The Wrong Way Home
Robert Steward
Pioltello, Italy 1999
I was driving back to Monza in my white Mini with Tim in the passenger seat and Maria in the back. The car headlights lit a triangle of road ahead, lined with trees and fields, and every now and then appeared a pair of blurry red tail lights. The sad and vibrant chords of Gene’s Sleep Well Tonight rang out on the stereo, leaving me with a feeling of nostalgia.
“We’ve already heard this one on the way up,” Tim said. “Shall we put something else on?”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “There’s some more tapes in the glove compartment.”
Tim was a north London boy, from Watford. He was particularly proud of this, especially when it came to football. He owned a bright yellow Watford football shirt, making him look like Bananaman. Well, that’s what the Italians called him when we played five-a-side football. He was tall, had short black hair and a baby face. His black jacket was zipped up halfway, revealing a blue shirt and a diamond-patterned v-neck jumper.
“Let’s see,” he said, rummaging through the tapes, “The Smiths, The Stone Roses, The Manic Street Preachers... ah, the Happy Mondays!”
“You can’t beat the Happy Mondays!”
“No, you certainly can’t.”
Tim pressed the eject button on the stereo and the tape popped out.
“Have you got a case for this one?”
“It’s in there somewhere,” I said, nodding towards the glove compartment.
He put the Happy Mondays tape into the stereo and Bob’s Yer Uncle came on.
“Oh, dear.” I chuckled.
“What?” Tim said, his dimples coming alive.
“I just remembered. I was playing this tape the other day in one of my lessons in Concorezzo. You know, while the class were doing a grammar exercise.”
“Oh, yeah.” Tim smiled.
“And this song came on. And it was only after a while I realised what he was singing.”
“Oh, no! Did anyone say anything?”
“Well, luckily, it was an elementary class, so no one understood, but still, just imagine if they did!”
Tim started singing the opening line to the song, then broke off laughing.
I laughed too.
We drove past a shopping mall, lit up by a blanket of Christmas lights and a sign that read: Buone Feste
“So how are your classes going?” I asked.
“Not bad. I got another Panettone from my kids’ class in Arcore.”
“Another one? How many is that, now?”
“About six in all. I don’t know why, though. All I ever do is give them a wordsearch and read The Guardian. But that’s nothing. Maria got that briefcase from her business student.”
“Really?” I looked into the rearview mirror.
Maria nodded and smiled, on her lap lay a brown leather briefcase.
“I don’t believe it!” I said. “I haven’t received anything from my students--not even a cake!”
“You can have one of mine if you want.” Tim laughed. “I don’t even like them.”
“That’s not the point,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ll get something before Christmas.”
I flicked the indicator lever down and turned off the road, which snaked round on itself and came out onto a dual carriageway.
Just then, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Oh, no!” I said, closing my eyes. “I don’t believe it!”
“What’s wrong?” Tim said, looking at me and then the road. “Oh, no--not again!” He laughed.
“Oh, no!” Maria said in the back.
It was the tangenziale, and in the distance the familiar sight of the tall grey toll booths.
“How many times do I have to end up on this road?” I said.
“Look, I’ll get it this time.” Tim put his hand into his trouser pocket.
“No, it’s okay.” I raised my hand. “It’s my fault.”
I looked around for any slip roads, but knew it was too late.
“Maybe we should have turned left at the roundabout,” Tim suggested.
“Oh, well,” I said. “One day we’ll get home without using the toll road.”
Slowing down, I entered one of the toll lanes. There was a big square sign that read: Biglietto and an arrow, pointing down to the ticket machine. I stopped the car. Tim unwound his window and took a ticket from the machine. The barrier went back up with a judder.
“Hey, do you remember the first time we went to Pioltello?” he said, winding up the window.
“Oh, God, yeah,” I said, putting the car into gear. “How can I forget?”
“It was crazy, wasn’t it?”
“Do you remember that knackered out FIAT Marbella the school gave us?” I said as we pulled away. “Nothing worked in it, and the choke came right off in my hand!”
“Yeah, it was a complete wreck, wasn’t it? And what’s her name? The blonde one? The assistant head of studies?”
“Rachelle?”
“Yeah, Rachelle. She drove like a lunatic!”
“Oh, yeah, we lost her when she went through a red light.”
“Yeah, that’s right, and we had to call the school to find out where she was.”
Maria smiled and shook her head.
“And remember waiting outside the school gates, thinking no one was going to turn up?” I said.
“Yeah, with all those Headway coursebooks stacked up on the pavement, it looked like a front for some drugs deal.” Tim slapped his leg laughing.
“Oh, yeah, and I finished my lesson half an hour early! I said to the class: ‘Okay, so have a nice week and see you next Monday,’ and one of the students goes: ‘Er, Prof, I think at the British Institutes we finish at half past nine.’”
“Brilliant, Rob! Absolutely brilliant!”
