Geoff Nicholson - Still life with Volkswagens

“Okay,” says Barry. “You’re right. I’ll take him home with me.”

♦

Some time ago now I wrote a short story about a man who believed he could do motor repairs by the laying on of hands. As you may imagine, it was an ironic sort of piece. At the time I wrote it I was living in a village in Kent about twenty miles from London. When my wife and I first moved there we decided we wouldn’t be like the other commuters, we’d try to be part of the community. So we took out a subscription to the local parish magazine. It was called Trident and it was full of births, marriages and deaths, ads for local butchers and builders, and a lot of short articles where locals described what Jesus meant to them.

I admit that as a way of participating in community life this was fairly limited, but I read the magazine avidly enough, especially the Jesus pieces which always had just the right blend of naivety, humourless sincerity and bad grammar to send a cynical agnostic like me writhing on the floor with derisive laughter. Then one day the following piece appeared:

Just over three years ago I set off for Greenbelt (a religious pop festival) with three Christians, one of whom was my cousin. On the first night in the tent the girls sat down to pray before going to sleep. One of them spoke in tongues (a spiritual language) and one gave the interpretation. It was talking about things that had and were about to happen in my life that none of them could possibly have known about, and telling me how to give my life to Jesus so he could sort out the mess I had made of it so far. On the way home the car broke down. The other three laid hands on the car and it started again.

Well, this was the long arm of coincidence and no mistake. Of course, I didn’t know what kind of car they’d been driving, and for that matter I didn’t know what drugs — if any — they’d been on, but I filed the information away and thought I might use it somehow if I ever wrote a sequel to Street Sleeper .

A couple of weeks later I drove the few miles to the nearest supermarket in Swanley, bought groceries and loaded them into my Volkswagen. The car was enjoying one of its more reliable phases, so it was quite a surprise when I turned on the ignition and absolutely nothing happened. I kept turning the key and pumping the accelerator but got absolutely no result. I got very depressed.

It was winter, late afternoon and it was getting cold and dark. I had a look at the engine and could see nothing amiss. I tried to start it again, but still nothing. I decided to call the AA. I undertook a long circular walk on which I discovered that every phone box in Swanley had been vandalised. It looked as though I’d have to ask somebody in one of the local shops if I could use their phone. I didn’t particularly want to do that but I couldn’t see any alternative. However, I thought I’d have a final attempt to start the car before I did so.

I went back to my Beetle, looked at it sadly and laid a hand on the front, nearside wing. I didn’t say ‘be thou whole’ or anything like that, but I was definitely hoping for a bit of divine intervention. But then I thought I’d raise the stakes a little. I said to myself, “Okay, if this Volkswagen now starts then there is a God. If it doesn’t there isn’t.”

I got into the car, turned the ignition key, and it started first time. Only just, and the engine wheezed and coughed a little at first, but start it most certainly did. I was genuinely and appropriately amazed.

Now, the mechanically minded among you may say that I had simply flooded the engine, and the time it took me to do a circuit of the vandalised phone boxes was time enough for the excess petrol to evaporate. I’m happy to accept that this is absolutely the case. You’ll be glad to know that I don’t really believe I can repair cars by going around and laying my hands on them. And, of course, this incident wasn’t enough to absolutely convince me of the existence of God. However, I have to admit that it was all a little bit peculiar.

It sometimes occurs to me that I should have raised the stakes higher still and asked God to prove himself by ending war, or pain or global pollution. Something tells me that proof might not have been so readily forthcoming. But that’s okay. I have always known that God moves in mysterious ways, and it seems only common sense to me that if there is a God, then he must surely be a Volkswagen enthusiast.

Barry collects Enlightenment from the grass verge where Charles Lederer abandoned it, and begins a long, slow, melancholy drive back to the caravan site in Filey. The car is still drivable despite the thrashing Charles Lederer gave it, although it is no longer the car it once was.

The man who did all the damage sits beside Barry as he drives. For a long time he has nothing at all to say for himself, but that’s all right with Barry who has plenty to occupy his mind. One of the things he thinks about is that he’ll have to get in touch with Fat Les again in order to get Enlightenment repaired, and his last meeting with Les was hardly cordial. But he spends far more time thinking about Marilyn. A part of him feels he should be out there searching for her, trying to find the villains who have kidnapped her, trying to free her. That certainly ought to make her feel good about him, and yet he knows this is a quest he will not be making. Basically he’s had enough of flogging round the country in a Volkswagen, not knowing where to look or what to look for. He found Charles Lederer when he stopped looking for him, and perhaps it will be possible to find Marilyn by not looking for her at all. It’s a long shot, but it’s all he’s capable of right now. Besides, what’s the point of searching for someone who doesn’t love you, who’s in love with some rich swine who collects Volkswagens.

They are nearly home before Charles Lederer finally speaks. “I’ve been a fool,” he says.

“Yes,” Barry agrees.

“I thought you were my problem. I thought that if I destroyed you, I would be destroying all my problems.”

“Is that what psychiatrists mean when they talk about transference?” Barry asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was just displacement activity.”

“And no doubt you felt the same way about Volkswagens.”

“What do you mean?”

“You felt that if you couldn’t destroy me, you’d destroy a few Volkswagens instead.”

“I never destroyed any Volkswagens,” Charles Lederer says, sounding puzzled.

“Ah,” says Barry, “now I think you’re demonstrating what the psychiatrists call denial.”

“I feel so lost,” Charles Lederer says. “I can’t see what’s at the end of the road.”

Barry peers through the windscreen and although visibility is less than perfect, he can still see the road ahead quite clearly.

“Huh?” he says.

Charles Lederer continues, “I can see only the scrap dealer, the breaker’s yard, the crusher.”

“Not necessarily,” says Barry, and he remembers something the Ferrous Kid told him. “Quite a lot of recycling goes on. There’s a big demand for secondhand parts. A lot of metal gets melted down and used again. It’s a bit like reincarnation I suppose.”

“Is it really?” says Charles Lederer, and then he resumes his silence.

♦

At last they arrive at the caravan site. Barry has mixed feelings about this return. Certainly it’s good to be home and not to have to spend any more days and nights on the road, yet he is not returning on the terms he would have wished. He would have liked to be the returning hero, bringing home Marilyn, his true love. That was not to be, and frankly he can’t ever see Marilyn wanting to live with him in a caravan when she has the chance to live in Carlton Bax’s gentleman’s residence. So instead of bringing home his true love, he’s bringing home his true love’s father. He feels humbled.