This car doesn’t turn left!

After completing my national service with the RAF, I decided to go to London to make my fortune. (That’s still work in progress) Contrary to the thoughts of Dick Wittington there were no pavements of gold. My recollection from the early 1950’s being a lot of dog mess. My first task was to replace my petrol guzzling Rover. Although it was a joy to drive and in immaculate condition, I could no longer afford to keep filling the tank. I needed a car of small proportions capable of doing forty miles to the gallon.

I settled on a 1938 Austin 7 as being a good practical solution.

Bomb site car dealers or spivs as they were better known were a prominent feature in London during the 1950’s. Their sites were awash with daisy chains of fluttering tinsel and brash day glow posters offering unrepeatable bargains. They were not renowned for their ethics as I discovered.

I bought the car from a bomb-site dealer in Hounslow. All the red lights were flashing in my head, and small voices pleading. ‘Don’t do it Gordon! Don’t do it lad, you’ll regret it.’ But as we all know the ears of youth are not receptive to outside advice.

The dealer was a short, fast talking, character with Burberry coat and big cigar, he assured me in broad Scottish brogue; ‘it’s the bargain of a lifetime’. I paid the deposit signed the contract and drove away.

Soon afterwards I discovered a serious problem. The near side suspension was jamming the track rod end restricting the cars turning ability. I couldn’t turn left.

I drove back to the bombsite in a rage. ’This car is dangerous and not roadworthy, I want my money back’.

‘Yee muster dun something yerself it was- no- like that when it left heer.’

I was apoplectic. ‘Give me my money back –or else.’ I threatened. He was only about five feet four and I reckoned the odds were stacked in my favor. I toyed with the idea of applying a half nelson and increasing the pressure until he begged for mercy. Or may-be I could twist his nose in a firm upward grip until he agreed to refund my deposit. He blew out a large plume of cigar smoke and yelled ‘Charlie.’ Two rubber faced hoodlums burst out of a shed and lumbered towards me

‘Now, look laddie!’ Says one, prodding me in the chest, ‘You’ve upset the governor and if you’re looking for bovver, my mate can help you with that can’t you Charlie?’, ‘Yeah! He growled pushing his nose into my face, ‘On yer bike.’

Well I’ve never been an advocate for violence in any form, so I indicated that maybe it wasn’t such a big problem and I could probably sort things out and swiftly made my departure.

‘Live to fight another day, that’s what I say.’

The local garage couldn’t do anything for two weeks and the estimate removed any urgency. It became a real pain; I had to plan my journeys with meticulous care to avoid any left turns. The only solution was to use the roundabouts and come back to take it as a right hand turn. They should use that task in the Duke of Edinburgh’s award.

My girl friend came up from Somerset to see me on the Bank holiday Monday. Geraldine was a feisty red head with strong lefty views; we argued often. She was the nearest thing to a human earthquake you could imagine. Our relationship had held together for nearly eighteen months but I sensed we weren’t destined for a prolonged contract.

‘What’s happened to your lovely Rover car?‘ she enquired. ‘This rusty bath tub is a bit of a come-down isn’t it- anyway, where we going?’ She demanded, squeezing into the passenger seat.

‘Well, I thought we could have a picnic at Teddington down by the river, then there’s a dance at the YMCA, that’s quite a big do. Then err…hot chocolate at my place?’

With the bank holiday traffic and my convoluted journey plan Geraldine started to get tetchy  ‘That’s the third time we’ve been round that round-about are you sure you know where you are going ,how much further?’ she complained.

‘We’re nearly there’ … ‘it’s just—Oh– no! There’s a policeman up front making everyone turn left at the T junction, this car doesn’t turn left, I’m going to try and turn around.’

‘Huh-what d’yer mean– doesn’t turn left?’ gasped Geraldine.

I couldn’t do a three point turn either so I juddered back and forth until I eventually got back into line and wondered what to do next. The police-mans arm waving became more agitated as I frantically gripped the steering wheel in a left hand lock. We were almost nudging his right kneecap when he leapt out of the way and yelled, ‘What the hell do you think your’e doing?’

Geraldine poked her head out of the window

‘is it ok if we turn right? This car doesn’t turn left!’

The policeman approached our car cautiously and poked his head through the widow.

‘ Is that right, this car doesn’t turn left?’

‘That’s right,’ I said, ‘it just wouldn’t turn left.’

‘Park on the grass verge over there and wait,’ he said. We waited and waited, the sun got hotter and hotter and Geraldine became increasingly irritable. ‘He’s taking the mick, I’m not spending my Bank Holiday getting incinerated in this bath-tub, I’m going to have a word with him,

‘No–no– hang on, don’t do that, he’ll only take it out on me. Why don’t you have a sandwich and relax, there’s no point in getting all wound up.’ Small beads of perspiration were gathering on her forehead and I realized the earthquake was about to erupt and my bank holiday nookie was in jeopardy.

‘It’s ridiculous! Having a car that can’t turn left, I’ve never heard of anything so absurd’ then she let out a shriek ‘Corned Beef! I hate corned beef and look at this bread, what do you think I am, a navvies mate? I hate corned beef. That’s it, I’ve had enough’, she slammed the door and flounced off. I watched her departure ruefully, knowing it would be pointless to get her to change her mind.

The policeman cast a long and lecherous eye towards Geraldine in her body hugging lime green two-piece with matching heels and handbag. His right arm briefly ceased to direct the traffic wandering to all points of the compass, at one stage even pointing skywards. The motorist now totally confused as to which way to go, were showing more interest in Geraldine’s progress. As a result there were a series of loud bangs followed by breaking glass and rending steel. Angry voices and accusing fingers pointed at the red faced policeman. He stopped all the traffic and hurried back and forth telling everybody to stay calm. Disgruntled drivers huddled in small groups armed with pencil and paper to exchange insurance details. I sat munching my sandwiches enjoying all the excitement. A police siren announced the arrival of reinforcements and the end of the police-mans shift.

He came towards me and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘So!’ He said tugging the steering wheel ‘this is the car that can’t turn left is that right?’

I’d just taken a big bite out of my last corned beef sandwich. I was ooh-ah-ah-ing and waving my hands back and forth with my eyes streaming. My mouth was on fire. Mu-ust-ard  I spluttered pointing to the sandwich. He nodded and watched disapprovingly as my blown out cheeks gradually returned to normal. He kept looking at his watch but I was always taught to chew my food thoroughly and he’d kept me waiting, he had screwed up my bank holiday, I was in no hurry. 

He then repeated the question ‘You’re saying this car can’t turn left, is that right?’ 

‘That’s right, it won’t turn left.’ I said.

‘Where you from?’

‘Brixton’

‘So, you’ve managed to get all the way from Brixton to Teddington without turning left. Is that right?’

I realized this was a tricky question that could cultivate a lot of problems.

‘No, no— that’s not right, all the other left turns were alright, it was just this one, it wouldn’t turn left ’

‘Hmm…well, you can’t drive it in that condition you better get it into the garage over there. So what happened to your lady friend, she looked to be in a hurry?’

‘Yeah!  She didn’t like my corned beef Sandwiches, she did a right sharp left.’