Tim couldn’t stop laughing; he had tears in his eyes. When he recovered he said: “And my lesson was a right crock of shit!--Mario kept asking me questions about grammar, and I kept saying: ‘Let’s look at that point next week, shall we?’ I didn’t know what I was doing!”
I slid the car heater lever from car to screen and opened my window a little to clear the condensation.
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you!” I said.
“What?”
“I was looking through my register last week and noticed that one of the students hadn’t turned up to any of the lessons, which I thought was strange.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So, I asked the class if anyone knew who this woman was. And you won’t believe this!”
“What?”
“Ugo said it was his ex-wife!”
“What?” Tim started laughing.
There was a little gasp from Maria in the back.
“The guy that looks like a vampire?” Tim asked.
“Yeah, that’s right. Apparently, they enrolled together, but split up just before the first lesson.”
“No!”
“Yeah, I know! After he told me, I just didn’t know what to say. I just kept saying, ‘Oh!’ I was speechless.”
“My God.” Tim laughed. “How embarrassing!”
“I know! Even the other students in the class looked shocked.”
“I can imagine!”
I indicated and turned off the tangenziale.
“You’re a bit quiet tonight, Maria,” said Tim.
“Maria, Ma-ri-a,” I sang, imitating the Santana song.
She smiled and rolled her eyes.
Maria was from Spain. She was small with short black hair, a pale face and a ready smile. Her white puffer jacket done up to her chin.
“I bet you can’t wait to get home, listening to us talk rubbish all the time.” Tim laughed.
“No, it’s okay.” Maria leaned forward like a mouse.
“I bet when you get home to Anke and Christine you tell them: ‘Oh, God, I can’t stand those two guys. They’re such idiots,’” I added.
“No.” She smiled. “Well, maybe sometimes.”
Tim and I laughed.
Up ahead stood another set of toll booths; three square signs indicated the different types of payment. I went to the one with a toll attendant. We had only driven about five-hundred yards.
Tim turned down the stereo and unwound his window. He handed the ticket to the toll attendant.
The man was old and had a weathered-looking face. He gave the car a strange look.
“Mille lire,” he said in a monotone voice, his breath rising up through the cold night air.
I squeezed my hand into my trouser pocket.
“Here you go.” I said, handing Tim a thousand-lire note. “That’s fifty pence I’ll never see again.”
Tim smiled and gave it to the attendant.
I put the car into gear, checked the rearview mirror and drove off. Tim turned up the stereo, and the wha, wha, wha of guitars introduced the next song.
“Oh, I like this one,” I said. ‘What’s it called again?’
#
I was driving back to Monza in my white Mini with Tim in the passenger seat and Maria in the back. The car headlights lit a triangle of road ahead, lined with trees and fields, and every now and then appeared a pair of blurry red tail lights. The sad and vibrant chords of Gene’s Sleep Well Tonight rang out on the stereo, leaving me with a feeling of nostalgia.
“We’ve already heard this one on the way up,” Tim said. “Shall we put something else on?”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “There’s some more tapes in the glove compartment.”
Tim was a north London boy, from Watford. He was particularly proud of this, especially when it came to football. He owned a bright yellow Watford football shirt, making him look like Bananaman. Well, that’s what the Italians called him when we played five-a-side football. He was tall, had short black hair and a baby face. His black jacket was zipped up halfway, revealing a blue shirt and a diamond-patterned v-neck jumper.
“Let’s see,” he said, rummaging through the tapes, “The Smiths, The Stone Roses, The Manic Street Preachers... ah, the Happy Mondays!”
“You can’t beat the Happy Mondays!”
“No, you certainly can’t.”
Tim pressed the eject button on the stereo and the tape popped out.
“Have you got a case for this one?”
“It’s in there somewhere,” I said, nodding towards the glove compartment.
He put the Happy Mondays tape into the stereo and Bob’s Yer Uncle came on.
“Oh, dear.” I chuckled.
“What?” Tim said, his dimples coming alive.
“I just remembered. I was playing this tape the other day in one of my lessons in Concorezzo. You know, while the class were doing a grammar exercise.”
“Oh, yeah.” Tim smiled.
“And this song came on. And it was only after a while I realised what he was singing.”
“Oh, no! Did anyone say anything?”
“Well, luckily, it was an elementary class, so no one understood, but still, just imagine if they did!”
Tim started singing the opening line to the song, then broke off laughing.
I laughed too.
We drove past a shopping mall, lit up by a blanket of Christmas lights and a sign that read: Buone Feste
“So how are your classes going?” I asked.
“Not bad. I got another Panettone from my kids’ class in Arcore.”
“Another one? How many is that, now?”
“About six in all. I don’t know why, though. All I ever do is give them a wordsearch and read The Guardian. But that’s nothing. Maria got that briefcase from her business student.”
“Really?” I looked into the rearview mirror.
Maria nodded and smiled, on her lap lay a brown leather briefcase.
“I don’t believe it!” I said. “I haven’t received anything from my students--not even a cake!”
“You can have one of mine if you want.” Tim laughed. “I don’t even like them.”
