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‘It’s ten days today dear, poor Lil,’ so that each morning commenced on a depressing note.
    He was also very cross that I won the treasure-hunt. I had overheard someone explaining the last clue and so reached the treasure first. I felt ashamed too, but having committed the original sin I was not brave enough to make a public confession and salved my conscience by presenting the real winner with my prize of padded coat-hangers from which was suspended a satin lavender-bag, saying I already had too many coat-hangers and lavender-bags. I thereby gained a reputation for overwhelming generosity which annoyed Chas even more.
    After the first few days we did team up with some other jolly young people. Chas won the tennis prize and the table-tennis prize, fairly and squarely, of course. We joined the beach club where we met every morning for drinks and high-jinks. Chas and I were not real drinkers, he built himself up on Horlicks while I consumed gallons of coffee. One morning, however, I sampled the local home-brewed cider. I’d forgotten my mother’s warning that country cider, to the uninitiated, can be as lethal as spirits and I was feeling in fine fettle, the life and soul of the party. The whole club was in hysterics, with the exception of Chas, still on Horlicks and very worried about me. I loved every moment of this rapturous experience. Someone suggested we visit the nearby town and ‘have a go’ on the miniature Brooklands racing-track. We all contributed to a pool for a prize for the winner.
    Now we had had no experience of cars, indeed I could only ever remember having been in my wedding vehicle, but I assumed the little cars on the track were toys, like a child’s pedal-car. We all selected our racers and I had to try hard to keep my eyes and ears open for the starter’s instructions. ‘Keep your foot on the accelerator until the bell goes,’ he shouted through a megaphone. Down slammed my foot and off I shot. I was leading in no time, for by a miracle I had raced out in front without crashing into my competitors.
    In the centre of the race-track was a miniature rock-garden with a pond, beautiful flowers and exotic trees with chattering monkeys climbing all over them, all this enclosed by strong mesh fencing. The crowd were cheering me on. Never had they seen such driving, the real Brooklands had come to town. I was petrified with terror, too stupid to realise that if I lifted my foot off the pedal I would slow down and come to a halt. The man had said, ‘Keep your foot on,’ and obediently I did. I thought I should be killed, I might even kill a fellow driver, and as I have that sort of weak nature which gives up when the going gets too rough so I began not to care if I was killed, although I did not want to hurt anyone else. Perhaps it was because the effects of the cider were reaching their climax, I don’t know, but I could not wait for the stop bell any longer, I felt it would never ring, and as I negotiated a turn near the rock-garden, wham, with a tearing crash and an almighty flash of electricity (I had no idea the track or fence was wired up to power) I shot straight into the monkey enclosure. For one moment there was a terrible hush; every other car had stopped as though by magic. Then in the silence came the owner’s shout, ‘Jesus Christ Almighty,’ and I knew then what a terrible thing the demon drink was. In my fuddled mind, already feverishly trying to escape from a delicate situation, I realised that I just could not emerge from the car unhurt, as indeed I miraculously was. What wrath would be poured on my head! Why I might even have to work until old age to pay for the damage. So, in my best ‘Lady of the Camellias’ manner I slumped dramatically across the wheel of the car.
    Chas, sure I was mortally wounded, leapt from his car to come to his dying wife and tore his shin from ankle to knee on a piece of broken metal on his