Yesterday, our car died. Spectacularly, and in the line of duty.
My husband and I were only a few miles from home, on our way to the big town for a clinic appointment and perhaps to do some shopping. An elderly Vauxhall we bought secondhand in 2001, our car has been showing signs of age and making a shrill, protesting whee whee whee sound in low gear that our kids can now imitate with eerie perfection. We were overjoyed and amazed when it passed its annual road test last year, but deep down inside we knew its demise was near; despite repeated trips to a mechanic, the engine light has flickered on and off for the past eight months.
Quite suddenly, the car began to make an entirely different sound: first a whap, whap, whap -- giving us hope that it might be something annoying but innocuous like a faulty fan belt -- then an ominous clunking junk-a-junk-a-junk as black smoke began to billow out of the tailpipe. Miraculously, we were within a few minutes of the car's doctor, a local mechanic. Heads turned as we limped along in second gear, our car's dying voice now an agitated thump-thumpa-thump. Everyone knew where we were headed.
We've been in denial over the possibility of our car giving out. Since New Years, we've been having rotten luck with machines: first, a computer exploded on us, then our audio system refused to produce the right sort of sound. Before Christmas, the seal broke on our washing machine, requiring the judicious placement of a dish towel to prevent leaks, and our oven, like the stove top, must now be lit manually, the person lighting it on all fours, one hand thrust into the bowels of the beast, the other stretched in the opposite direction, to simultaneously press and turn the gas knob. Our vacuum cleaner bit the dust ages back and only does its job with grudging inefficiency, and don't get me started on the blender.
I am a Luddite. I hate machines. I don't even want a computer, and I resent feeling as though I have to have things because everyone else does. The more energy things use or the trendier they are, the more I loathe them: I have never owned a tumble drier; I towel my hair dry, generally ignore my iron, and up to this point, have managed to resist buying a cell phone. But although I walk, cycle, and take the bus whenever possible, I have given in on the car. We have to have one. We don't have to use it for little trips all the time, but we do really need one just the same. And I'm not ashamed to say it: over the years, I fell in love with ours.
I'm not a car conscious person. I once had a boyfriend who drove a fancy sports car (if I could remember the name, I'm sure you'd be impressed), and I didn't even realize what a big deal it was until after we broke up. I've never cared one way or the other what sort of car others have; never even cared whether they had one. But this car, with its rattling doors, ugly grey upholstery, and dull-as-dust blue paint, this car has won my heart. Sure, the gears have always stuck a little, the acceleration is crap, and it has to be locked manually -- a real pain for arthritic old fingertips. It's the sort of car you see everywhere, so it's not even special. Notice how I'm using the present tense? Because I can't bear to think it's really gone.
That car has driven us all over the U.K., from Somerset straight up to the Highlands. It's taken us to France and back twice now, proudly sporting a UK sticker on its tail, waited patiently by the side of country lanes while we scrambled about looking for blackberries and collecting grasshoppers with the kids, had its wing mirrors and antennae savaged by the local youths, and been our little refuge from the elements on countless occasions.
"Dad, can we go back the pretty way?" a kid would murmur wistfully, and my husband would turn onto a side road and drive us carefully, respectfully through a forest of aging oaks. We would gasp as an owl suddenly fluttered overhead or a deer stepped quietly out of the mist. Our car was a warm, snug little coccoon. "I feel so happy and safe in this car," our youngest once said.
And now, here we were, listening to the mechanic tell us our car was nothing but a piece of junk. I stood there with my hand resting on its side, willing myself not to cry. I remembered stepping out of the car after passing my road test. How my husband, seeing my astonished, over-wrought expression, had given me a sympathetic smile, which quickly changed to an expression of astonishment as I gave him a triumphant thumbs-up. I remembered my first successful hill start; the first time I backed the car out of a muddy ditch; my recent trip with our eldest to Stirling and back.
That car was my very first car, and now it's gone. And I am convinced that it had, if not a soul, something like one.
Because it could have been so much worse. The car could have died the night I drove my daughter back from Edinburgh, in the midst of a sleet storm. We could have stood there freezing, shuddering as the road gritters sprayed gravel over the soon-to- freeze highway, waiting for help. It could have played out when we were on the motorway, passing one of those huge articulated lorries, or the day we rushed my youngest to the hospital for a broken arm. Instead, it picked a tame road on a sunny day, a convenient distance from its mechanic, when we were using it for no pressing errand.
I can't believe I'm mourning a car, but I am, so there it is. Our Vauxhall did us proud, folks. May it drink deeply from the great petrol bowl in the sky.
