PET AND GOGO: 

Next day was Sunday. Miss Randolph went to the English church, which is the prettiest I've ever seen in France, and afterwards, escorted by the chaplain with whom she'd made friends, went forth to see the sights, while I inquired as to how we might best proceed upon our way. While Miss Randolph and Miss Kedison read their prayer-books, I studied that useful volume, Les Routes de France, and was duly warned against the impracticable roads of the Landes. The one thing to do, according to the oracle, was to return to Bordeaux and make a long détour to Bayonne by Mont de Marsan. I knew Miss Randolph would dislike this plan, for she hates going back, and so do I. If I had been alone, or with you, I would have chanced it without a moment's hesitation, making straight for Bayonne by way of the forbidden Landes, with all its pitfalls. But I funked the idea of perhaps getting Her into a mess--and hearing Aunt Mary say "I told you so," as she invariably does when there's any trouble.

-         Can you pass me that lighter, babe? 

-         You need to slow down with those things, Gogo.  You’ve been chain-smoking since Barry died. 

-         It’s got nothing to do with Barry.  Trust me. 

-         It’s OK, you know.  It’s OK to be stressed when your housemate’s been murdered.  What did the cops say to you the other day?

-         Same thing they said to everyone else, I expect.  It’s like Chinese Whispers.  They’re making a big deal about what they call the “relationship” between Barry and Razor.  Makes me laugh.  Makes it sound like they were fucking.

-         Maybe they were. 

-         Really?  You can see that, can you? 

-         What did you say to them?

-         Who?

-         The cops?

-         What about?

-         About Barry and Razor’s “relationship”? 

-         I said there wasn’t any “relationship.”  Barry got on Razor’s tits, just like he did with everyone else.  Razor went too far, but I don’t blame him, in a way. 

-         Don’t blame him for what? 

-         Killing Barry. 

-         Hold on, hold on.  So Razor did it now?

-         Well, I wouldn’t say it to his face, but yeah, of course he fucking killed him.  I don’t think anyone else round here has it in them.

-         Aren’t you worried? 

-         What do you mean? 

-         Aren’t you worried that Razor will kill you too? 

-         Why would he want to kill me?

-         I don’t know.  For accusing him of Barry’s murder, maybe?   

-         I told you, I’m not going to actually tell him … I’ll probably just stay out of his way for a while. 

To my joy, however, plucky Parson Radcliff had actually advanced the idea of the Landes, during their excursion, and the Goddess sent for me on Sunday evening, full of enthusiasm. Far be it from me to dampen the ardour of youth; and early on Monday morning we started to follow the route La Teste, Sanguinet, Parentis, Yehoux, Liposthey, which names reminded Miss Randolph of Gulliver's Travels.

-         Hey, hey, stop it – why are you tearing up that book? 

-         I ran out of Rizlas.

-         You can’t just tear pages out of books – it’s barbaric.    

-         It depends on what the book is, though, doesn’t it?  This is just another one of Craig’s “curiosities”.  Pretentious fuck.  Look at this: “The Lightening Conductor: The Strange Adventures of a Motor Car” by C.N. and A.M. Adamson.  It’s a travel guide from 1903. 

-         Sounds interesting.  

-         Really?

-         Do you think it’s worth something?

-         If it’s worth something, I’m definitely smoking my way through the lot.  That’ll teach him. 

-         What exactly will it teach him?  

-         Babe, he doesn’t actually read any of these books.  He sticks them on the coffee table to make himself look intellectual.  He uses them as doorstops.  He’s an idiot.  I’d be surprised if he even knows how to read. 

-         OK.  Point taken.  Move on. 

-         I can’t move on.  I hate the guy. 

-         You hate everyone. 

-         Not true.  I love you.  I hate everyone else.  Doesn’t that make you feel special? 

She and I were in fine spirits, expecting the unexpected, and bracing ourselves to encounter difficulties. There was mystery in the very thought of the Landes--that strange waste of forest and sand so little known outside its own people. I felt it, and so did Miss Randolph, I knew. How I knew I couldn't explain to you; but some electric current usually communicates her mood to me, and I should almost believe from various signs that it was so with her in regard to me, if I weren't a mere chauffeur in the lady's pay.

-         It’s like this whole “house meeting” business.  Next time he calls a house meeting, I’m abstaining.

-         Well, I know you don’t agree with me, but I think Craig’s house meetings are a good idea.  It’s a way for people to communicate – everyone gets their say.  It’s democratic. 

-         Democracy?  Don’t make me laugh.  We’re living in a fucking dictatorship.  The problem with that twat is, he thinks this is his house.  It’s like this business with him painting the living room.  How many people did he consult about that?  None of us. 

-         He consulted me. 

-         What?    

-         Anyway, that wallpaper was horrific.  Really bad.  No one liked it.  Now we’ve got nice white walls.  He was doing you all a favor. 

-         He consulted you?  He consulted you and not me?  You don’t even live here!  Officially, I mean…

-         What does it matter?  People think of me as being an extension of you.  “Pet and Gogo” they call us.  It’s like we’re one person. 

-         Well, as sweet as that sounds, I’ve got news for them – we’re not one person.  They can all fuck themselves to hell.  I’m finished with them.

-         You always say that. 

For some distance the going was good, but we were only reading the preface to the true

Landes as yet; and when we reached the boundary post between the department of the Gironde and the real Landes, there was one of those sudden, complete changes I've mentioned in the quality of the road. To drive into this dim, pine-clad region was like driving back into the years a century or two. A motorcar was an anachronism, and if we came to grief our blood was upon our own heads. The way became grass-grown and rutty, and I was obliged to drive slowly. Deeper and deeper we penetrated into the forest, and deeper and deeper also we sank into the soft earth. Aunt Mary groaned and prophesied disaster as we crawled along in ruts up to our axles; but I think Miss Randolph and I would have perished sooner than retreat. I trusted in the Napier and she trusted in me. In one place the road had been mended with a covering of loose rocks rather than stones; we panted and crunched our way over them, enormously to the astonishment of the road-menders and one or two dark-faced peasants, perched like cranes on the old-fashioned stilts not yet utterly abandoned as a means of navigating this sea of sand and pines. Still, on we went, the engine labouring a little, like an overworked heart; but it was a loyal heart, and the tyres were trumps.

-         What shall we have for dinner then, babe? 

-         Dunno.  Howsabout some spag boll?  We could eat it on the table in the living room, like Lady and the Tramp. 

-         Actually, can I ask a favour, babe? 

-         What is it, babe? 

-         Could we eat on separate plates tonight?  I’m really hungry.

Miss Randolph said that if she were a tyre and condemned to such hard labour, she would burst out of sheer spite. I think Miss Kedison nearly did so as it was; but as for us (I suppose you can't conceive the satisfaction to a poor chauffeur of bracketing his lady and himself familiarly as "us"), we were intoxicated by the heavy balsam of the turpentine, for which every tree we passed was being sliced. On each a great flake of the trunk had been struck off with an axe, and a small earthen cup affixed to catch the resin, which is the heart's blood of the wounded tree. There was something Dante-esque in the effect of these bleeding wounds, among old, scarcely healed scars; and that effect was intensified by the shadowy gloom of the dense forest, and the never-ceasing sound of the wind among the high, dark branches, like the beating of surf upon an unseen shore.

-         If you like.