After, they talked of less fraught topics—the perfect autumn weather, the
beauty of the scenery, the food and the wine.
On the way home, Lucasta dozed.
Eleanor drove. She had been
careful to have only two glasses of champagne over lunch, so that she was still
safe to drive.
“I should get an Ozzie driving licence,” Jason observed.
“Do you have a UK licence?”
“Yes, but it’s not valid here.”
“Yes it is. For a while, anyway,
as far as I know. Until it expires or
until you change citizenship.”
“I didn’t know. It’s valid for
another five years, then. That’s good
news. I thought I would have to take my
driving test again. All that palaver.”
“Well, you will, but not for the next few years.”
“I’ll be able to borrow Keith’s car.
He doesn’t use it that much because he lives near to the pub.”
“You could borrow this car.”
Jason turned to look at Eleanor.
“You’ve been very kind to me already,” he murmured.
“Nonsense. It’s a pleasure having
you.”
Jason knew she was lonely, and often oppressed by thoughts of Bart and
his suicide. She thinks of me as her
son, he thought. Why not? She means more to me than my real mother.
He smiled at her. “Well, when
you’re not using it. But public
transport here is so good, like London, I don’t feel the lack of a car. It’s just that one of these days, I’d like to
go and see the countryside, drive up to Sydney.”
“You must take the route along the coast.
It’s quite lovely. All those
deserted beaches.”
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