“That’s not the point,” I said.
“I’m sure you’ll get something before Christmas.”
I flicked the indicator lever down and turned off the road, which snaked round on itself and came out onto a dual carriageway.
Just then, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Oh, no!” I said, closing my eyes. “I don’t believe it!”
“What’s wrong?” Tim said, looking at me and then the road. “Oh, no--not again!” He laughed.
“Oh, no!” Maria said in the back.
It was the tangenziale, and in the distance the familiar sight of the tall grey toll booths.
“How many times do I have to end up on this road?” I said.
“Look, I’ll get it this time.” Tim put his hand into his trouser pocket.
“No, it’s okay.” I raised my hand. “It’s my fault.”
I looked around for any slip roads, but knew it was too late.
“Maybe we should have turned left at the roundabout,” Tim suggested.
“Oh, well,” I said. “One day we’ll get home without using the toll road.”
Slowing down, I entered one of the toll lanes. There was a big square sign that read: Biglietto and an arrow, pointing down to the ticket machine. I stopped the car. Tim unwound his window and took a ticket from the machine. The barrier went back up with a judder.
“Hey, do you remember the first time we went to Pioltello?” he said, winding up the window.
“Oh, God, yeah,” I said, putting the car into gear. “How can I forget?”
“It was crazy, wasn’t it?”
“Do you remember that knackered out FIAT Marbella the school gave us?” I said as we pulled away. “Nothing worked in it, and the choke came right off in my hand!”
“Yeah, it was a complete wreck, wasn’t it? And what’s her name? The blonde one? The assistant head of studies?”
“Rachelle?”
“Yeah, Rachelle. She drove like a lunatic!”
“Oh, yeah, we lost her when she went through a red light.”
“Yeah, that’s right, and we had to call the school to find out where she was.”
Maria smiled and shook her head.
“And remember waiting outside the school gates, thinking no one was going to turn up?” I said.
“Yeah, with all those Headway coursebooks stacked up on the pavement, it looked like a front for some drugs deal.” Tim slapped his leg laughing.
“Oh, yeah, and I finished my lesson half an hour early! I said to the class: ‘Okay, so have a nice week and see you next Monday,’ and one of the students goes: ‘Er, Prof, I think at the British Institutes we finish at half past nine.’”
“Brilliant, Rob! Absolutely brilliant!”
Tim couldn’t stop laughing; he had tears in his eyes. When he recovered he said: “And my lesson was a right crock of shit!--Mario kept asking me questions about grammar, and I kept saying: ‘Let’s look at that point next week, shall we?’ I didn’t know what I was doing!”
I slid the car heater lever from car to screen and opened my window a little to clear the condensation.
“Oh, and I forgot to tell you!” I said.
“What?”
“I was looking through my register last week and noticed that one of the students hadn’t turned up to any of the lessons, which I thought was strange.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So, I asked the class if anyone knew who this woman was. And you won’t believe this!”
“What?”
“Ugo said it was his ex-wife!”
“What?” Tim started laughing.
There was a little gasp from Maria in the back.
“The guy that looks like a vampire?” Tim asked.
“Yeah, that’s right. Apparently, they enrolled together, but split up just before the first lesson.”
“No!”
“Yeah, I know! After he told me, I just didn’t know what to say. I just kept saying, ‘Oh!’ I was speechless.”
“My God.” Tim laughed. “How embarrassing!”
“I know! Even the other students in the class looked shocked.”
“I can imagine!”
I indicated and turned off the tangenziale.
“You’re a bit quiet tonight, Maria,” said Tim.
“Maria, Ma-ri-a,” I sang, imitating the Santana song.
She smiled and rolled her eyes.
Maria was from Spain. She was small with short black hair, a pale face and a ready smile. Her white puffer jacket done up to her chin.
“I bet you can’t wait to get home, listening to us talk rubbish all the time.” Tim laughed.
“No, it’s okay.” Maria leaned forward like a mouse.
“I bet when you get home to Anke and Christine you tell them: ‘Oh, God, I can’t stand those two guys. They’re such idiots,’” I added.
“No.” She smiled. “Well, maybe sometimes.”
Tim and I laughed.
Up ahead stood another set of toll booths; three square signs indicated the different types of payment. I went to the one with a toll attendant. We had only driven about five-hundred yards.
Tim turned down the stereo and unwound his window. He handed the ticket to the toll attendant.
The man was old and had a weathered-looking face. He gave the car a strange look.
“Mille lire,” he said in a monotone voice, his breath rising up through the cold night air.
I squeezed my hand into my trouser pocket.
“Here you go.” I said, handing Tim a thousand-lire note. “That’s fifty pence I’ll never see again.”
Tim smiled and gave it to the attendant.
I put the car into gear, checked the rearview mirror and drove off. Tim turned up the stereo, and the wha, wha, wha of guitars introduced the next song.
“Oh, I like this one,” I said. ‘What’s it called again?’
#
