I had originally intended this post to be a one-off concerning just the one particular truck, but soon came to realise that I was restricting myself far too much in this way. So, though the loss of the ‘Skylark’ remains the primary story, I have expanded it to cover a number of vehicles over three decades, and three blogs. I think it paints a fuller picture, hope you agree…Mark.
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Pick-up trucks have become commonplace in this country over the last few years. Many are now recreational vehicles only, almost a form of status symbol, but that certainly wasn’t the case when Elaine bought the first of the three which she was to own back in the early 1990’s.
Elaine liked a car that could double as a workhorse, and when she got rid of her ancient Range Rover, she replaced it with a Ford pick-up of rather dubious mileage and history. This was the vehicle that came with her when she moved in with me in 1993.
It was based on the Cortina model, just two seats and a six foot bed to the rear and it sported a huge bull-bar on the front, which I always suspected, was the real reason she bought it. She once had an accident in it being t-boned at a junction. Suffering mild concussion, she came round to see a figure with long beard and flowing robes stood by her. “I thought I was dead and it was an angel come to get me”. Turned out to be a Greek Orthodox priest on his way to conduct a service, and he was the one who had crashed into her! The truck was repaired by the garage it had previously belonged to. To give its 1600 petrol motor a bit of extra grunt they had fitted it with a large twin-choke carburettor. Trouble was, it only had a four-speed gearbox, and when we started doing antique fairs further afield its prodigious thirst (and increasing unreliability) meant it had to go.
We found its successor via small ads in a local magazine. It too was a Ford, this time based on the Sierra model. Just two seats again (king-cabs and four seaters weren’t really around then), but this one had a 2litre engine (petrol again) with a five-speed box and only 30,000 miles on it. It drove very well and was to become our reliable workhorse for many years.
Of course, both working, we had to be a two car household and when my old Mini came to the end of the road, it was replaced with a rather basic Ford Fiesta 1100, acquired out of necessity rather than desire. Its one previous owner had been the traditional ‘old lady’ who had had trouble getting it through her driveway gates, thus it had a series of gentile dents and scrapes to both sides; but it too drove well, and we found that with the back seats down, and the addition of a roof rack, there was enough space to get a reasonable load of gear on board to go to a fair with if necessary.
So for some years we were a two Ford family, but our vehicles had to live outside and the Fiesta started to rust badly, and have mechanical issues, eventually the time arrived to replace it.
We were somewhat better off money-wise by now and so decided that a four-wheel drive car would tick plenty of boxes and be an ideal replacement, but which one?
After much deliberation, and to be honest somewhat against my way of thinking, a Landrover Discovery was deemed the answer. As we didn’t have much opportunity to go car hunting Elaine got a company (long since defunct) to source the right car for us.
And so one bright afternoon we found ourselves 30-odd miles from home waiting to be introduced to our ‘ideal car’. Our lounge-type surroundings were very opulent. Velvet chairs and small sofas abounded. Liberal tea, coffee or soft drinks were available, low tables sported up to date (and up their own arses!) glossy magazines. Elaine pulled a face at me. “Somehow I’ve the feeling we’re paying for all this crap”.
Anyway the test drive went well enough, the car, a 96’-97 model, looked good with dark grey metallic paintwork and matching alloys, and a deal was done, though both of us felt a little uninvolved in the process, like outsiders watching proceedings from a distance. Hindsight later told us we should have heeded those feelings somewhat more carefully.
A week later we collected the car, Elaine followed in the truck as I drove it back. After a couple of miles she flashed me down. I had no offside brake light, so back we went. Red faces all round. They ‘fixed’ the problem “Just a bulb” -though it took nearly an hour to do so- and then we drove home.
How many of you reading this have ever had that gut feeling about a thing or situation that something just isn’t right? Well I had it about this car from the start, but decided I was just being silly. Big mistake.
After a short while, I began to notice that even under modest braking the brakes often seemed lazy and reluctant to bite. Elaine never reported a problem so I thought maybe it was just me not being used to a heavier car. One morning I was doing about 30mph when the traffic up front stopped, there was plenty of room for me to stop too, only I didn’t.
There was a horrible screeching as I braked but nothing happened. I had to swerve to the other side of the road to avoid a collision and didn’t stop until I had passed two stationary cars on the wrong side of the road. The looks from those drivers alone should have killed me!
All seemed to be okay after that, and I was thinking maybe it was just me at fault somehow, but after a similar incident I was completely unnerved and insisted the car go back to be checked over.
The garage didn’t believe there could possibly be anything at fault so soon, but did eventually, reluctantly, agree to take a look one Saturday morning. By now I had learnt to take things very steady and not brake hard or suddenly, so I arrived safe and on time. (I wouldn’t let Elaine drive it until this check- over had happened).
The manageress (I’ll call her Jill) adopted a condescending attitude from the start and grandly appointed a mechanic to test drive the car whilst I rode shotgun.
He didn’t say much and I was aware they thought me a bloody timewaster.
After a short distance he said, “Well what’s the problem, what should I do?”
“Brake sharply” I replied “And you’ll find out.”
He took me at my word, unfortunately we were just onto a railway bridge at the time. He hit the brakes HARD and instantly the wheel spun out of his hands as we slewed sideways across the road heading for the concrete parapet of the bridge, a deafening screech ringing in our ears. He had to virtually stand-up to exert enough pressure on the brakes to get us to stop. I believe we both sat a little higher in our seats afterwards!
