Red Car

I think it was 1954, one Saturday lunchtime, when Dad brought home
the dusty Austin Seven. Dull red it was, with black mudguards. I say
'brought home', but in reality it was towed the three miles from town
to our riverside cottage by 'Uncle' George, a friend of Dad's from the
'Greyhound'. Dad gave George ten shillings for his trouble as Roger, my
younger brother, and I skipped around the car, pausing frequently to
kick tyres or swing the doors open, savouring the wonderful oily,
leathery, smell
"Can we go to the seaside, Dad?"
"When I've got it going," he promised, striding down the cinder path to
fetch Mum.
By now, some of the gang had turned up.
"Not as good as ours." Trust 'Chum' Carter to try to spoil things. It
was alright for him - his Dad had a Jeep and a lorry and a tractor. I
once had a fight with Chum over his sister. He won, of course, being
older and bigger.
"What, on earth, have you bought that for?" Mum stood hands on hips
glaring at Dad.
"It was only twenty-five quid," said Dad.
"Well, it had better be good - or else. Dirty - isn't it?"
Minutes later, Dad had produced a pot of red paint and some brushes.
Luckily, it was warm, still summer's day; when the fields were dry
there was invariably a lot of dust in the air. Dad made us strip to the
waist, "Don't want to get paint on your clothes," he declared. I
suppose our grey socks and shorts didn't count. I don't think that I
did, in fact, get any paint on myself - apart from my fingers - which
would be amazing because every time I've painted anything since, I've
come away from it looking like a piece of abstract art.
Dad sluiced the dust off the car and gave it a quick rub over with
steel wool. That afternoon, the three of us proudly painted the vehicle
a bright maroon. The following morning Dad repainted the mudguards
black. When he'd finished, he walked to the pub - about a mile - to
telephone another of his friends, returning a couple of hours later.
Just as we were having our home-made bread and jam tea - seated at the
kitchen table with its newspaper covering, of course - Ted turned up
with a bag full of tools and disappeared under the car bonnet. Mum took
him a cup of tea and some bread and butter. I was much too fond of
Mum's warm yeasty bread and the new plum jam to go and watch.
"Carburettor," he announced, clumping into the kitchen wiping his hands
on a bit of dirty rag. "I've fixed it for now, but you'll need to get
it sorted properly. Bring it round to my house next week."
We all hurried out and watched as Ted swung the starter handle. The
engine spluttered and coughed, issued a soft cloud of blue-grey smake,
fired a couple of times and then humped into silence. Ted tried again:
same response. "Give it some more choke," he told Dad. Dad leaned
inside and then gave Ted a 'thumbs up'. Ted heaved the handle time and
again, until we could smell his sweat from a couple of yards away.
"Blast! Flooded it," he grumbled, mopping his head with the dirty
rag.
We waited, Dad and Ted in conversation, Mum stiff-faced, hands on hips,
silent, Roger and I offering useful advice. After a while, Dad climbed
inside and everyone except Mum, got behind and pushed. The car rolled
forward, gathering speed. Suddenly it jerked to a violent stop,
shuddered, skipped forward in what seemed liked short frog hops and
stopped. We tried again. Being aware, this time, I managed not to fall
over again. The sound of the engine throbbing into life made me forget
my painful, scraped knee and sore shoulder. Another ten shilling note
passed from Dad and Ted drove off in his Ford Popular.
"Can we go to the seaside?" Roger was always persistent.
"Tomorrow."
"What about work?" said Mum.
"I'll tell them I'm sick."
"No you won't: we can't afford a day's pay."
Dad shrugged. "Saturday, son, if the weather's good. Anyway, I'll have
it fixed properly by then. Best be safe, don't you think."
He kept his promise. At eight o'clock the following Saturday, we piled
into the car and headed for the A47, stopping on the way to pick up
Harry Clarkson and his two youngest sons. I was a bit put out because
Dad wouldn't let me invite Cynthia. However, a packet of wine gums soon
put me back in the right sort of mood.
When we reached Skeggie, Harry (who had volunteered to drive there)
pulled up beside a policeman. We scrambled out. The policeman grinned,
but as more and more of us exited the car, his faced became stern and
he beckoned Harry to approach him. After what seemed to be a lecture,
Harry rejoined us.
"What was that about?" asked Dad.
"Nothing. He was going on about overloading, that we shouldn't have
seven people in the car."
"Well - it IS an Austin Seven," chuckled Dad.
We had a marvellous time. Mum even asked if we could do it again the
following weekend.