Leyland Princess

Clive sang along to the radio as he drove. The contract was signed. The biggest deal the company had ever done and it was he, Clive Fields, who had clinched the deal. The commission would be huge. He tried to do the maths in his head, this deal alone would pay for the extension, and the salesman of the year award was surely in the bank. Happy Days.

His attention was caught by the radio. 

“This is a severe weather warning for the South West of Wales. High winds and blizzards are forecast for tonight. The Met Office are advising that only essential journeys should be made. So be careful out there. This is Kagagoogoo and Too Shy.”

Clive looked at the dark clouds out over the Bristol Channel rolling in towards him. But the radio’s warning didn’t bother him, he was nearing the end of the A48, he’d be home in 25 minutes tops. He’d called his wife from Bridgend and had picked up the milk and sliced loaf she had asked for and a nice bottle of red to celebrate the deal. He couldn’t believe that David Morgan’s in Cardiff had agreed to buy the whole range. He punched the air again and smiled to himself. It still hadn’t really sunk in.

He’d turned off the main road now. His Leyland Princess climbed the steep valley road. Clive could feel the wind building up, it was more and more difficult to control the car. Suddenly from nowhere an icy blast of hail crashed into the window. Clive jumped and lost control of the car. Before he could respond, the Leyland Princess had plunged into the ditch by the side of the road throwing Clive into the steering column. Clive’s lifeless body rocked back in the seat as the car came to a halt.

Marie looked out of the front window for the eighth time that minute. How long did it take to get home from Bridgend? Certainly not two hours. The weather was bad now, the street was covered with a layer of snow and the wind was causing small drifts against the fronts of the houses opposite. There was an eerie silence and a strange white light, the street was deserted; no people, no traffic. Marie didn’t know what to do. Should she phone the police? What would Clive say if he turned up two minutes after she made the call? What do you think I am? Some kind of bloody poof, think I can’t look after myself do you? But two hours late was worrying. She decided to call the local station.

“Oh hello Marie love... There’s been no reports of any accidents… yes I can understand you’re worried but I’m sure he’ll be alright, probably be home any minute. Call us again in a couple of hours if he isn’t eh? Clive can look after himself, I shouldn’t worry if I were you.”

Clive was aware of being cold, very cold. He opened his eyes and looked around. He was trying to remember what had happened. He was in his car. The contract, he’d won the contract. Why was it so bright? Why was he so cold? Why did his head ache? He put his hand up to his cheek, there was something on his face, dried blood caked to his skin. The accident began to come back to him, the storm warning, the gust of hail, the darkness. But why was it so bright now? Was he dead? Was this heaven?

Clive shifted in his seat. He was alive, he could feel his fingers and move his toes, why was he so cold? He tried to open the door. It was jammed, maybe the crash had damaged the mechanism. He shifted in his seat and leaned over to open the passenger side. It opened an inch and then was stuck. Snow fell into the car. Clive was beginning to realise what had happened, he was snowed in. He didn’t know how deep the snow was or if he was visible from the road. He moved to the passenger seat and put his considerable weight against the door, he maybe moved it another inch.

“Help! Help! Help!” His voice bounced around the car. His breathing was getting shallower, he was beginning to panic, he thumped and thumped at the door but to no avail. He turned the key in the ignition. Amazingly the engine sprung to life, he put the car into reverse and put his foot down. Nothing, the wheels couldn’t get any grip; the car didn’t move. Clive pulled at the steering wheel violently and let out a whimper, he was trapped, buried alive, it could be days until anyone found him. He struggled for breath, gasping at the air around him.

Marie hadn’t slept a wink, there was still no sign of her Clive, the snow was now three inches thick and drifting against any surface it could find. The police had said that they would launch a search in the morning once the weather had started to clear and the light was good. Marie paced the house like a caged polar bear, unable to settle. She tried everything to keep her mind occupied, she had started a jigsaw and abandoned it, she tried to watch television but couldn’t concentrate, she’d picked up her novel, getting through twenty pages before realising she hadn’t actually read a word. Suddenly the phone rang. She snatched it out of its cradle. 

“Sergeant Jones here love, we are going out to look for Clive.”

