Kev is reversing the blue Hillman Husky from Coppice Lane corner, along Station Street, Cheslyn Hay. The Phillips radio is playing the CHRIIIIIISSSSMAAAAAASSS Number One.
The aluminium engine, sited incongruously under the rear floor, sounds like a muted turbo-charged Hoover Constellation vacuum-cleaner.
"Gear linkage, Mairte. Gone again. Car get no forward gears. Doe worry. We'll back it up th'Oss Road, an' ketch the buzz"...
Ten minutes later, having parked backwards at Kev's place on Mount Pleasant, we are on the top deck of the Number Seventeen, and rummaging through our rucksacks for abandoned bus passes...
Three months previously...
Since Kev had obtained his drivers' licence, we no longer needed our WMPTE (West Midlands Passenger Transport Executive: catchy one, that. Ed) conveyance, and had driven the three miles to Cannock Grammar School in the comfort of his ex-Granada TV rentals prize possession.
"On'y med these fer three years, Mairte. It'll do seventy an'all..." Kev had told me on the first Husky trip, as we sat on its black vinyl front seats in our green blazers, platform-soled boots, penny-round collared shirts and sixth-form ties.
Between Walkmill Pool and The Raz, Kev aimed the car's boot towards Bridgtown.
"Boot's up front, Mairte. I purra bag o' cement in thee'er ter mek it 'andle better. An' a massive load bay up the back, wi' that engine under the floor. Yer c'n get fower tellies in thee'er...."
I pushed open the quarterlight, and lit a Gauloise. The smoke added a gallic note to the interior, which smelled vaguely of TV valves, Brut aftershave, Cossack hairspray, and sweat.
Clearly, if we were intending on offering a ride to any of our more discerning female classmates as the term progressed, we'd need to lift our game...
A white E-Type Jaguar sped past us outside Cannock Fertilizers, its driver waving a Senior Service in salute.
"55 DP. David Paradine. Wouldn't mind one o' them Jags, Kev"...
"Are. 12 cylinders Mairte. Wi' petrol at five bob a gallon, I shouldn't like t'atter fill tharrup every wick"...
We laughed, and crossed the Watling Street traffic lights.
I fiddled with the radio switch. Tony Blackburn on Radio One was engaging in some banter with Jimmy Savile.
"They reckon that Savile bloke's comin' up the Danilo ternight to do a roadshow, Kev".
"Summat funny about 'im, Mairte. He ay never normal, is he?"
Ahead of us, in the town centre stood a half-built multi-storey car park, and the second half of our A-Level courses...
Kev stopped at the zebra crossing near the bus station to allow a pedestrian to cross. It was a blond-haired bloke, and he was smoking a large cigar.
"Should be a good year Mairte. Upper Sixth." Said my chauffeur as he guided the Hillman behind the school swimming pool, then selected a student parking space between a green Morris Minor and a brush-painted pillar-box red Triumph Herald convertible.
"They reckon being seventeen's the best time o' yer life, Kev. Wonder what surprises this year'll bring..? I 'ope there's some decent music. That Slairde stuff's gerrin' a bit...monotonous..."
Kev scratched his sideburns. We walked towards A-Block.
As had been our custom for the past six years, we switched from Wyrley Bonk dialect to General Mid-Staffordian.
Then, with the mild superiority bestowed upon us by our new status as senior school members (and non-bus pass users, to... boot), we eyed the long-haired Lower Sixth newcomer lasses as they emerged from the bike sheds...
Stay tuned for more Life on a Mars Bar adventures with Kev and his Mairte, and in the meantime, click on Noddy and Co for 1zaac Christmas wishes.
AB