We were nose onto the concrete at right angles across the road, lucky for us, no other cars came along.
My chauffer quickly got us off the bridge then pulled over. He sat back in his seat, “Fuck me, fuckin’ hell what a bastard!” He ran his hand dramatically across his forehead and cheeks, then looked over to me. “I’ve seen enough lets’ get back.”
Jill met us as we returned. Her attitude faded as without any preliminary words he blurted out to her for the whole world to hear “Its’ fuckin’ lethal, Jill, FUCKIN’ LETHAL.”
They had the car for over a week; turned out the front brakes were barely engaging at all and one of the rears kept locking-up on demand. It was an omen of things to come. So much went wrong over the time we owned that car. Oil leaks, parts failed, problems with the rear door, power steering problems, the bloody alarm used to go off with the slightest bump, the rear bulbs kept blowing.
It culminated one Sunday evening as we returned home from London. Going up the slip road to join the M3 it suddenly jammed between gears and the clutch pedal went straight to the floor. The look of weary despair on Elaine’s face, I knew, mirrored my own. “This cars got to go, I don’t care about any loss, Mark. I’ll never trust it again.” Truth was, I’d hardly trusted it from the start.
But before we could do anything about it we had another transport problem to sort.
Our truck had now covered over 100,000 miles and it was beginning to suffer. The body was rusting badly, and we had been told it was unlikely to get through another MOT test without major work and expense. By now extended cab (king cabs) and four seaters were coming onto the market. We decided a king cab would be ideal for us. A foot in length would be lost off the back but the extra cab space meant being able to keep stuff properly dry as Elaine was now dealing with an increasing amount of costume and material that would become spoiled if it got wet.
Though our truck had a cover over the bed it was impossible to keep the rain from finding a way in, and in cold weather the cover would gain a layer of condensation on the underside which, of course, then dripped over anything in the back.
The hunt began, but after a couple of frustrating months we were no better off, we couldn’t find a truck, that wasn’t already half a wreck, in our price range. Then, one Sunday afternoon Elaine was trawling the internet and came across a company in Wiltshire that had a selection of vehicles for sale, amongst them a 1998 Nissan D22 king cab, one owner and 33,000 miles on the clock. It had recently arrived as a part exchange.
She rang them the next morning and arranged a viewing early in the coming week.
We found the place easily enough and, to be honest, it was a bit of a rough and ready set-up. Old and new trucks and cars everywhere and parts piled up wherever there was space.
‘Our’ truck was out the back. “Sorry, but we haven’t had time to clean it up yet” the man who turned out to be the boss said as he walked us round the building; it was more of a statement than an apology.
The truck was painted white, and as we approached it, the wind gently blew and for a moment it seemed as though it was blowing the paint off. Then we realised that it was completely covered in a thick layer of fine white dust. It was everywhere, inside and out, over every surface.
“Like I said we haven’t had time to clean it” our host repeated. “The chap who owned it was a stonemason, very busy man as you can see. Here’s the keys, it’s a good runner have a drive around and let me know, I want £10,000 and that’s firm, plus of course there will be VAT on top of that.”
Dust wafted around us as we got in, just as well we hadn’t dressed up for today. I drove, and was pleased that the truck started first touch of the key though with a curious hi-pitched squawk. It was a 2.5 litre turbo diesel with selectable four wheel drive plus a low range gearbox and apart from power steering no frills whatsoever. But the cab was comfortable and roomy, with radio/cassette and wind-down widows, which we opened to let the dust out to pollute the atmosphere and not our lungs.
It drove beautifully, light and surprisingly nimble considering its’ size; not a speed machine but smooth and with purpose. After a couple of miles we both knew this was the one for us. Elaine hoped to be able to negotiate the price down a bit, the £10,000 we could manage, but the VAT was a problem for us as, not being registered, we would not be able to claim it back from the tax office.
On our return we parked out front and found the boss behind his desk, coffee mug in hand. By the amount of empty cups and mugs littering the desk I reckon he didn’t waste money employing anyone to do the washing-up. He spoke first.
“I’ve been checking a few things since you left, this stonemason bloke isn’t VAT registered after all, so trucks 10,000 straight, if you want it.”
My wife and I looked at each other, smiled and together said “Yes please!”
I never would have believed then that this truck would still be with us/me some twenty years later.
It was probably the best 10 grand that we ever spent and we both came to love it as a trusted friend. Not once do I ever remember it letting us down. It lived outside all its life, but no matter what the weather or conditions it always started first time; it had quite a tough life with us but never once complained.
It was this vehicle that gradually became known as The Skylark.
Elaine at first christened all her trucks as Mr. Pickup. The Fiesta was known as Fi-fi. The Landrover, well I’ll leave you to imagine what that got called.
Somewhere along the line we started using the phrase “All aboard the Skylark” followed by two beeps of the horn, when we set off in the truck to go to a fair. It was a sort of good luck thing. I don’t remember now how it came about. The phrase is apparently a boating term and was used in a TV animated series Noah & Nelly from the 1970’s. They had a boat called Skylark and said “All aboard the Skylark” when off on a new adventure, which we started to do too. Childish maybe, but I don’t really care, it was us and I’m not apologising for it.
Now we had found a gem of a truck, but we were still stuck with a Landrover we sadly had no faith in. One way or another it had to go, it would mean stretching our finances to say the least, but just what could we replace it with?
The answer was a while turning-up, but when it did the day of the test drive was to remain forever with us.
To be continued…
a horse, a husband, and cancer 