It was a dark and stormy night. I was driving home late after spending an evening in Dublin with friends at the cinema. A real classic, “Xanadu” starring Olivia Newton-John. Oh well – that’s two hours of my life down the drain.
The Fir House Road is long and curvaceous, and takes you almost to the foot of the Dublin Mountains where my parents’ house lay, on the outskirts of Tallaght Village. It was a pleasant enough drive most days. However, on this particular night, the wildly gyrating trees that flanked the road were making me nervous. The sky was dark and furious, and my loud singing was not drowning out the deafening winds. There were branches and limbs down everywhere, and my nimble little Citroen Dyane was dodging between them. She was bright green, my Citroen. My grandfather had christened her “the green goddess,” and from then on, that’s what my whole family called her. I liked to pat her dashboard and tell her what a good job she was doing. Some of my less reverent friends called her a hair dryer on wheels. I thought this was pretty offensive considering the hours of fun she provided to those same friends, who loved nothing better than to hang out the top of her nifty roll-down sun roof, and yahoo at startled passers-by. Mind you, these were the same friends who told me what a great movie Xanadu was.
Anyway, this storm was really making me nervous. Some of the trees were dipping frighteningly close to the road. What if one of them uprooted itself completely and fell on my slow-moving bright green target? I stepped on the accelerator a little harder, which made, that’s right, not one iota of a difference. Well – what could I expect from a car that does 60 miles an hour on a steep downward incline with the wind at its back?
So I was on the home stretch with about two more miles to go, when a most terrifying sound assaulted my ears. It sounded like a banshee who got her kicks scraping her nails across a blackboard. I needed to get out of here. I pressed the accelerator even harder. Hurry up and get me home you ridiculous hairdryer! Finally the noise subsided. And I felt a sense of peace all around me. It was going to be okay. I was imbued with the knowledge that I would make it home safely. Everything seemed clearer somehow. The air inside the car had mysteriously become brisk and fresh. And when I looked in the rear view mirror, I was struck with how clear the back window was. I keep this car so clean, I thought, feeling very impressed with myself.
As I pulled into the driveway, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Now, for a hot cup of tea and a good book. My parents were out, but my 19 year-old brother George was home. I have no idea what made me walk to the back of the car before locking it, but I did. And a good thing too, because the hatchback door was conspicuous by its absence.
I ran to the house, opened the front door with my key, and called out to George: “Hey George. Can you come out here for a minute and look at this?”
Now, the thing you need to know about George is that it’s almost impossible to impress him. You could tell him you have a home-made rocket and are about to launch the first Irish airship into space, and he would look at you nonchalantly and wish you a safe trip. His kindergarten teacher had written in the comment portion of his report card, “George is a very calming influence in class. He is a bit like the Rock of Gibraltar. The only problem is, the other children have made a game out of trying to surprise him.” And sure enough, when it came to my current dilemma, he didn’t disappoint.
He strolled outside and stood there, sipping on a mug of steaming tea; “Oh, your door came off did it?”
“Yes George. Yes, the door came off. It must be back down the Fir House Road.”
“Well…could you come with me while I go look for it?”
We climbed into my car and headed back down the Fir House Road. What was I thinking? It isn’t breezy in here, it’s a gale force wind. And of course the back window looks clean. There’s nothing there!
We drove slowly, squinting ahead of us in the dark. George spotted the forlorn, bright green door lying there in the middle of the road. It had obviously been driven over by a real car. He got out, retrieved it, and laid it gently on the back seat. We drove home silently, still slightly stunned by recent events. At least I was stunned. George seemed as unruffled as ever – the perfect companion at such a time.
On arrival back at the house, we examined the rear door hinges, and found that the door had just been wrenched cleanly off, and nothing was actually broken. Incredibly, we were able to put the door back on without a problem. I don’t know why I was surprised. A co-worker had recently showed me how to fix the gear shift mechanism, which had popped out, by strategically inserting a piece of wire coat hanger. This was something that never failed to impress my friends:
“Oh look at Hilary,” whenever I reached under the hood with my piece of coat hanger, “she can fix her own car. She is so handy.”
The only real damage to the rear door was to the latch, which had taken the brunt of the violence from the real car and could no longer be locked. After closing the door as securely as we could, we headed inside and I put the kettle on for the long-awaited cup of tea.
“Wow George, that was some adventure, wasn’t it?”
George was already relaxed in front of the T.V. and looked up absent-mindedly at the sound of my voice.
“What? Oh. Right. Yes.”
Years later, I was reading up on the Citroen Dyane, and discovered this particular model was named for Diane, Roman goddess of the moon. So apparently Granddad was more on the money than he knew.