Down I went to Portsmouth to look at the car. It was parked outside their tiny, terraced house in a long, dark street of similar homes. The vehicle stood out against the drab background, because it was rather a lovely shade of yellow. Someone else must have driven it to the house, since neither John nor my grandmother could drive. John had had this car checked over by some mate who knew about such things, he said, and he assured me it was a good deal. I loved it, right down to the colour which reminded me of custard. It wasn’t a fancy car, but it drove nicely and would suit me perfectly. After all, I wasn’t driving all over England, was I? I was simply keeping to local roads and going backwards and forwards to school. I didn’t have much time for anything else. So, in much excitement and with many a hug for John, I set about arranging for all the paperwork to be completed. When all was done and when I had purchased my road tax sticker from the local post office, I went down to Portsmouth to collect the car. I was over the moon! I couldn’t believe this car was mine and no-one else’s.
So began many years of life with my Yellow Peril.
One weekend, when the car was looking tatty, my husband-to-be treated the rust and, as a surprise for me, resprayed the car. I was so touched by this gesture. Unfortunately, the final colour was such a garish orangey-yellow that I couldn’t stand it. Even Brian was shocked by the final coat which he said bore little resemblance to the paint swatches he’d seen. Love must have won the day because this man of mine set to again, but this time mixing in a fair bit of white to bring the vehicle back to its pale custardy-colour. I loved it all over again: so shiny, so new and so creamy that I felt as if I could eat it.
The years went past. My husband and I had married. Life was busy. Brian had always had his own car, a Triumph TR3A sports car, which he loved as much as I loved my Yellow Peril. Eventually, my car was costing us more to keep on the road than not. It wouldn’t start and was no longer safe. It had to go. I was very sad when Brian told me that he had just hired a company to take my car away for scrap. It was hard not to cry as I watched my beloved vehicle being towed onto a low-loader, which then slowly disappeared out of view. The car had served me well, even driving up and down to London at times, but I must admit it was past any hope of resurrection by this time. As far as I was concerned, seeing my Yellow Peril on the back of that low-loader was an ignominious ending to a fabulous friend. We had been through so many adventures together, so it was a sad day for me even though I knew the car was fit for nothing but the scrapyard.
