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My father whistles as he approaches, so as not to give me a fright as I lie under the hulking frame of his ancient Land Rover. I give the wrench a final twist, check that the joint is in place, then slide out from underneath the car.
This is not going to be an easy conversation.
“How is it coming along, son?” my father asks. His demeanour is cheerful, hopeful, expectant even. In Pa’s eyes, there’s nothing I can’t fix.
The problem is, I can’t fix this.
I take a deep breath, preparing myself to deliver the news no farmer ever wants to hear.
“Ah, not good news, I’m afraid, Pa. I think the old girl has had her run. The joints are corroded, and the cylinder head gasket is gone again. I’ve skimmed it, but I don’t think it is going to last.” I wipe my hands on a rag and clamber to my feet.
My father looks at me. It is like looking at an older version of myself in the mirror. He nods slowly.
“Ok, son.” He pats my shoulder. “Thanks for trying to save her.”
I open my mouth to suggest the farmer’s cure all for saddened spirits, a restorative cup of tea, but his face unexpectedly brightens.
“I have a Plan B,” he announces. He reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a rolled-up newspaper. He hands it to me. It smells of wax, and hay, and Pa. I wonder how long he has had it rolled up in there for.
He waits for me to unroll it, shuffling slightly from foot to foot. I open it out and he taps the page excitedly.
“There!” he proclaims. His face breaks into a most unexpected grin.
What the hell? I haven’t seen him this excited since we got the new tractor in 2005.
“There we go. Plan B, right there.”
I look down. Scores of tiny boxes listing items for sale in the local area cover the double page spread, but one has been carefully ringed in red. My father’s face peers at me over the top of the page.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“Er, just a second,” I protest. Whatever it might be, I have to love his enthusiasm. This isn’t how I’d expected him to take the news of the demise of his favourite vehicle. I scan the highlighted listing.
“But Pa, it has 146,862 miles on the clock…” I observe.
“And?” he grumbles. “The Land Rover had over 200,000.”
“Er, yeah, and she’s just given up the ghost…Might it not be better to think about getting a newer model?”
“Nonsense!” he blusters. “If she’s in good condition, there will be plenty life in the old girl yet. She might even outlast me.”
He taps his chest and I roll my eyes.
“Dad, you are seventy-three and in the most ruddy health imaginable. Don’t be melodramatic.”
He looks at me, his blue eyes twinkling with earnestness. “Will you go and see her for me, son? Give her the once over?”
I sigh. “Of course.”
“Great. I told them you’d be there at seven.”
“Seven?” My voice slides up an octave in consternation as I look at my watch. “Pa, it is six forty-five. Where is it?”
“Here,” he reaches into his pocket and fishes out a crumpled piece of paper with an address scrawled on it.
“I’d better go,” I observe.
“If you rate it, just go for it. Tell them we’ll take it.”
