s a baffled silence.
‘Lunch, love?’ says Janice at last. ‘But it’s only twenty past ten.’
‘Yes, well. The … um … The lorry driver has to have lunch. It’s union regulations,’ I improvise, and shoot a meaningful look at Alf. ‘Isn’t it, Alf?’
‘But we must be only a few minutes away from the house,’ says Mum. ‘This is ridiculous!’
‘I know,’ I say hurriedly. ‘But the union’s really strict. We don’t have a choice.’
‘Don’t blame me,’ says Alf, playing along. ‘I don’t make the rules.’
‘For goodness’ sake,’ says Dad impatiently. ‘I’ve never heard such nonsense.’ He turns to Alf. ‘Now, look here. Couldn’t you drop Becky at the house and then have lunch?’
‘Rules is rules,’ says Alf, shaking his head implacably. ‘I break ‘em, I’m up before a disciplinary tribunal and that’s my job on the line, that is. I’ll go and have my well-earned break and you let me know when you’re ready to go, all right, my love?’ He gives me a wink and heads into Café Rouge.
God, he’s fantastic. I feel like giving him a hug.
‘Well!’ Mum seems outraged. ‘Now we know what’s wrong with this country! Who wrote these rules, anyway? I’m writing to the Daily World, and the Prime Minister …’