This is a thank you for Rockbird86 for helping us all out with our big NZ problem today. Oh, the agony of the Nonnatun. I’ve dropped in a reference to her Bare Arms and Engine Oil, too.
Everyone can see that Patrick’s beloved car is ready to go off to that old junkyard in the sky. Everyone except Patrick.
*** ***
“He’s late. Again,” Sister Evangelina harumphed. Standing on the steps to the Community Center, she placed her hands on her hips and assumed a belligerent stance.
Shelagh glanced sideways at the irritable nun, and sighed. “Sister, you know he doesn’t do it on purpose. The demands of the community are only getting greater and-”
Sister Evangelina thrust her hand in between them. “Listen. You can hear that car of his from the other side of the river.” A few moments later, the tardy Dr. Turner turned the corner in his adored MG Magnette, its engine no longer the quiet purr of years past but the roar of a cranky old lion.
Struggling with the door, Patrick Turner finally climbed out to the street. “Apologies, ladies. I had to stop at the petro station to put some oil into the engine.” Swinging his medical bag from the trunk, he trotted up the steps to greet his wife, adeptly ignoring the expression on the Sister’s face.
Shelagh turned her cheek up to accept his kiss and worried, “Again? You just changed the oil this weekend.” She blushed, trying not to recall just how an afternoon of automotive maintenance usually turned out at the Turner home. Mrs. Turner did appreciate her husband’s forearms, after all, but it just wouldn’t do to allow those thoughts to wander in present company.
Patrick grinned knowingly and winked at his wife. Spreading his arms wide, he benevolently attempted to escort the two ladies into the clinic, but Sister Evangelina would have none of it. “Doctor Turner, that old jalopy has got to go.”
If she had slapped him standing in the middle of the High Street, Patrick could not have been more stunned.
“You already have an issue with timeliness, Doctor. Breaking down on the side of the road will not get you to your appointments. Mark my words, if that beast survives the spring I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”
*** ***
By the beginning of April, the old Magnette had gone through a muffler, a new radiator, twice, and new brakes installed. Yet Patrick was unmoved.
“A few maintenance issues, Tim, that’s all. She’s fine. I’ll be driving that car to Angela’s wedding.” Patrick tweaked the girl’s ponytail.
“No, you most certainly will not,” asserted Shelagh from the stove. “Patrick, Tim’s right. I’m afraid it’s time to replace that car. The transmission is on it’s last legs. Only yesterday it stalled on me three times.” Turning on him, she added, “Don’t even try to say I don’t know how to properly drive that car. A person should not have to pump the clutch three and a half times and lean to the right before switching gears. It’s ridiculous!”
“See, Dad? Mum says it too. Even Sister-”
“Tim, go play outside with Angela. We’ll call you down when tea is ready.” Patrick was feeling cornered.
Picking up on this, Shelagh changed tactics as the children left the house. She turned the heat off under the stew, and turned it up elsewhere. Slowly walking over to her husband, she lowered her voice. “Patrick, I know you love that car. I love that car, but-”
“You should love that car,” he told her. “I found you on that misty road in that car. I taught Tim to drive in her. And we took Angela home from the hospital in that old ‘jalopy,’ you might remember.” His hands moved to rest on his wife’s hips. Patrick was standing firm, but there was no reason why he couldn’t make his point and hold his wife closer at the same time.
“Hmmm,” Shelagh wrapped her arms around his neck. “It does have some happy memories.”
Nose to nose, he continued, “We’ve had some good times in that car, sweetheart. That first night I picked you up for a date? Or when we went to the movies to see Dr. Zhivago?”
Shelagh’s fingers tangled in his hair as she pulled him down closer to her lips. “I remember. We certainly steamed up those windows, didn’t we? It’s a shame you don’t want to buy a new car, though. I was rather looking forward to making some new memories in the next one.”
Patrick’s eyebrows shot up. Shelagh had played her trump card and won.
*** ***
Two days later, Patrick walked into the sitting room with a gleeful expression on his face.
“Tim, you’ll need to mind your sister tonight.Your mother and I are going out.”
Three sets of eyes turned to him, stunned. Radio 5 was re-broadcasting the afternoon’s game between Liverpool and Sheffield, and the idea of him missing a game this late in the season was inconceivable.
“But Dad,” Tim finally got out, “tonight’s Liverpool-”
“Tim, my boy, not even the league title would keep me in tonight. Come on! Outside everyone. I’ve got something to show you.”
Still speechless with surprise, the Turners filed outside. Parked regally at the front door was a gleaming bright blue Vauxhall Viva.
“Daddy!” cried Angela. “You bought a car!”
Tim shook his head. “I didn’t think you’d ever do it, Dad. But well done.” Dating would be much less embarrassing in this car.
“And what about the Magnette?” Tim asked. “Did they let you trade it in?”
“Well, not exactly. They would have, I’m sure of it, but it was a bit dodgy on the start. But it’s better this way. Now you can share it with your mother.”
“Oh, thank you,” Timothy said sarcastically. “I’ve been given so much.”
“Yes. Well, then. Here’s some cash, take Angela for dinner. Homework done and bed early, I haven’t forgotten about your chemistry test tomorrow. Shelagh, no need to change. There’s no dress code where we’re going tonight.”
*** ***
Much later that night, the new car glided quietly to its new parking space.
Patrick turned to his wife and pulled her close. “So, do you like the new car?”
“Mm-hmm,” Shelagh returned, her hands toying with his poorly buttoned waistcoat. “It’s very comfortable, dearest.” She looked up and smiled contentedly. “And the back seat is so roomy. Not cramped at all.”
Several minutes of blissful quiet passed when they were startled by a knock at the window. Unable to see through the steamed windows, Patrick rolled one down to see the source of their interruption.
“Oh, sorry, Doctor. I didn’t know it was you. New car, sir? Very nice.” Officer Brogan was new to the beat, but had quickly learned the doctor kept odd hours. “Defogger not working? Been a bit misty out-Oh, Mrs. Turner. Didn’t see you there. Evening ma’am. Oh.” The young constable eyes roamed anywhere but the interior of the car. But he had to be wrong. He couldn’t possibly be seeing what he thought he was. Could he? No, it wasn’t possible.
It simply was not possible that the respected Doctor Turner and his widely admired wife were snogging in the backseat of a car now, was it?
My Little Yellowbird 