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Cars
Then
I’m not going to make it.
Tonight, the six o’clock news will warn the country to leave their houses wearing appropriate clothing during the bad weather. I’m going to be known as the girl who perished during a blizzard wearing her pyjamas.
In truth, my car’s been falling apart since I had it. First it was the alternator, whatever that is. Then it was the wheel bearing. Now, well now, I don’t know what’s wrong, but the steering wheel seems to have forgotten what it was designed for. I bounce on my seat a little, willing the car to move on further.
With a frustrated flick of my finger, I put the windscreen wipers onto their fastest setting and peer at the gloomy scene ahead. Stark trees loom over the whitewashed road, their stance threatening as they reach out with twisted bare fingers and mock foolish travellers for venturing down dark lanes. This was supposed to be a shortcut, but as per the norm, my shortcut has turned into a longcut. The lane I’m on is barely visible through the snow let alone the main road. I turn the wheel to follow the bend only to be met with a grrrr-squaw-grrrr-squaw-grrrr-squaw and the sensation of the steering wheel not doing very much at all. Definitely not turning the bloody car. Applying gentle brakes so I don’t slip on the ice, and heaven forbid total the piece of shit, I coax the grinding vehicle of doom to the side of the narrow road. Then I smack the hell out of the steering wheel for good measure. Bloody crap car.
Cranking the door open, I groan as a full-on icy blast hits me smack in the face. One large cut-glass snowflake darts straight into my right eye. “Shitting hell.” I brush at the flake of pain until I can see again.
Another groan escapes me as I see clearly for the first time where I am. Nowhere. An uninhabited lane with just one building in sight. With a punishing bite on my lower lip, I contemplate my options. Option one: a twenty minute, wet, freezing, hypothermia-inducing walk in either direction. Or, option two: walking into the building and asking for help. Great.
“Hello?” I try and tiptoe so I can peer over the counter, but my ridiculously short stature prevents me from seeing anything other than biro doodles on the battered blue Formica worktop. A dirty engine smell hangs in the air like an ominous cloud threatening a greasy downpour.
I try and call again, “Hello!” Putting a bit more volume in my greeting this time. There is one of those brass bells, but I feel ringing a bell is rude, even if I am freezing cold and desperately seeking some form of mechanical assistance.
I’m not exactly in the right place. Bale and Son’s is a family run classic sports car manufacturer on the outskirts of town. I know they aren’t in the ‘Fix ‘Em Up’ end of the car maintenance business, but it’s snowing, and my car doesn’t like snow, or apparently working.
I turn and peer back into the snowy downpour outside the door. I could take my chances and walk if necessary? No! For God’s sake, this is ridiculous. Someone must be here, the bloody door was unlocked. I’m jumping up and down trying to warm up when I notice there is a gate-like hatch built into the counter with a bolt holding it shut. With one more unanswered call for assistance, I slide the bolt and swing the gate open. I’m just going to have a look to see if there is anyone here, that’s all.
The pounding music that hits me as I walk through the back door explains why no one heard my calls. The smell is stronger here and fills my nostrils, conjuring images of overalls, plastic sheets, and rusty tools as it catches the back of my throat. I scan the space in front of me, taking in the cars in various states of build and repair. They are all those classic, vintage sports cars that grown men part tons of cash with to try to look cool or something. Look like a dick would be a better summation.
“Anyone here?” I shout over the music. The clang of something heavy and metal crashes in response, followed by a resounding “Fuck.” I tiptoe around the machinery trying to follow the sound of the clang.
Lowering myself into an uncomfortable crouch, which stretches my knees in all the wrong ways, I settle next to a racing green chassis. A pair of scuffed hob-nailed boots are sticking out from underneath. “Err, hey. My car’s broken down outside, I’m hoping you can help.” I don’t know why but I give the ankle attached to the scuffed boot a little tug, my fingers grazing the double-knotted wax-coated laces.
“Don’t do repairs,” a deep voice booms, reverberating loud enough to make me jump, rocking on my already screaming knees.
“I know, I know,” I tell the boot, giving it a little stroke, which is weird in itself. “But it’s snowing, and I could do with some help.”
A slim body shoots out from under the car, knocking me off balance. Unable to gain control, I spin and land flat on my front, staring at an oil patch on the floor. “Holy mother of God.” I’m winded, there might be an elephant on my ribcage.
“It’s snowing? I’ve been hoping for snow for days, that’s cool.”
I don’t want to burst this person’s bubble, but there is nothing cool about that snow. In fact, it’s damn dangerous, and I’m going to ring the council and tell them they should grit the roads. My assailant sits up straight, long legs either side of the plank on wheels and watches as I scramble up from flat of my back on the dirty workshop floor. It’s not a graceful recovery; unfortunately as I don’t have any stomach strength, it involves a full body roll and me waving my arse in his face as I struggle to sit in a more suitable position than face down.
Upright, my mouth hangs open and Freddy Bale has the grace to wait patiently, with a look of smirky amusement on his face as I rake my eyes over him. I’ve performed three shameless top-to-toe sweeps when I finally get my brain to engage and my mouth to snap shut. It’s Freddy Bale, middle son of the ‘Bale Brothers’ as they are locally known. When I’d entered the premises looking for assistance, I’d vaguely hoped it would be Grant, the not-so- attractive younger brother, or Henry, the bad tempered elder. Anyone other than Freddy, the scorching-hot middle one. We haven’t met before, but I know who he is. Of course, I know who he is. Everyone knows who Freddy Bale is. All the girls want to meet him, talk to him, snog him, do unnameable things to him, and I can totally see why. He’s so close to perfection it could almost bring tears to your eyes: tall and slim, fair hair that glistens in the sun (so I’ve heard), arms to make you swoon, and eyes so blue you could dive into them like the ocean and happily never surface again.
F. R. E. D. D. Y. B. A. L. E.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to marry him and have his babies. Sure, we haven’t actually spoken before. He’s:
a) too cool,
b) too old (he was a couple of years above me at school—old enough that I could only stare at him in the cafeteria while spooning spaghetti hoops in my mouth and dreaming of the day I’d walk down the aisle and be his bride.),
c) way too cooooool.
Ugh.
I give my head a little shake to stop with the embarrassing staring/swooning thing I have going on when I notice he is looking at me strangely. “What?”
“I asked a question?”
Did he? I didn’t hear a thing, and I definitely didn’t see his mouth move as I stared at it, wondering what his luscious lips would feel like pressed against my own. Common sense tells me he must have asked about the car. “I don’t know. It was weird. One minute she was going fine, but as I turned the bend just up the lane, I noticed a grind, like a grrrrrrnd eeeee grrrrrrnd eeeeee… and then she just slowed and stopped.”
