‘Did you know,’ Elisa announced from her perch at the bay window, duster hanging limply from one hand, ‘that number seven down the road have four cars? A Beetle, a transit van and a Range Rover. And a Beetle.’ Her husband, Anthony, wasn’t sure if the family at number seven had a fondness for Beetles or if Elisa’s contact lenses needed a new prescription. Either way, Mr. and Mrs. Number Seven’s teenage offspring needed to be thrown from the nest before they could purchase any more vehicles. ‘Oh,’ Elisa added, ‘across the road have their Mercedes back, and Theresa next door has got the carers in for her mum, so you’ll probably have to park along another road later. Don’t bother looking for spaces here.’
In the five years since the couple across the road had moved in, Anthony and Elisa had never once received a hello, a Christmas card or an introduction. Anthony thought the wife resembled Cruella de Ville. She also hogged the road with her terribly parked Mercedes. They were nothing on the family at number seven, though. Who needed four cars? Did they have four children? Don’t even get him started on their monthly themed parties. This was Essex, not Jay Gatsby’s New York. One did not need to throw a ‘bit of a do’ every calendar month, and one especially did not need to invite a minimum of fifty people to clog up a small residential street while wearing fancy dress. ‘Is it really unreasonable to expect to park in the road I live in?’ Anthony asked. Elisa’s shoulders moved as she rolled her eyes.
‘Yes, darling, it is unreasonable. Because this is the twenty-first century and there are too many cars and not enough spaces. Because you insisted on buying an American muscle car the size of a small aeroplane instead of a nice sensible compact car, so you can’t even fit on the driveway you paid for.’
Anthony couldn’t argue with that. His pride and joy, a 1978 Dodge Charger, had been his fiftieth birthday present to himself. It was yellow, it puked black smoke every time he went into fourth gear and, best of all, it was almost impossible to park in a normal-sized space. Anthony’s wife and both daughters, along with most of the neigbourhood, usually left the grass verge nearest his house completely empty in the hope he would leave the Dodge there instead of near their belongings.
‘By the way,’ Elisa added as she finally remembered she had come into the room for housework, not gossip, ‘Mary’s coming back while you’re out later on. You know, she’s really getting confident with her driving, I think she’ll be brave enough to buy her own car soon. She’s been borrowing mine all week and hasn’t even scratched my wing mirrors!’
‘Where’s Mary going to park your car, then? In the South of France?’
Elisa tutted as she polished the windowsills. ‘Don’t be rude. She’ll probably take the space you’re in right now.’
‘The space outside our front door. The space the Dodge lives in. My space.’
‘Yes, Anthony.’
‘The space I can park in quite easily without needing hiking shoes for the walk home. The space everyone knows is my space.’
‘Yes, Anthony.’
‘Why does Mary get the space outside the door? Because she has successfully learnt how to drive herself home from the shops after a thousand pounds worth of driving lessons?’
‘Because, darling, she is your daughter and you are supposed to sacrifice things for her. In the same way that I am sacrificing my Saturday afternoon for the cleanliness of this house.’
Parking spaces, Anthony reflected, were not on the list of sacrifices he had prepared himself to make before his children were born. Reinventing swear words, pretending he agreed with his mother taking the children to church and watching the latest Disney until his eyes hurt, yes. But not the parking space outside his own home.
As he heaved shopping bags along the pavement that afternoon – he really should have worn better shoes – Anthony spotted Elisa’s Mondeo by the house. Mary had arrived home and was probably installed in the bathroom. Still, he had to admit she had done an excellent parallel park. She also paid her own parking fines, which was more than Anthony’s eldest daughter had done when she borrowed the family car. Wait, he had praised Mary too soon; she had actually parked over their neighbour’s driveway. In fact, Elisa’s Mondeo was totally blocking next door’s driveway. As he got closer, he realised why.
Mr. Number Seven was washing one of his Beetles, parked badly on the verge outside Anthony and Elisa’s house. Mr. Number Seven’s driveway, about five houses down, was completely empty save for a couple of children chewing sweets. Elisa was definitely watching from her perch upstairs.
‘Afternoon,’ Mr. Number Seven said cheerfully as Anthony reached them. A stream of soapy water was dribbling its way down the pavement and across Anthony’s toes.
‘Good afternoon,’ Anthony replied automatically. ‘Actually, Mr. Number– Daniel. Actually, Daniel, would you mind moving your car onto your driveway please? I’ve just had to park a whole street away.’ Anthony bared his teeth in what he hoped was a nonchalant smile and gestured to the overflowing shopping bags. ‘You’ve also blocked the verge so my daughter’s had to park over our neighbour’s driveway.’
‘I…’ Mr. Number Seven seemed to notice for the first time his car was outside the wrong house. ‘Well, the kids are coming back in the van soon, so I thought I’d leave the drive open for them. Don’t want a great Ford transit blocking the road.’
‘Quite,’ Anthony agreed. ‘When are they expected back?’
‘Tomorrow,’ called a small child, teeth gummed up with caramel. ‘Daddy says they’re back tomorrow.’ Mr. Number Seven flushed slightly, but did not blink.
‘Tomorrow. I see.’ Anthony bared his teeth again. ‘Well, if you’ll excuse me a moment.’ Anthony felt Mr. Number Seven’s eyes follow him as he hauled his groceries back down the road to where the Dodge was parked.
Two minutes later a 1978 Dodge Charger crashed into the verge, the Beetle and Daniel.
At the police station that evening, Anthony was glad to learn that the noise had been enough to rouse Mary from the bathroom and Elisa from her observatory.
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Thank you to Liz for the critiques.
© Francesca Astraea 2017. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Francesca Astraea and francescaswords.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
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