The Tow-Truck From Hell

Once upon a time, there was a Ford Capri called Christeen. She was a project car, and in need of a prop-shaft. Her owners were Capri enthusiasts, and in need of psychiatric attention…

"I've found one" said my husband, "but there's just a slight snag." Too right there was. The prop-shaft in question was still inside what was left of another Capri, one that had to be sold as it was despite the fact that it lacked sufficient running gear to be driven back home. Fetching it would involve a journey of several hours, across the Severn Bridge from Bristol and into Wales and back.

A solution to the problem was found when the owner of the car offered to lend us his tow-truck. It was a solution that threw up plenty of problems of its own.

We made the trip in my husband's BMW, which is knocking on a bit and not as flash as it might sound. It's a very smooth car of the sort that normally leaves me wanting to part company with my last meal after twenty minutes on the road, but we got as far as Wales without incident. As usual, I was too busy at first getting misty-eyed over the state of the donor car to notice the tow-truck beneath her, but it didn't take me too long to realise that the Capri was probably in better nick. A smooth ride home was not going to be a worry.

Money having changed hands, the owner of the truck appeared beside me and opened the passenger door. I struggled for words that wouldn't come, probably because my jaw had dropped and showed no signs of returning to a useful position. The passenger seat was virtually non-existent. All that remained of it was a metal frame, upon which was precariously balanced the cushion from a patio chair. 'I'm not getting in THAT' I thought, at which point my husband climbed into the driver's seat. I got in.

As my husband started the engine the owner made a comment about the weather through the open window, but it was lost in the racket the truck was making. Ten minutes after pulling away and still struggling to shut the window, it dawned on me what he'd said. "It looks like rain. If it starts, touch those two wires together to get the wipers going…"

The time before we got onto the motorway was spent exchanging the usual loving pleasantries with my husband. "It's alright for you. I can't even open my window at all."

"Well, at least you've got a seat."

"Oh be quiet, will you. I can't hear myself think."

"Good. The last time you had an idea, it was this one." We pulled off of the slip road and onto the motorway as he continued to curse to himself. I gripped the door handle tightly, partly because I was convinced it was going to open of its own accord while we were still moving, and partly because I was fondly imagining it to be my husband's throat.

If we thought we were going to pick up a decent speed once we hit the road, we were mistaken. We managed to maintain a top whack of about forty-five miles an hour, occasionally reaching fifty. The suspension was in such a bad way that with each crack in the road, we'd rise above our seats (or what passed for one, in my case) like kangaroos leaping on hot coals. I'm only thankful we didn't run over anything more substantial or we'd have gone into orbit.

I was starting to see the funny side to all this as we eventually rounded the corner on to the home stretch, but I was mortified to find that the whole street had heard us coming and all the neighbours had turned out to see what the hell was making such a racket.

Once the Capri was unloaded hostilities were suspended. My husband turned to me and said, "You don't have to come back with me, you know. You stay here, and I'll pick up the car."

"Don't be daft. You're not getting in that heap on your own." Idiot Woman strikes again.

All went pretty much as before as we bounced and jarred back the way we'd came, until we reached the toll booth on the Severn Bridge. For some reason, you don't have to put your hand in your pocket to get into England, but there's a charge to go the other way. Aware that he'd be unable to pass money through his window, which remained obstinately closed, my husband pushed at his door. And then he pushed some more. He turned to me, and through gritted teeth said slowly "Get out, and go round and pay the man."

Anxious that the straight face I'd been trying to maintain for much of the journey might be about to give way, I got out and hurried round the back of the truck to the toll booth where I found its occupant facing a similar struggle. Denial seemed the best form of defence. "It's not ours" I told him.

At that, he lost his composure. Grinning broadly, he indicated the side of the truck and replied "You'd better ask if one of them is a door handle then", before being overcome by a fit of laughter. I'd not seen the driver's side of the truck yet. Framed by the window, with steam practically coming out of his ears sat my irate husband, and beneath him in large letters were the words 'One Hundred And One Auto Parts'. It was too much for me too, and I got back into the truck laughing so hard that I was almost in tears.

Tension in the cab dissolved, and by the time the truck was returned to its rightful owner we were on speaking terms again, united in the face of adversity. Back in the comfort of our own car, my body still seemed to be rattling all the way home. It will be some time before I forget the afternoon spent in The Tow Truck From Hell.