Gordon arrived at the car-hire desk and asked for a vehicle with as few features as possible.
“No voice assistant,” he said. “No automatic seats. Nothing that asks how I’m feeling.”
The clerk, Amy, tapped her keyboard.
“Would a compact suit you?”
“Does it beep?”
“Only when necessary.”
“They all think it’s necessary.”
Gordon explained that his son had lent him a new car for a weekend. It had warned him about his seat belt while he was still putting it on, warned him about a cyclist he’d already seen, and warned him about a coffee cup it apparently believed he had forgotten. By the time he parked, he felt he’d completed a driving test under three examiners.
Amy found an older model.
“Manual adjustment. Ordinary key. No screen.”
Gordon smiled for the first time. “Wonderful.”
“Would you like navigation?”
“No.”
“Roadside assistance?”
“Yes. People are fine. It’s equipment with opinions I dislike.”
In the car park, an attendant showed him the lights, wipers, and fuel flap. Gordon thanked him and asked whether the car spoke. The attendant said no. Gordon asked whether it would ever suddenly decide to steer. The attendant said it would not. Gordon checked that the boot could be opened without waving his leg underneath it.
He drove away feeling unusually independent.
Twenty minutes later he returned.
Amy looked up. “Is something wrong?”
“It keeps clicking.”
“While you’re turning?”
“Yes.”
“That would be the indicator.”
“I know the indicator. This is a second click.”
The attendant drove around the block with him. The car behaved perfectly. Gordon demonstrated the sound by making a small click with his tongue. The attendant said he couldn’t identify a fault from that but would happily check the vehicle.
Gordon waited in reception. Amy offered him coffee. He declined because he didn’t want the car to become concerned about it.
The attendant checked the glove compartment, the door pockets, and the boot. He found a loose plastic bottle and removed it. Gordon took another drive. Ten minutes later he was back.
“Still clicking.”
The attendant asked Gordon to take his usual driving position while they listened. Gordon adjusted the mirror. No click. He tried the wipers. No click. He fastened his seat belt and waited.
“Perhaps it’s stopped,” the attendant said.
Gordon shook his head. “That’s what it wants you to think.”
They both sat silently for a minute. From reception, Amy watched two grown men listening suspiciously to a parked car.
They offered another car. Gordon refused. He liked this one. It was simple, quiet, and didn’t assume he needed encouragement to stay in his lane. He simply wanted the click explained.
Amy asked exactly when it happened.
“Every few minutes. Sometimes when I turn. Sometimes when I stop. Once while I was doing nothing.”
“Could it be something you’re carrying?”
Gordon emptied his pockets onto the desk: wallet, keys, folded map, small tin of mints. Then his phone clicked.
Amy looked at it.
Gordon looked at it.
A notification appeared: Dad, did you get the car okay?
Then another: Send me the registration.
Then another: Remember they drive on the left here.
Gordon read the messages, slowly put the mints back in his pocket, and said nothing.
Amy kept her expression professional. “Would you like us to pair your phone with the car?”
“Absolutely not.”
Another message arrived: Don’t forget to check the mirrors.
The phone clicked again.
Gordon slid it across the counter.
“Can I hire a different son?”