I need to finish off the saga of my car that broke down on the M1.
I had been rescued by a breakdown truck and the car was taken to a mechanic’s (Viktor) that was recommended by Fionnuala’s brother. Eventually, I got a call.
“Your car is complete destroyed.” He had an eastern European accent.
“You come see me in morning and I show you. 10.30. Don’t be late.”
Fionnuala dropped me off the next day on her way to the dentist.
“Apparently he’s a genius, Fabien, and mechanics are hard to pin down, so don’t be annoying him.”
“I would be more comfortable leaving it at the proper garage.”
“Oh, I know. And sitting in the swanky waiting room reading magazines, wondering if we need to re-mortgage the house to pay for it.”
She left me, still moaning, outside the desolate garage in the middle of nowhere.
“I’ll come by after the dentist finds out what’s causing this pain. Find your own way home if I’m being operated on.”
I was sullen walking down the lane. It wasn’t my fault the car broke down, and it wasn’t my fault she had a toothache, yet here I was abandoned at Viktor’s shed, with its spiked fence and huge, hand-written ‘Keep Out’ sign on the gate.
I checked my watch: 10.40. I was late.
“You late! I say 10.30, yes?”
I started to make excuses but he had vanished into the dark garage, where I could hear a TV blaring a foreign soap.
In the gloom I could make out my car, a sofa and a coffee table overflowing with ashtrays and cups and two men staring at the TV.
I muttered a hello and they looked up at me. A cross-looking dog eyed me from the other corner. I was decidedly uncomfortable.
“You want to see what wrong with this heap?”
Viktor was swinging a lump hammer. An image of the glistening waiting room of the dealer’s garage, with purified air and pretty receptionists asking if I wanted another Flat White, flashed through my mind.
What in under God was I doing here? About to be battered to death?
But there was no escape now, and the morning turned even darker as a black cloud suffocated what remained of the dull, timid sun.
Viktor muttered something in his native tongue and they all laughed wheezily. Even the dog.
Then he lit a cigarette and proceeded to talk rapidly about water pumps and pistons and seals and belts and twists and chains.
“It complete destroyed. It total heap.”
I decided to heed Fionnuala’s advice and not annoy him.
“Are you Polish?’ I smiled, ready to regale him about my city break to Krakow, when he snarled at me.
“We Hungarian! Polish...” He muttered again but this time no-one laughed. Not even the dog. And I too was snarling inside.
Genius, her brother had said. Seriously? These Tyrone ones need to see more of the world.
But he did lighten up a bit when I asked was there any point fixing the car.
“What? Of course. It very good car. All parts good. I fix if you want and you pick up Friday. I text you the price. 10.30. Don’t be late.”
So, I got picked up by Fionnuala – who luckily hadn’t been long at the dentist – and the scene repeated itself on Friday as I found myself back in Viktor’s crazy shed.
Fionnuala was only getting a small filling, and the price for the job was a quarter of the dealer’s estimate, so I was as pleased as Viktor when I arrived bang on time.
“It ready soon. Sit on sofa, Fabien. Move up lads.”
One of the Hungarians gave me a sweet coffee and the cross dog lay at my feet.
As we watched the terrible soap with the men with dyed hair and women in mini-skirts, a young Irish fella came panting up the lane.
“You late!” Viktor roared, waving a hammer, and we all turned and stared balefully at him.