A love Story

A LOVE STORY

I 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 scuttling 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
body-work 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.

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