Uncle Hobart stuck his head around the kitchen door. "You still in the AA?" he shouted.
"No," I replied, shaking my head, "I stopped going there about six years ago. I got fed up with them telling me it was about time I stopped drinking."
"Not the AA, yer cretin." Uncle Hobart rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "The A bleedin' A. Yer know, them lot what puts yer car right when it won't start."
"Oh, the breakdown service?"
"Aye, them lot. Yer still a member, then?"
"I never was a member. Why, what's up?"
"The bleedin' pickup's broke down, ain't it?" He sounded really fed up.
"Well in that case I'd better phone the RAC, hadn't I?"
Uncle Hobart glowered at me. "Yer so bleedin' sharp sometimes, it's a wonder yer don't cut yerself." Then, after clicking his dentures sharply, he said, "Tell 'em the engine's revving like mad but the pickup won't move. I keep telling yer not ter ride the clutch, don't I? Probably burnt it out the way yer bleedin' drive."
I leant over the table, glaring back at him. "If I rode the clutch half the amount of time you do, it'd be having clutch plate babies by now." I growled. "Now do you want me to call the RAC or not?"
He nodded. "And see if yer can 'urry 'em up, will yer?"
"Why, what's the hurry?"
"I've made arrangements ter pick up an old gas tank from Frank, ain't I?"
"I know I'm going to regret asking this," I answered, "but why do we need an old gas tank?"
Uncle Hobart studied me closely for a moment, as though talking to an idiot. "To store the gas in, 'o course," he finally answered with a shake of his head.
"Oh, right,” I replied, slapping my forehead with the palm of my hand. “How stupid of me. To store the gas in." I took a deep breath before continuing. "WHAT BLOODY GAS!" I almost screamed at him. Sometimes loosing your temper is the only way of getting through to Uncle Hobart.
Hissing open a can of beer he took a long gulp before answering. "Oh, didn't I tell yer then?" I raised my eyebrows as he clicked his dentures, this time a tad thoughtfully, realising I was very near the edge. "Must've fergot like," he admitted finally, tossing me a can. Then giving an ingratiating smile, he tipped his head to one side, studying the ceiling. "I'm going ter make gas out o' cow's crap," he informed me slowly. "And the way I reckon it, it should save us a bleedin' fortune on fuel bills."
I was really proud of myself. I didn't say a word: not a sigh, not a whimper, not even so much as a raised eyebrow. I just turned on my heel, heading for the hall and the telephone.
*
Later that afternoon I found Uncle Hobart round at the back of the house, tightening a union on some crazy looking contraption he was building. "What's all this, then?" I asked him.
"It's a gas plant, ain't it?" Straightening up, he nodded at a large drum. "The cowpats go in there and get churned up by that big 'andle on top, see? Then the gas comes off down this 'ere pipe to this drum 'ere, where it's stored." He tapped the union with his big adjustable wrench. "This pipe takes the gas inter the garage."
I nodded, trying to look as though I knew what he was talking about. "Well it certainly looks impressive," I conceded, "but does it actually work?"
I ducked as he swiped at me with the wrench. Then, laughing good-naturedly, I made my way over to the cow shed. There was milking to do.
*
I'd just finished supper and was about to crack open a can when a thought suddenly popped into my mind, so sticking my head around the lounge door and screwing up my face in disgust when I saw Uncle Hobart sitting on the sofa, busily picking pieces of dead skin from between his toes, I shouted to him.
He glanced up, putting his foot down, dislodging the pile of white flakes that had built up on the carpet underneath his foot. "What?" he asked, wide-eyed.
"You said, 'garage'."
The pile of dead skin wafted up onto the coffee table as he shuffled his feet about. "Garage?" he queried with a puzzled frown.
I shifted my gaze from the mini snowstorm to his face. "You said, 'Garage'," I repeated. "The pipe from the gas plant. You said that it went into the garage."
"So?" he asked.
"Well, why? What does it into the garage for, shouldn't it come into the house?"
"What fer? We're all electric."
I sighed heavily. "I know that."
"Well why should it come in the 'ouse then? It's fer the car," he explained with a proud smile and a click of his dentures.
"Car? What car?" Now I was really confused.
"The one I'm converting ter run on gas."
Uncle Hobart went back to picking at his feet and I wandered back into the kitchen. Finishing the contents of my can, I shook my head. I was missing some vital point here. Well, I thought, perhaps another beer would help to settle the queasy feeling that had started up in the pit of my stomach.
*
"If you think your getting me into that contraption, you've another think coming, "I told Uncle Hobart, nodding at the old Lada estate, with the large black balloon attached to its roof.
"What's wrong with yer, Peter boy?" He leant out of the driver's window, looking at me as though I'd insulted him. "We used ter drive 'em all the time during the war. It'll go like a bomb, yer'll see."
Shaking my head emphatically, I backed away. "Yeah, that's what I'm bloody afraid of."
He looked even more hurt, then clicked his dentures, raising his eyebrows. "Oh, right, he said. "I've got it now. It ain't posh enough fer yer, is it? 'Fraid riding in a Lada'll spoil yer image, ain't yer?"
"Don't be so bloody daft," I protested.
"What then?" he persisted.
"Well ... It's just that..." I flapped my hands about helplessly.
His smile broadened. "Come on then, get in."
