I once, randomly, found myself in the photography exhibition, Familiar British Wildlife, by Clive Landen. The name of this exhibition was ironic. The wildlife were indeed familiar: they were roadkill. I felt the exhibition almost had a political point to make. The wild animals we get to see in Britain are usually dead on the side of the road. I myself never saw a badger up close until the day I stood staring at one on the yellow line next to my bus stop on the way to work. He was stiff and dead with a little trickle of blood coming from his nose. Some days, perhaps something to do with the moon, the carnage on stretches of roads through the peak district is beyond belief. Like some kind of nightmarish prophecy, on the morning after my grandmother died, there were six dead animals on the road from Matlock to Sheffield. One was a sheep.
So picture the scene: it’s almost midnight. I’m driving back from Nottingham along a black-as-pitch stretch of dual carriageway with bust cat’s eyes and worn white lines. In spite of the poor visibility I make good headway because the vegetation has grown high enough that putting my headlights on full beam doesn’t disturb the traffic coming in the other direction. Then I draw up behind a guy who can’t drive. He has his lights dipped, and he’s doing sixty. I don’t feel comfortable overtaking him as I’m too close to him to put my headlights back on full beam, and wouldn’t dream of driving fast enough to overtake him with them dipped. The road is narrow and can be unexpectedly curvy. So I stay behind in the slow lane.
The guy behind me has other plans. When he catches up he’s intent on overtaking us both with his headlights dipped. So there they are: one in the left lane, one in the right lane, neck and neck in front of me, driving through the pitch darkness. Then, right at this very moment, out of the gloom streaks a fox, silhouetted in the headlights, as close as can be to the cars.
The overtaker swerves left violently to avoid the fox, almost hitting the other car, then he swerves right to correct himself, almost hitting the reservation. The fox streaks off into the grass, untouched.
Behind them my heart is pounding through my chest. I would have been too close to avoid the crash.
