Keep right on . . .
Jeremy Clarke
Iwanted to get from the youth hostel in the centre of Dartmoor, where I was staying, to a town on the outskirts where my brother lives. My brother has a subscription to the Sky Sports channel. I planned to pop over and watch the second half of the midweek match and be back in time for evening prayers and the ceremony of the shutting of the gates, or whatever the form was at youth hostels. Unfolding my Ordnance Survey map on the diningroom table, the warden and I leaned across and studied it. ‘Now, we’re here,’ said the warden, pressing his forefinger against the youth hostel symbol. And, doing my best impression of a second world war English army officer, I added, ‘And Jerry ... is here, here, here, here and here.’ Ignoring my levity, the warden suggested two possible routes. I could go the long way round via the main roads (or what passes for the main roads on Dartmoor), or maybe I should consider a short cut, which he traced out with his forefinger. This route was marked on the map by a microscopically thin line, straight at first, then wandering this way and that, then, losing confidence in itself altogether, becoming a dotted line among a diffuse matrix of other dotted lines that mostly went nowhere or perhaps passed into another dimension. If this was a viable short cut, I surmised, it was probably known only to the warden and itinerant pedlars. Which route did he recommend? Whichever route I chose was entirely up to me, emphasised the warden, clearly anxious about what he was going to say at the inquest.
Time and bravado were of the essence, so I plumped for the short cut. ‘Turn right instead of left at the gate and go straight on,’ said the warden, karate-chopping the map. ‘Whatever happens, follow the road and keep going. If you are presented with alternatives, keep straight on. Don’t give up. After about 20 minutes you should come to a T-junction with a signpost.’ As instructed, I turned right instead of left at the gate. A fog was descending. Smooth and broad at first, the tarmac narrowed and snaked over a humpback bridge. I’ve played crazy golf over bigger humpback bridges than that one. Then there was another tiny bridge, then a cattle grid. After that was a continuous stretch of tarmac where the fog was so thick that driving became a video game. Then I had to stop because three luminous Dartmoor ponies were damned if they were going to move out of the way and let me pass. I sounded the horn. They didn’t even turn around to look. Half onand half off-road, I inched the car around them.
There were intersections where it was by no means clear which way was straight on. This was worrying. As far as I knew, I could have been driving in a huge circle. I passed a big boar badger lying on its back with its belly gashed open and guts hanging out, and forded another stream. On the far side, the tarmac was crumbling and grass was growing up the middle.
I was now disoriented, hypnotised. I began to lose heart. I had taken a wrong turn, surely. I was going to be driving around this prehistoric waste all night at this rate. If only I’d taken the main road I’d have been in my brother’s house by now — a house in a row of other houses, with a street lamp outside and Costcutter’s still open at the end of the road.
Then my doubts about being on the right road turned into a general mental rout. The Muslims were right: I was a hypocrite and a liar. A Kafir. Far from aiming to please God, or even to please myself, I was striving only to know how other people worked. I wanted to master their rules as quickly as possible so that I could trim my behaviour to these rules and become liked by as many people as possible. And why did I want that? Why, in order to get away with stuff. As for lying, why, all my life I’ve been lying, even when I spoke the truth. I have not once been honest for the sake of honesty, but always for my own sake. The lichen-covered boulders lying beside the road were more honest than I was! What a fool I was to have been given the opportunity of life then to spend it in all this pointless lying and subterfuge! I drove on in a state of misery, not caring whether I was lost or not.
Then through the fog I saw a light. The light was fixed to the side of a house. Under the light was a parked car. Then more lights and a row of cottages, another stream to be forded, a T-junction and a signpost! After that my spirits revived to the extent that I was angry with myself for giving way to despair so easily. And before long I was standing with a lager in my hand, yelling at my brother’s TV.
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