Uncle Hobart opened the passenger door and against my better judgement, I reluctantly manoeuvred myself into the passenger seat, slumping low in the forlorn hope that nobody would see me. As we set off up the lane, the wind rippled the fabric of the balloon, sending strange booming noises reverberating throughout the car.
Fifteen minutes later we were the subject of pointing fingers and catcalls as we swept into Ealford Village. Quite a crowd gathered around us as we stopped at the traffic lights in Station Road and I sank even further into my seat. An ice blue, seven series BMW drew up alongside and the driver leant forward, looking past his blond companion, a huge smirk evident on his face.
"What's 'e bleedin' gawking at?" Uncle Hobart grumbled. Winding down his window, he stuck his head out. "What's up with yer, yer cretin?" he shouted at the BMW driver.
The young man looked down his nose at us. "I was wondering why you've got a bouncy castle on the roof of your ... er ... car," he shouted back. "Or is it just a big bag full of wind, like you granddad?"
Ignoring Uncle Hobart's profanities, the couple drove off with a squeal of tyres. I watched the crowd gathering on the pavement. One of them was pointing at the balloon and talking excitedly. My curiosity got the better of me so I rolled down the window and leant out to see what was causing all the excitement. It was a column of smoke rising from the top of the balloon.
Pulling my head back in I thumped Uncle Hobart's shoulder. "Quick, move it. Get out of the car."
"What's up?" he asked, looking around in bewilderment.
"That bastard in the BMW's thrown his fag on top of the balloon. It's on fire."
"What the 'ell's 'e do that for?" Uncle Hobart complained.
"Will you stop asking stupid bloody questions and get out." I was starting to panic but before either of us could so much as open a door, we heard a loud explosion above our heads which was immediately followed by a whooshing, roaring noise. We were suddenly thrown back into ours seats as the Lada accelerating away at a tremendous pace.
"What the 'ell's going on?" Uncle Hobart shouted in alarm.
I twisted around, looking out of the rear window, my mouth dropping open as I saw the long tongues of flame shooting out behind us. "The gas has ignited," I shouted above the rising din. "It's acting like a rocket motor."
Uncle Hobart stamped on the brakes but the Lada just kept on accelerating. He pushed the pedal harder but the brakes only juddered in protest, finally giving up their unequal struggle with a long drawn out grating noise. A few seconds later we were roaring along the road at ninety miles an hour, Uncle Hobart clinging tightly to the juddering steering wheel, his eyes wide, his teeth clenched. We passed the BMW doing in excess of a hundred, and still accelerating. The driver looked at us in amazement as we flashed passed, scorching his paintwork with the long stuttering flame jetting out behind us. I watched in a kind of horrified fascination as the speedometer needle reached the far side of the scale and wrapped itself around the end stop. Then I did something that I'd not done in years. Clasping my hands together, I closed my eyes and prayed.
Uncle Hobart's white knuckles grew whiter as his grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus," he kept repeating over and over to himself."
"Please God, I'll never think bad thoughts again," I promised as we continued to accelerate to a velocity that by now must have been a land-speed record for a Lada. A blue light began flashing behind us and the familiar hee-haw of a police siren cut through the rattles and thuds that were assailing our ears. I leant over, shouting at the top of my voice to make myself heard. "Quick, throw the bloody thing in reverse before we blow up."
Without interrupting his unconscious litany, Uncle Hobart grabbed the gear-stick and slammed the car into reverse gear. A strange, screaming, thumping, sort of sound issued from the engine compartment and I ducked as the bonnet shot high into the air, quickly followed by bits and pieces of the engine: pistons, tappets, valves and big-ends: filters, shafts, cogs and pulley-wheels, all cascading heavenwards in a shower of iridescent alloy. The road behind us was soon strewn with thousands of pieces of hot bouncing metal and the front tyres of the police car burst as it ran over the jagged pieces, the driver swerving from side to side in a desperate struggle to regain control. But the police car clipped the curb, flipping over to slide along behind us on its roof, adding to the display, showering sparks and pieces of bodywork in all directions.
I tore my attention away from the carnage behind us as Uncle Hobart gasped, immediately wishing I hadn't. We were fast approaching a level crossing, and the gates were closed. Hurtling along the railway track from our left was a very large Inter-City train and it didn't take Einstein's mathematics to work out that both the train and ourselves were about to enter the same time/space continuum. As my testicles burrowed upwards into my intestines, my mouth worked frantically but no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to make it work. Then there was an ear splitting crack from beneath the car as the prop shaft broke away from the gearbox, the front end dropping onto the road, where, amid a shower of flying tarmac, the shaft, acting like a vaulter's pole, flipped us high into the air. As the train thundered onto the level crossing, we sailed over the gates, crashing onto the roof of a passing carriage. The impact shot Uncle Hobart's dentures straight through the windscreen and my glasses off the end of my nose.
It took a few seconds before either of us could speak. I stared at Uncle Hobart and he stared at me. We were both trembling. "You alright?" I whispered, not sure whether I was dead or alive. He nodded, working his toothless gums together. I gazed out of the window at the passing scenery. "Where do you think we're going?" I asked in a shaky voice.
"Inverneth, " he lisped.
"Wonder what Scotland's like at this time of year?" I muttered.
Pursing his lips, Uncle Hobart shrugged, then pulled a can of beer from his pocket. As he took his first shaky sip, I struggled out of my trousers, winding down my window to dispel the smell.