Worcestershire. (Each was wearing the golf jersey the other’d given him for Christmas.) Dad thought the A40 would’ve clipped twenty minutes off the A419 route. Uncle Brian disagreed. Then Uncle Brian said when they left later today he planned to drive to Bath via Cirencester and the A417 and Dad’s face lit up with horror. ‘The A417? Crossing the Cotswolds on a bank holiday? Brian, it’ll be living hell!’
Mum said, ‘I’m sure Brian knows what he’s doing, Michael.’
‘The A417? Purgatory!’ Dad was already leafing through his AA Book of British Towns and Uncle Brian’d sent Mum a look that said, If it makes the old boy happy, let him. (That look got on my wick.) ‘We have these innovations in this country, Brian, commonly known as “motorways”…here, you need the M5 down to Junction Fifteen…’ Dad stabbed the map. ‘Here! Then just head east. No need to get bogged down in Bristol. M4 to Junction Eighteen, then the A46 to Bath. Bob’s your uncle.’
‘Last time we went to see Don and Drucilla,’ Uncle Brian didn’t look at the AA Book of British Towns, ‘we did that. Took the M4 north of Bristol. Guess what. Stuck, bumper to bumper, for two hours! Weren’t we, Alice?’
‘It certainly was quite a long time.’
‘Two hours, Alice.’
‘But,’ Dad countered, ‘that was because you got caught in a contra-flow when the new lane was being built. You’ll zip along the M4 today. Clean as a whistle. Guarantee it.’
‘Thank you, Michael,’ Uncle Brian said mewily, ‘but I’m not really a great “fan” of motorway driving.’
‘Well, Brian,’ Dad clomped shut his AA Book of British Towns, ‘if you’re a “fan” of crawling along at thirty in a convoy of geriatric caravanners, the A417 to Cirencester is the route for you.’
‘Come and give us a hand, please, Jason.’
‘Give us a hand’ meant ‘get everything’. Mum was showing Aunt Alice her recently souped-up kitchen. Meaty smells leaked out of the oven. Aunt Alice stroked the new tiles, saying ‘exquisite!’ while Mum poured three glasses of Coke for Alex, Nigel and me. Hugo’d asked for a glass of cold water. Then I poured a bag of Twiglets into a dish. (Twiglets’re snacks that adults think kids like but they taste of burnt matches dipped in Marmite.) Then I put everything on a tray in the hatch, go round and carry it to the coffee table. Dead unfair I had to do everything. If it’d been me and not Julia who was still in my room, they’d’ve sent in a SWAT squad by now.
‘The memsahibs have got you well trained, I see,’ said Uncle Brian. I pretended to know what a memsahib was.
‘Brian?’ Dad waved the decanter at him. ‘Drop more sherry?’
‘Why the heck not, Michael? Why the heck not?’
Alex grunted as I gave him his Coke. He scooped up a fistful of Twiglets.
Nigel did this perky ‘Thanks very much!’ and grabbed the Twiglets too.
Hugo said, ‘Cheers, Jace’ for the water and ‘No thanks’ to the Twiglets.
Uncle Brian and Dad’d left Driving and moved on to the Recession.
‘No, Michael,’ Uncle Brian said, ‘you’re mistaken, for once in your life. The accountancy game’s more or less immune to economic doldrums.’
‘But you can’t tell me your client base isn’t feeling the pinch?’
‘The “pinch”? Blimey O’Riley, Michael, they’re taking it in the teeth! Bankruptcies and foreclosures, morning, noon and night! We’re rushed off our bloody feet, pardon my French. Swamped! Tell you, I’m grateful to that woman in Downing Street for this financial – what’s that latest fad? – anorexia. Us number-crunchers are making a killing! And as partners’ bonuses are profit related, yours truly is sitting rather pretty.’
‘Bankrupts,’ Dad prodded, ‘are hardly repeat customers.’
‘But with a never-ending supply,’ Uncle Brian glugged his sherry, ‘who gives a tinker’s cuss? No, no, it’s you shop folk that my heart goes out to. This recession’ll bleed the high street dry before it’s finished. Quote me on that.’
I think not, said Dad’s wagging finger ‘The hallmark of switched-on management is success in the lean years, not the years of plenty. Unemployment may be up to three million, but Greenland took on ten management trainees this quarter. Customers want quality food at bulk prices.’
‘Relax, Michael,’ Uncle Brian did a jokey surrender, ‘you’re not at a seaside sales conference now. But I think you’ve got your head in the sand. Even Tories are talking about “tightening belts”…Unions dead on their feet, not that that’s a bad thing in my book. But we’ve got British Leyland haemorrhaging jobs…the docks dwindling away…British