Runaround

Photo by Zachary Keimig on Unsplash

I nudge the car down a road that is hidden from those heading south to Dorchester or Weymouth. This is pure Hardy country, which I like, but I’m not sure about this lane. It is single track in places and even at its widest you’d want to be in a small car, which I’m not. This feeling isn’t new: I’ve been exploring country roads for years and I think I get that from my Dad. He liked nothing more than driving around in the hope that there would be a distraction around the next corner. I assume that’s what it was, but since I never asked I can’t be sure. He might have been killing time. He doesn’t drive so much now, which must pain him; but he kills a lot of time. The road widens for a stretch, but the hedges have doubled or trebled in height and there is nothing to see to the sides. The car noses into a dip where it is green, gloomy and damp. The sun is nothing more than a memory down here; Hardy would have loved it. I will retrace this route a further three times: once to return to today’s destination; another time to visit my Mum’s oldest friend who is now Australian but is visiting her son and Airbnbing what turns out to be a tiny cottage – like I say, Hardyesque – with her husband Ray, who was born Australian with all that entails; and my final visit will be to the take a look around the village of Yetminster with my wife. That’s what it has come to: looking around villages for no reason other than to – wait for it – get out of the house.

Today’s destination is River Autos, or River Auto’s as advertised in the local gazette. River’s Autos I could accept, but that errant apostrophe is another example of me thinking something matters when it doesn’t. I’m pissing in the wind again; swimming against the tide. Younger people – young people – would tell me to ‘chill the fuck out’. My reply to this fictional exchange: ‘What’s the fucking point?’ Or the condensed version, if I was feeling mischievous: WTFP? I’m half-expecting to come across a river, given the riparian nuances of this landscape. It will flood around here come autumn and if not, in the winter for sure. I feel the gear change as the road climbs and there is a break in the hedge for a farm and neighbouring bungalow. After a sharp right the lane widens and I’m alerted to a stretch of mown grass on the left, where three neat piles of tractor tyres have been laid out by a person who prefers to keep things evenly spaced. Whatever: they have done their job. A long, broad drive leads up to a low wooden barn/hangar/shed that has been painted – not so long ago – a deep red. Ten or fifteen cars have been chevroned along one side of the barn, all facing the road and all bearing prices in their windscreens. I sigh and relax: the prices look reasonable.

This is my second recent attempt to buy a runaround. I have acquired cars before, with varying degrees of success, but this time the need is pressing and I’m at the other end of the country to anyone – family, friends – who knows about automobiles and who could do that thing of sucking air between their teeth before raising a thumb or shaking a head. My choices have not always been approved; there have been grimaces and worse. But this time I’m going it alone and let’s be honest I don’t know what I am doing. This is evidenced by last week’s debacle or, should one be feeling charitable, near miss. It took place at a different garage, but it was in the vicinity (as much as that is possible in the countryside) and the set up was similar: small workshop, a dozen or so cars, neat enough and nothing too expensive. These people know their market and god, what could be more challenging than selling used cars? On this occasion, the salesman did not know his customer; or perhaps he didn’t care. My eyes had been drawn to a Peugeot in a colour between red and orange. It was a low-slung hatchback with a biggish engine and a bit of oomph. Not the kind of car at the top of my list, but what can I say? I had taken a shine to it the moment I spotted it and the boy racer in me – I never knew I had one and I’m forty six – was twitching. The part of me that is forever cautious and often scared was having none of it, but we reached a compromise: get the RAC to check it out. I advised the salesman of my intention and drove home to make the arrangements.

Despite the caution and the fear, I have a tendency to leave things to chance in a kind of half-deliberate, half-can’t-be-arsed-dotting-the-is-and-crossing-the-ts manner. I hope that I have done enough and I am proficient at convincing myself I have done enough. I thought that the salesman understood I wanted the car, but I chose not to say so outright. I suppose I was hedging my bets, but I went to sleep that night dreaming about me and the little Peugeot zooming through the Blackdown Hills on our way to campus in Exeter. Unfortunately, and as I well know, there are more than enough hours in the night to review the preceding day and reflect upon ones actions (or inaction). By the following morning the rot had set in, but not to the point where the first thing I did was get straight on the phone to check with the garage that everything was in order. I left it to chance – what else would I do? – and on this occasion chance was not on my side. When the RAC technician arrived at the garage to run the two hundred and eighteen point vehicle inspection, it had been sold, to a real boy racer no doubt; one who knew about cars and good deals and who was astute enough to take action to get what he wanted. Or perhaps it was someone my age that was not inclined to dither.

It transpires that River Autos (no punctuation errors on the signage) is eponymous: I am greeted by a man in his late fifties or early sixties who introduces himself as Andrew River. The sleeves of his spotless white shirt are rolled up to the elbows, revealing solid and weathered forearms. There is a ruddy triangle below his neck where the shirt has been unbuttoned, and I guess that Andrew is a farmer with a sideline in used cars or vice versa. He is pleasant and plain talking and I can’t place his accent, which is unusual because I’m good at that sort of thing. We pass the time of day, indulge in a bit of back and forth about how much I have to spend and he invites me to go and have a mooch around the forecourt. It’s as though he couldn’t care one way or the other if I buy something or not. Is this his technique, or is he one of those farmers who have more money than you would imagine? Does he see something of the ruminant in me? This is what I am thinking as I meander through his stock until I come across Alma.

She isn’t called Alma yet. At this juncture she is a 2005 Nissan Almera with a decal below the price which states Very Low Mileage. The car is eleven years old, but pristine. It is also bang on budget. I return to the workshop and ask about a test drive. Andrew fishes about in a draw and throws me a set of keys. ‘Take it out. As long as you like.’ I’ve decided not to try to act cool and I say something like ‘Brilliant! Are you sure?’ He nods and I’m away. I turn on the ignition and note the Very Low Mileage. Later on Andrew will tell me that the car has spent most of its life in the garage of its one previous owner who was a motorcyclist and only used four wheels when the weather was too bad for two. This may or may not be true, not least because the car looks like it has never seen rain, but it doesn’t matter. The test drive is smooth and unexciting and by the time I return the keys to Andrew I’ve decided not to bother haggling or wasting money on the RAC. I have been told, over the years, to avoid Japanese cars; and I have been advised, as many times, that they are the most reliable and will hold their value. But what swings it is the memory of another me who once drove around Tokyo in a Toyota; that, and the open wound caused by the Peugeot.