Archive of Our Own ^beta

The old man looks at the street sign, turns around, looks at the other street sign, sighs, and pulls up a paper map, opening it whole on the car, trying to follow with his finger, squinting at the small letters – but it’s no use. It’s a map of the whole region, so there’s no detailed information for the streets in the little city. He sighs, tries to close the map – which is hard, given the heavy raining – and gets back in the car, slams the door, and slowly drives away, mumbling something under his breath. It’s already hard enough to drive here, he doesn’t need to get even more lost right now.

He stops at the next intersection, stares at the street sign again – still not what he’s looking for. The longer it takes, the more he’s questioning himself. Maybe that idea of visiting his roots was stupid. And his host expected him ten minutes ago already. He rolls his eyes, drives away one more time. His back hurts, and all of this crap is tiring him.

The very next thing happens next street. And the one after that. And at the intersections with Cottage Beck Road, Lydbrook Road, Centerary Way, Bushfield Road, Lloyds Avenue, West Common Lane, Rivelin Road, Hopkins Avenue, Lincoln Gardens, Priory Lane, Ashby High Street, and it’s at that point he realizes he was actually supposed to turn right into West Common Lane, but he was too focused on driving, reading the signs, and not getting rear-ended by the locals, who know the city and, unlike him, drive at the regular speed.

He goes back, turns where he’s supposed to, and the same game continues. He turns right somewhere, passes a Hawthorne Crescent (smirks to himself), does an unauthorized U-turn, turns right at the roundabout, left at the next intersection, and finally ends up in Devonshire Road, pulling into an alley after checking the number twice.

As he stops the car, the door of the little house opens, and his host steps outside, checking who’s there. “Ah, happy to see you made it! I was getting worried.”

As he retrieves his travel suitcase from the back, Buzz Hickey grumbles: “You have no idea how much I miss numbered streets right now. Also, driving on the right. I hate this place.”

Smiling with all of his teeth (that is, all the ones he still has, but British dentistry is not on trial here), Ian Duncan answers: “Yes, yes, I do too. Welcome to Scunthorpe. Now get in before the tea gets cold. Or the wine gets warm.”