I‘ve been spending a fair amount of time on the M1 recently, running up and down to my lonely mother on the Antrim Road, which makes me feel lonely too: back in the family home with no family; the small rooms smaller and mustier; the garden a patch instead of a pitch.
For those that don’t know, my dad dropped dead back when I was at school and our mum has never righted herself – the shock left her an anxiety-ridden, kindly insomniac who doesn’t want anyone around to absorb her sorrow.
But my siblings and I press on with visits and phone calls and a brave face, every interaction ending with relief and shame; her auguring cheerfully: “I’ll light a candle for you.”
I was returning home one glum, rainy August night recently after another fraught visit. We had been arguing about what to do with all her hoarded junk – her accusing me of sticking my nose in, and me blaring at her about hiring professionals; her shouting was I wanting her to do a Swedish Death Clean (Me: “What the hell is that?” Her: “Don’t you watch any TV?”)
My mouth was upside down, plagued by the problems an elderly parent poses, when I felt the car suddenly lurch to the right with a loud bang. It was a tyre blow-out and I just about steered if over to the hard shoulder, my heart pounding.
I got out and a lorry immediately steamed past with such velocity I nearly flew into the bank. Then another one, and another, with the same shuddering thump, like Death himself was raging past in a Scania.
It was raining, and the busted tyre was on the right side, so when I eventually got the spare wheel and kit out of the boot – a miracle it was all there – I was like a frightened rabbit trying to get the nuts off.
As the evening darkened and the traffic continued screaming past, I cursed myself for turning down the breakdown cover so glibly when the insurance was renewed.
And try as I might, one of the nuts wouldn’t unscrew.
I crept up the muddy bank and phoned Fionnuala, but what could she do? I rang the police too but was told they may or may not get a car to pass and that I should phone breakdown services, to which I reminded them that I wasn’t a millionaire.
Then a pick-up pulled over and a man in a Subaru body-warmer got out. “Have you got the nuts off?” he said.
I brought him up to speed with how utterly pathetic I was as a human being and he looked at my kit and calmly assessed the situation.
“We’ll need an extension pole for the wheel brace. I’ll be back.”
And with that he glided off, the pick-up merging seamlessly into the deafening torrent.
Who was this stranger? Where was he going and why did he stop? I waited for almost an hour and no police, pick-up or any other vehicle arrived but then lights abruptly pulled up behind me and the stranger in the body-warmer appeared; a metal pole raised in his strong arm.
He had the spare wheel on in minutes and as he said cheerio and got back in the pick-up, I raced over. “What can I do to say thanks? That was above and beyond a favour.”
“No need. See you.”
“But wait.” I had to scamper along as he moved off. “Give me your number.” I was thinking a voucher for Nando’s or something.
“I won’t be doing that.” His eyes were not unkind. “So long.”
Then he was away, fast and sure, into the black noise.
“I don’t know.” I was back home and Fionnuala was making toast. “Maybe he was your guardian angel?”
I snorted. “In a Subaru body-warmer?”
“Did your mum light a candle for you tonight?” she said, her knife slowly spreading the butter.