works.
“I do have a problem,” she lowered her voice. “I need directions to Stratford, I cannot work out my own route.”
“That should be no trouble,” I pulled a road atlas from the bookshelf in my office. “I went a couple of years ago, and know the route well.”
“Oh, I know the route,” she said, pausing for effect.
“You do?”
“You’ve not heard of my problem?” she asked me solemnly.
“No.” I wondered which problem she meant. “What problem ?”
“I’m surprised no one has mentioned it to you,” she continued to talk in a low voice. “And I’m surprised you have not noticed for yourself, Mr Rhea. I thought policemen were supposed to be very observant …”
“I haven’t been here long,” I began to make an excuse.
“My driving,” she said. “It’s the way I drive.”
“Oh, yes.” I thought of all the catastrophes she might create between Aidensfield and Stratford, and wondered if I should warn all constabularies en route.
She laughed and appeared able to read my thoughts, for she said, “It’s not my parking problems, Mr Rhea, or my reversing difficulties.”
“No?” I could not think of anything else right now.
“It’s my inability to turn right,” she said, pausing for the awesome implications of that remark to sink into my skull.
“Turn right?” I questioned.
“Yes, I cannot turn right off a road. I go everywhere by making left turns,” she told me in all seriousness. “I can cope with right turns off one-way streets, but not on ordinary roads. Surely you’ve seen me coming home different ways?”
“I had no idea that was the reason,” I said. “So you are telling me you intend to drive to Stratford-on-Avon without ever turning right?”
“Yes, that’s why I came to see you. Last year, I set off to go to Harrogate to the theatre and things went fine until I came to a new one-way street in Ripon. I got hopelessly lost …”
“What happened?” I asked, suppressing a chuckle.
“I got to Middlesbrough, miles from where I intended, and had to get a train back. It’s all very embarrassing, Mr Rhea, and I cannot help it.”
“I don’t know whether I’m capable of producing a route for you all that way, Esme; I wonder if there are other people like you?”
“A cousin of mine could never go around a roundabout,” she said. “He always took the right-hand route instead of the left and got into no end of bother from the police. He blocked the whole of Newcastle upon Tyne one Saturday morning because he hit a bus on a roundabout. He was fine if he drove on the continent.”
I did not want to let her down and promised I’d do my best to find a route to Stratford-on-Avon, a distance of some two hundred miles, without her having to turn right. She was going in a fortnight’s time, she told me, so there was no great rush.
With Mary’s help, I settled down to work out a route and it was not as difficult as I had anticipated. Working along the main roads, I could plan the basic route bearing in mind one must make huge circular tours from time to time, and that the exits from motorways are all to the left anyway. The tricky bits werethe towns, especially Stratford itself on the final lap, although I did suggest she parked on the outskirts and caught a bus into the town centre.
I calculated the length of this circuitous journey and felt she would travel at least twice the true distance, but on the appointed day she sallied forth full of confidence with a grey-haired lady passenger beaming hopefully from the front seat.
She allowed herself two days to reach her destination, and I was somewhat surprised when she rang me from Penrith in Cumberland, and then from Chester, to find out where she’d gone wrong. But she arrived safely three days later, having covered nearly eight hundred miles in large circular routes.
My plan hadn’t helped because she’d missed several turnings and I’d not counted a new one-way system in Leeds. I couldn’t
“I do have a problem,” she lowered her voice. “I need directions to Stratford, I cannot work out my own route.”
“That should be no trouble,” I pulled a road atlas from the bookshelf in my office. “I went a couple of years ago, and know the route well.”
“Oh, I know the route,” she said, pausing for effect.
“You do?”
“You’ve not heard of my problem?” she asked me solemnly.
“No.” I wondered which problem she meant. “What problem ?”
“I’m surprised no one has mentioned it to you,” she continued to talk in a low voice. “And I’m surprised you have not noticed for yourself, Mr Rhea. I thought policemen were supposed to be very observant …”
“I haven’t been here long,” I began to make an excuse.
“My driving,” she said. “It’s the way I drive.”
“Oh, yes.” I thought of all the catastrophes she might create between Aidensfield and Stratford, and wondered if I should warn all constabularies en route.
She laughed and appeared able to read my thoughts, for she said, “It’s not my parking problems, Mr Rhea, or my reversing difficulties.”
“No?” I could not think of anything else right now.
“It’s my inability to turn right,” she said, pausing for the awesome implications of that remark to sink into my skull.
“Turn right?” I questioned.
“Yes, I cannot turn right off a road. I go everywhere by making left turns,” she told me in all seriousness. “I can cope with right turns off one-way streets, but not on ordinary roads. Surely you’ve seen me coming home different ways?”
“I had no idea that was the reason,” I said. “So you are telling me you intend to drive to Stratford-on-Avon without ever turning right?”
“Yes, that’s why I came to see you. Last year, I set off to go to Harrogate to the theatre and things went fine until I came to a new one-way street in Ripon. I got hopelessly lost …”
“What happened?” I asked, suppressing a chuckle.
“I got to Middlesbrough, miles from where I intended, and had to get a train back. It’s all very embarrassing, Mr Rhea, and I cannot help it.”
“I don’t know whether I’m capable of producing a route for you all that way, Esme; I wonder if there are other people like you?”
“A cousin of mine could never go around a roundabout,” she said. “He always took the right-hand route instead of the left and got into no end of bother from the police. He blocked the whole of Newcastle upon Tyne one Saturday morning because he hit a bus on a roundabout. He was fine if he drove on the continent.”
I did not want to let her down and promised I’d do my best to find a route to Stratford-on-Avon, a distance of some two hundred miles, without her having to turn right. She was going in a fortnight’s time, she told me, so there was no great rush.
With Mary’s help, I settled down to work out a route and it was not as difficult as I had anticipated. Working along the main roads, I could plan the basic route bearing in mind one must make huge circular tours from time to time, and that the exits from motorways are all to the left anyway. The tricky bits werethe towns, especially Stratford itself on the final lap, although I did suggest she parked on the outskirts and caught a bus into the town centre.
I calculated the length of this circuitous journey and felt she would travel at least twice the true distance, but on the appointed day she sallied forth full of confidence with a grey-haired lady passenger beaming hopefully from the front seat.
She allowed herself two days to reach her destination, and I was somewhat surprised when she rang me from Penrith in Cumberland, and then from Chester, to find out where she’d gone wrong. But she arrived safely three days later, having covered nearly eight hundred miles in large circular routes.
My plan hadn’t helped because she’d missed several turnings and I’d not counted a new one-way system in Leeds. I couldn’t
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