There is one particular automobile that seems to sum up my entire 70's childhood. It is a sign, a symbol, a metaphor, a semiotic deconstruction on wheels of everything that was good and bad about that decade for me.
There were a few pretenders for that crown, idling in the exhaust fume shrouded byways of memory - my paternal grandfathers caramel brown Rover 2000, my dad's navy blue Austin 1100, even his fiesta red Vauxhall Viva (with gold go-faster stripes) - but my mum's little secondhand airforce blue Mini has trumped them all for its supernatural ability to personally illustrate an entire decade...for me anyway.
The Mini always had two essential accessories, each corresponding to that particular half yearly period when their specific abilities would be called into service: A tin of anti-freeze and an old squash bottle of distilled water for an overheated engine. In my memory (albeit a trifle dramatic) these two objects are for me symptomatic of the 70's: it was either bloody freezing because of a power cut, or me and my sis and friends were jumping in little plastic paddling pools and spraying each other with the garden hose (until the scorching brown grass summer of '76 and the hose-pipe ban...of course).
The anti-freeze and water could always be found in one of the deep box-like pockets of the car, along with empty crisp packets, sweet wrappers, sunglasses, plastic toy soldier, box of tissues, a single glove, and the inevitable lining of crumbs and dried, melted vanilla ice cream...oh, and sticky Cola stains of course.
If I remember correctly, my mum had that car for around seven or eight years - from around '74 and my parents divorce and the leaving of the childhood family home, to around 1982, my school leaving and entry into the 'adult world' in the decade of Thatcherism.
'The Mini' as it was always referred to (no nicknames for this one) was an honest to god trooper. There truly was no river deep enough or mountain high enough to resist its dogged persistence in the face of almost insurmountable odds on the roads to freedom. Although, the Llanberis pass in Snowdonia and a rather sticky 'conk-out' moment at West Midlands Safari Park (bastard baboons), were a tad perplexing.
Yes, the great blue chariot navigated the heathen byways of the land of the dragon as it chugged its way to some Belsen-like caravan site in North Wales. Its younger occupants - me, my mum and sister - climbing the sheet metal walls in automotive cabin-fever, while my Gran sat in the back tittering at some person/oddity she'd spotted through the window.
I can still hear the screams and smell the hot, blue vinyl interior now.
Toilets.
Always, always there was the 'hyper-vigilance competition' to be the first to spot a public toilet. In this kind of rarefied atmosphere and the advancing years of one of the car's passengers, this challenge was taken very seriously indeed.
Over the years, and because of its many escapades, the Mini became something of an affectionate figure of fun - like an eccentric but reliable relative, or faithful old dog (underdog) that wouldn't lie down. 'It' was definitely a 'she' of course, anthropomorphizing worked in this case, it was blessed by the Shaman's, of that I'm sure.
The single, most abiding memory I have of that car, is driving back home to Shropshire from my Gran's house in Wolverhampton on Sunday nights in deepest winter. It was a distance of around 15 or so miles, but more like an ancient Greek odyssey on those long unlit roads, the only illumination from the dashboard light and the mesmeric winking of the cats eyes, the headlights turning back at the advance of another motorist, and then reaching out again to grab at the darkness.
Around Christmas time, me and my mum and sister would play 'spot the Christmas tree' from the Mini...which was a little bit more fun than 'Spot the bog' lets face it.
I-Spy was a traditional favourite too, although because of the Stygian darkness beyond the windows, the answers were usually something to do with the car itself, like 'D' for door handle,'S' for seat and 'W' for wheel - yeah, we were that visually deprived.
But when the heater was blowing and the car was purring along, I felt like I was connected to something secret and special. Like our wee trio were blessed in some way, singled out in the darkness, privy to something that was yet unknown but was absolutely good and right. Its difficult to put into words. We were all lost in our own interior worlds at times like this, free to roam and imagine in the warm little box.
The rain was ''interesting' sometimes too, but a little monotonous, the squeak, squeak of the wipers tapping out a different rhythm - the Mini revealed its fragility when exposed to a more physical attack; still connected to the mundane world rather than flying to the edge of it.
My mum would sometimes sing, but the only tune - or rather line - I still remember is "...There's a kind of hush...all over the world tonight..."
Its a New Seekers track I think. Maybe my mother only sang it once, I can't recall, but its now embedded in my psyche forever, along with the night, those people and that mythical blue Mini.
May you both rest in peace.
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