We are back on the taxi rank.
We almost didn’t make it.
There were several reasons for this, not the least of which was that we really didn’t want to.
We sat in bed this morning and longed with our whole hearts to abandon the idea of working and to drive down to York and see Lucy’s school production, in which she was dancing.
I wanted to do this so badly that it was painful.
The thing is that we pay the fees for the dancing lessons and the lovely school and the happy life that she has by working, and on a Saturday night we earn more than all the rest of the week put together. Friday nights are jolly good, but Saturday night is when we make money.
We hovered uncertainly, yearningly, we could have done it so easily. We were halfway there, and there would have been tickets, and it would have been so lovely to see her, and to clap and feel proud.
We did not.
We gritted our teeth and remembered that we must earn money, and Lucy’s dance night was placed, sorrowfully, with so many other nights, as another sacrifice on the school fees altar.
There might come a time, if Mark and Ted make their millions, and if I have got a nice steady income from locking people up, when we can stop driving taxis sometimes, when we can look at Saturday night and think that it would be quite all right to go to a wedding instead, or to a party, or a festival, or to one of the other hundreds of lovely things that everybody does.
That day is not today.
We were not unhappy about this really. We reminded ourselves that we have had the longest break that we have had since before Christmas. We had stopped working on Thursday night for Ted and Mrs. Ted, and had not worked since. We did not work all of the way through Friday, which meant that Saturday was absurdly long, because we were awake in the morning, instead of lunchtime. We decided that we would have a happy day and make our way back slowly.
We did not leap out of bed. We drank coffee and thought how nice it was to be together. We had a quiet cuddle, which was not helped by the dogs’ firm belief that all cuddles should include a couple of dogs, preferably sighing and licking our noses and wriggling in between us.
We got up then.
When we looked out of the window it was snowing.
We were surprised about this, not having listened to the weather forecast much, and thought that we might be sensible to take the Wensleydale road through the passes, instead of attempting the high-winds and terrifying blizzards on the A66.
This was lovely.
This road takes us through ancient sheep-farming country, between the high fells and past woodlands and over little stone bridges and through determined villages, squatting sturdily on the fellside. Everywhere was white with falling snow.
We stopped in Hawes. We wrapped ourselves up in scarves and greatcoats and went to explore. We wandered around happily, looking at the optimistically touristy shops. We admired the work of a truly brilliant photographer, and touched glowing crystals and considered whether or not we wanted waterproof trousers. We might come back for some when we have got some money.
Then, recklessly, we thought that we would have a pub lunch.
This was a marvellous thing to do, because we ate out last night, if you remember, we had fish and chips in Bedale. Doing it twice felt gloriously idle and hedonistic, and we were very pleased with ourselves.
We examined the pubs until we found one that was serving lunches, and the warm air and cooking smells hit us reassuringly as we opened the door.
We found a seat in the corner, and spent the most entertaining hour eating huge portions of gammon and eggs, and eavesdropping in horrified fascination to the conversations going on around us.
I might have mentioned before that this is one of my favourite things, to sit unobserved and watch strangers getting on with their lives around me. Mark is good company for this, because I do not need to say anything. He is watching and thinking the same things as I am.
We listened to an anxious lady telling a bored friend a long list of the things that her dog liked to eat. At the next table was a man trying to explain, on the outside to his girlfriend, and on the inside to himself, why he had got a motorbike but never managed to buy a house. Opposite us sat a silent couple, a scowling man and a lady with pursed mouth and tired eyes trying to have middle class table manners.
We watched them all, and were sympathetic and sad and entertained all at once. Then stuffed with unsuitable fried food for the second time in twenty four hours, we went back to our camper van and thought that it was nice to be us.
We drove out of Hawes and on to the open fell, where we parked at the side of the road and went back to bed.
Some time later Mark sat up with a jump.
Nothing had gone past us for ages, he said.
We looked out of the window.
The world was white.
We scrambled hastily to set off whilst we still could, and picked our way cautiously along the snowy, deserted road, sliding a little here and there.
Of course we made it all right in the end, but it was an adventure all the same.
We are on the taxi rank now.
It is still snowing a great deal.
