A LOVE STORY
Barbara
Smith
cannot
understand why men are so passionate about cars. My husband and son drool over
'Which Car', like two adolescent youths with a copy of 'Playboy', lusting over
the vital statistics of the centre page spread. Show them a twin turbo engine
and they pant with desire. When a new vehicle arrives on the scene my husband
can spend hours examining and stroking each of its components with almost
sensual delight, so much so, that I sometimes wish that I was a car.
My only interest in transport is purely objective. Will it travel
from A to B without breaking down and is it blue? [ I have always found blue
cars to be the most reliable] . Yet despite my disinterest, I have to confess
that deep in my murky past there was one car that stole my heart.
About twenty years ago, in the late seventies, we moved to a small
village set high in the Lancashire moors. The entire place consisted of about
twenty cottages, a pub, a shop and a tiny junior school and was surrounded for
miles by farmland. The bus service was almost non- existent. My youngest
children, Gavin and Joanne, at nine and six respectively, were no problem. They
would attend the local school. But at thirteen, Julia my eldest, was already
ensconced at a secondary school about ten miles away, while I myself was employed
as a cook at another school some miles in the opposite direction. Mike, my
husband, in his job as a carpenter, used our only car. After discussion, Mike
decided we needed another car
"We don't need anything fancy," he said, " just a
run-around to get you to work and the kids back and forth. True to his word he
turned up with it two days later. It was a Mini and it cost fifty pounds.
My first impression of it was that it looked like a bedraggled
little orphan that no-one wanted. The original colour was a lovely sunshine
yellow; patches of it still peeped out from around the blotches of ugly grey
filler and amateur paint jobs. Mike started up the engine.
"It's definitely a singer," he said. When I looked
puzzled he put his hand behind his ear and pointed to the engine. I had to
admit that it sounded remarkably like a treadle sewing machine that I once
owned.
But Singer and I had already bonded. I didn't like driving at the
best of times, but its very smallness made me feel somehow more secure. As for
speed, anything over forty miles an hour brought on a desperate juddering,
accompanied by a high pitched whine. This didn't bother me at all, I had never
been impressed by speed anyway, thirty five would do me nicely. The kid's
reactions were varied. Julia looked at it in shock
"You will drop me off away from the school, won't you mum? She
asked worriedly. Joanne was totally disinterested, while I could see that
Gavin's imagination had already transformed it into a sports car. He sat in the
driver's seat twisting the wheel and saying vrooom vrooom ferociously. His
first impression was confirmed a few weeks later when we gave a lift to Mrs
Barnes who lived in the next cottage.
Mrs Barnes was a widow in her late sixties, disliked and feared by
all of the children in the cottages. She kept a constant vigil by her window
and reported loudly on anything she considered a misdemeanour, this included
laughing too loudly, or footballs that came to near her property. On this
particular day it was raining quite heavily and I hadn't the heart to pass by
when I saw Mrs Barnes waiting patiently at the bus stop. I heard Gavin groan as
I wound down the window and offered her a lift. With a scowl at me he climbed
into the back seat as she took her place in the front. The rain had formed
gushing little streams by the roadside as we continued on our journey. We had
only travelled about fifty yards when I spotted a bedraggled hedgehog
scuttering across my path. I swerved automatically, taking the nearside tyre
into the flooded gutter. There was a surprised squawk from Mrs Barnes as a
stream of dirty grey water erupted into the car and drenched the front of the
cream coat she was wearing. To late I realised that Mike had not yet got around
to fixing the hole in the passenger seat floor. I stopped the car and began to
dab ineffectually at her coat babbling apologies, my face red with
embarrassment. Gavin craned his head between the seats, gaping open mouthed at
the mess.
"It's a James Bond car," he whispered. There was awe in
his voice. Needless to say, Mrs Bond accepted no more rides in Singer.
As I hadn't driven for several years the first time I bought petrol
was a revelation. Self-service was just coming into fashion in Britain at the
time. Not being technically minded I was studying the instructions intently
when the pump spoke to me.
"Press the button you require," it advised me. I jumped
about four-foot backwards and flattened against the car, staring at it
fearfully.
"Press the button and unhook the nozzle," it insisted. It
took several minutes before I realised that the cashier was speaking through an
intercom from the pay office. The kids thought it hilariously funny and related
the incident to anyone and everyone.
I got used to being overtaken by a succession of disdainful faces,
as they surveyed my little gem. Singer and I just chugged along merrily, we
were quite happy. But I always knew that there were hidden depths to my little
treasure and a couple of moments of glory stand out in my memory.
Waiting patiently at a set of traffic lights, a big gleaming
monster slid alongside me. The driver had a smug little smile on his face as
his eyes moved sneeringly over Singer. I knew the scenario off by heart. As
soon as the lights changed he would shoot in front of me like a Trident missile
and leave me chugging along in his wake. It had happened many times before,
always a man. I suppose it must have somehow given their ego a boost. I smiled
at him sweetly and he replied by giving his engine a few ferocious revs. Then
the magic thing happened. The lights changed and the monster STALLED! As Singer
and I moved off, I could see the other driver's face in my mirror mouthing
obscenities, his face a picture of rage. I giggled about it all the way home.
But the piece de resistance came about indirectly because of Gavin.
Like most kids his age, he watched too much television and was
greatly influenced by everything he saw there. His latest craze was 'burn them
off'. This involved racing anyone who tried to overtake. I tried to explain
that I had neither the interest nor the power to race anyone, but that didn't
stop his attempts to persuade me.
The village that we lived in was about a thousand feet above sea
level, on top of the moors and for the last mile the approach road was very
steep. The pub was the first building to be seen on entering the village and
here the gradient flattened suddenly. On this particular day I was halfway up
the last stretch when a huge lorry appeared behind me. As the lorry edged
forward, impatient to pass me, something clicked in my brain. Nowadays it would
be dubbed 'road rage', but I prefer to think of it as a mental lapse. Just for
once I didn't want to be overtaken and I wasn't about to let it happen.
Gripping the wheel with grim determination I pushed down hard on the
accelerator. The needle rose slowly to fifty- five and above the usual
mechanical tapping Singer's engine began to emit a tortured scream. The
bodywork was shaking so much that it was making my teeth chatter, but still I
pressed on like a thing possessed. I caught sight of Gavin by the roadside. He
had seen Singer and was waving his arms to attract my attention. Gritting my
teeth I wound down the window.
"I can't stop now, " I shouted. " I'm just burning
this lorry off." To this day I still have a vivid picture of his face;
eyes, round with shock and his mouth gaping so much that his chin was almost on
his chest. The scream of the engine was beginning to sound more like a plea for
mercy when the pub appeared at last. I screeched to a sliding halt in the car
park with a triumphant 'YES'. I caught a glimpse of the driver as the lorry
thundered passed, shaking his head in bewilderment and felt suddenly foolish;
my moment of madness had passed. Restarting the engine I drove back down the
road to pick up Gavin. He was still standing in exactly the same spot, still in
total shock. " It won't make it through the M.O.T this time,"
announced Mike. " It's got filler on its filler. As I watched Singer drive
away to the scrap yard I felt as if a part of me had been torn off. I could
still hear the unmistakable sound of the engine long after the car had
disappeared from view, almost like a last love call. Mike returned grinning and
waved two crisp ten pound notes under my nose.
"Not bad for a scrapper is it?" he said. I gazed at him
mutely. It was pointless trying to explain to him. How could he possibly
understand that I was in mourning for a loved one.