“I wanna come with you. Terry,” Marie said.

“No Marie, you stay there and keep near to a phone. We’ll let you know as soon as we find anything.”

Marie put the phone down and for the first time began to cry, Terry’s voice was solemn, business like, it betrayed a certain hopelessness. He obviously thought Clive was dead. The vision of his blue body filled Marie’s mind.

The warmth from the car’s heaters had calmed Clive down. Panicking wasn’t going to help. He tried to assess the situation. He had about a quarter of a tank of petrol. How long would that keep the engine going? How long before it would overheat? He figured that he would need to run it in bursts, ten minutes on, twenty minutes off. He had bread and milk in the back and a packet of Polos in the glove compartment. He wound down the window and made a hollow in the snow. He put the milk into the hole; the perfect fridge. He reckoned he had enough supplies to last for three days. He turned the engine off; the car was warm now. He flexed his legs and his arms; he needed to keep his blood flowing. He was beginning to enjoy this; it was an adventure. He fished out his first aid kit from under the passenger seat and cleaned up his wound. He thought of Maria, she must be worried sick, she probably thought he was a gonner, how happy would she be when he came back from the dead? Twenty minutes passed, the car was still good and warm, he could leave the engine off for a little while longer. It became a challenge to test his manliness; how long could he go without heating? Eventually, after sixty minutes, he decided he needed some heat. He turned the key, nothing, he tried again, nothing.

“Come on Princess.” Nothing.

“Shit! Shit! Shit!”

The temperature in the car was falling rapidly. Clive stuffed down a piece of bread to try to raise his body temperature. His fingers were turning blue, he was shaking, his teeth chattering away. Suddenly this was no longer a game. Clive needed to get warm and quick.

Clive looked at the bag on the back seat. It contained the solution. It could save his life, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, could he? Clive Fields, man’s man, salesman of the year elect. How would he look if they pulled him out wearing that? He’d be a laughing stock. He’d rather be dead. At that point Marie popped into his mind. Beautiful, pregnant Marie, he couldn’t leave her to bring up junior on her own, he couldn’t leave her alone, he just knew Bish the Butch would be sniffing round after her the day after his funeral. He couldn’t let that bastard get his hands on his wonderful wife. But women’s clothing!

Clive reached into the back and struggled with the zip on the bag. His hands were so cold he could hardly clasp the metal. He pulled out the first dress, the one that had clinched the deal with the woman from Morgan’s. She’d loved it. He put it on over his suit, it wasn’t enough he needed more. He looked in the bag. The answer was there but he hated it. Tights. He knew that under his trousers they would give him protection from the cold. He quickly slipped his trousers off, the cold hit his bare legs, he fumbled with the sheer material. It wasn’t easy to get them on in the confines of the front seat. But finally he managed it. He pulled his trousers back on. That was better, he could feel his blood warming up. But his fingers were still cold. In the bag there were the lacy gloves and the hat that offset the outfit. Clive had no choice. He put them on and pulled his jacket around his body. He tried the ignition again. But nothing. His body under the weight of clothes was warming up but he needed to be found soon.

Clive sang to himself, he tried to remember the Llanelli line up that had beaten the All Blacks in 1971, he tried to recall all the names of the boys in his class at school and wondered where they were now, anything to stop him from falling asleep. It was a struggle, his eyes were heavy, his mind felt light, he’d never felt so relaxed in all his life.

Was he dreaming or were those real voices.

“Sarge, over here, there’s a car.”

Clive could hear the sound of shovels, he was being rescued. He’d been sleeping, he groggily sat up in the car.

“It’s a Leyland Princess, there is someone in it. Are you okay? What’s your name?” 

“Clive, Clive Fffields.”

“It’s Fields, Sarge.”

The constable pulled the door open and helped Clive out of the car, he struggled to suppress a smirk as he saw Clive’s outfit.

“Bloody Hell, what have we here” Sergeant Jones didn’t try to hide his laughter. “A right Leyland Princess!”

Maggie’s Milkman It is now available on Kindle - search 'Milkman Gareth Davies’ (the links are different in different countries)

and on other ebook readers at - 

https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/412845