For a brief transitional period, we were the embarrassed owners of three cars: the new one we bought from Farouk the mechanic, with the heated seats; the old one; and my wife’s Mini, which mostly sits on the street outside the house collecting rainwater.
This didn’t last long. Within a fortnight, we were down to no cars: the old car had been transferred to its new owner, the Mini wouldn’t start and the new car had to go back to Farouk because the oil light came on every 15 seconds, accompanied by a sharp warning tone. At first, I thought I could just get used to it, because of the heated seats, but the tone is designed to be unsettling.
To begin with, Farouk assures my wife that the problem is the oil light itself, rather than the oil level. A few days later, though, he hints that it might not be that simple.
“He says there’s too much oil, or something,” my wife tells me.
“How on earth can you have too much oil?” I say.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I wasn’t really paying attention.”
“Where did this dangerous extra oil come from?”
“If you want to speak to him, feel free,” she says.
“Then I would have to pretend to understand what he was talking about,” I tell her. “You clearly don’t suffer from that burden.”
“Anyway, he’s ordered a part.”
A week later, the car is still not back – the extent of the problem is unclear, but it is something Farouk prefers not to speak about on the phone.
“There’s the oil thing,” my wife says. “And then there’s something else.”
“Something darker?” I say.
“He admitted it’s going to take two weeks,” she says. “He’s mortified, but I also think he’s keeping something from me.”
“Maybe Farouk accidentally sold the car to someone else, and now’s he’s trying to ration out the ownership on a fortnightly basis.”
“I’ll give you his number and you can ask him,” my wife says.
“I’m finding not having a car very freeing,” I say.
“That’s because you never go anywhere or do anything,” she says. “I’m finding it a pain in the arse.”
Later that afternoon, I run a cable from the house out to the Mini and charge the battery from the mains overnight. In the morning, I try to start it, but the engine will not catch. I raise the bonnet, because I do know a little something about cars: I know how to remove the air filter and stare into the carburettor while wearing a pained expression. If that doesn’t work, I’m done.
It doesn’t.
The AA man quickly determines that a corroded cable is at fault, but it soon becomes clear that the story is more complex. He removes the air filter and stares into the carburettor. I think: tried that, mate.
Half an hour later, the AA man is still at it. I admire his dogged persistence, but I’m beginning to wonder if it might be OK if I went to admire it from indoors – it’s raining.
Eventually, the AA man manages to get the car running with the aid of a device that clips to the steering wheel and applies pressure to the accelerator pedal – a sort of artificial foot. I sign his iPad with a fingernail. My wife comes out and listens to the Mini’s uncertain growl.
“At last you can go to Sainsbury’s,” I tell my wife.
“I’m not going to Sainsbury’s in that,” she says. “You are.”
By the time I reach the supermarket car park, I am fully reacquainted with the Mini’s many issues: it stalls at every junction, and bucks like an angry mule in third gear; one of the windscreen wipers flies off at a traffic light; when I roll down the window to take the ticket for the car park, it refuses to roll back up. I pray that the car won’t start for the return journey, but it does.
“It’s fine,” I tell my wife the next morning. “Keep your foot on the accelerator at all times, and don’t use third gear.”
“Farouk is now saying that we can have his car,” she says, looking at her phone.
“For now or for ever?” I say.
“I don’t care,” she says.
