Nothing quite
saps the spirit quicker than a 'crrrronk' grinding noise coming from
somewhere under the car that appears out of the blue when you're over 1,300
miles from your local friendly mechanic.
Vicky and I look at each other in panic. She checks she really has put the car in gear, lets the
clutch out gently but there's still no response.
"Oh
no! This happened to me with the
Audi once," I said.
"I'll get out and push, you steer."
The problem is
that we're stuck at a motorway toll booth. It’s two o’clock in the afternoon. We've just paid the two euro fee and there are about six
cars waiting in 40 degree heat behind us just south of the road rage capital of
Italy, Naples. I look at the toll
man and make the universal car is dead sign by pointing and miming slitting my
throat with the back of my thumb.
Now I’m pointing
at him to see whether he can help us push the car over to a safety lane by the
crash barrier I can spot about 200 yards over to the right. And since even my moderate running
exercise regime is unlikely to have registered enough strength to push a fully
laden Ford Galaxy with roof box, bike carrier and the kids in-car entertainment
paraphernalia, I reckon it'll probably take a couple of people to haul us up
the very slight incline.
He shakes his
head. He's making it perfectly
clear with both arms outstretched palms up that he can't leave his post. He sympathises etc. but I'm on my
own. Then I remember the guy
hanging around hawking tat for a euro?
He's eyeing me suspiciously.
I play the dead car mime again and beckon him over to start
pushing. He pauses for a minute
and then comes over. Business must
be slow. He shovels his merchandise
into a plastic bag and helps me to push. I'm thrilled and get a rush of adrenaline, legs pumping and
then out of the corner of my eye I see there's a car coming straight for me at
speed from one of the toll lanes on my right. I know I can't stop or we won't reach the safety spot. At the last minute he swerves round me
horn blaring and shouting in Italian.
I carry on straining and pushing and a moment later we reach the safety
of the crash barrier. I thank the
man profusely but all he’s interested in is some money for his trouble. I’ve clearly mistaken his
public-spirited gesture. He’s hit
a raw nerve. I'm so incensed that
he didn't do it as an act of kindness that I shake my head and wave him
off. It's not until much later once
we’ve sorted out how we’re going to fix the car that I realise how tight-fisted
I’ve been. All I had to do was buy
a two-inch orange plastic skeleton or a pan scourer for a euro.
I chewed over it
all night. "Bad karma," Vick said.
I felt so
ashamed that two days later, when we were approaching the toll from the south
on our way back up north, we looked out for him across the dozen or so gates in
the hope that we could repay him.
But sadly, he was nowhere to be seen.
