FAREWELL TO THE SKYLARK Part Three.

“Time to say……..Goodbye.”

In the first few days of the New Year 2021, that which I had feared for so long was going to happen did happen, when Elaine died. One of the consequences of her death was that ownership of her pick-up truck, aka The Skylark, passed to me.

It was the third truck she had owned, and undoubtedly the best and favourite of the three. We had bought it almost twenty years prior to her passing, and along with the Isuzu Trooper, that we got a short time later, it proved to be an invaluable asset to the way in which we lived and worked.

We’d had to part with the Isuzu some three years back, after fourteen years of happy ownership, due to increasing mechanical hiccups. Its replacement was ironically another Landrover (see previous two blogs). This time though we had done our research properly, and with the invaluable help of Marcus, at the local Douglas Motors garage, we had chosen a Freelander 2 which has proved a worthy (if not quite as quick!) successor to the ‘Super Trooper’.

By the time The Skylark passed to me it was getting on for twenty-three years old, and those years were more than beginning to show. It had by now covered at least 150,000 miles, but due to a fault in the speedo no one could be sure of the exact figure. Though it had been welded-up a few times, the exhaust was still the original, as was the clutch. A couple of springs had broken and been repaired at different times and the underside welded just once. It never did fail to start and the engine was a jewel that just kept going.

The problem was the bodywork. Getting the underside of a pickup totally clean and free of mud etc is nigh-on an impossible task and rust sets in eventually, no matter the efforts made to counter it.

After Elaine’s death, I could have let the Skylark go, I didn’t really need the expense of keeping two vehicles after all, but she had loved that old truck so much, especially as it became more scruffy, and parting with it right then would almost have been akin to parting with her once more, so I became determined to keep it no matter what.

(Never a car snob, Elaine got really annoyed when people bought four-wheel-drive SUV’s and large shiny trucks just to ferry their kids to school or go shopping in. She believed such transport was better employed for work duties or moving horse feed, hay, straw and shavings etc around the countryside).

I used the truck whenever possible over the next couple of years, but it was often the case that it was left standing for longish periods of time. This is the worst thing for any vehicle, they need to be used, but it always started OK and was still a pleasure to drive, though, thinking back now I feel I kept away from it sometimes because of all the memories driving it evoked.

I always thought of that phrase “All Aboard the Skylark” when I sat in it, and inevitably I would beep the horn as I had done with Elaine beside me, so many times before.

MOT testing time came around each July. It would often need some mechanical item sorted but the bodywork had held up alright, until the last time that is.

I was at home when the phone rang early PM. It was Leon at the garage. “Are you sitting down Mark, I’ve got bad news?”

There were several mechanical issues, but they weren’t the real problem. Corrosion had set-in badly around suspension mountings, the chassis, and inner parts of the bodywork. In short, it was border-line dangerous, and to rectify would require the whole back end of the bodywork to be removed, as access was impossible with it in situ.

“It’s specialist work Mark, we can’t do it here, and it would be well into four figures cost to carry out” he continued. “Also there’s no guarantee that everything will go back together ok, it’s all so old now. I’m sorry mate, I know what that truck means to you.” 

I don’t think that anybody could ever know or understand what it meant to me, other than Elaine, but I thanked him and said I’d be over to collect it soon. I was in turmoil for the next few hours trying to decide what to do; but deep down I knew that repairing it wasn’t viable, the cost would be prohibitive, but I could barely entertain the thought of parting with it either.

I collected it late afternoon, there were five days of the current MOT left, so it was still legal to drive. Leon was sympathetic, and gave me the number of a friend at a local scrapyard; I might get £300 for it on a good day.

Over the next forty eight hours or so my thoughts began to change, maybe if I kept the truck off road I could put funds aside and eventually get it repaired. I was still considering along these lines when on the Saturday morning I went to collect a large ladder that I’d used on a job locally, and fate decided to intervene.

Driving through the middle of town the guy in front of me panicked as a bus came towards us and braked hard, my fault, I was too close and didn’t react in time and so went straight into the back of him.

The strange thing here was that as I opened the door to get out, I suddenly felt this great calmness come over me and I knew without doubt that this now spelt the end of the road for the Skylark; the decision had been made for me.

No one was hurt, we exchanged details and though a bit battered, both vehicles were still driveable, so I collected the ladder and returned home.

I always have, and still do, hated dealing with insurance companies and the like over the phone. Elaine always did all that stuff for us both, but now it’s just me and I find it impersonal and a real bloody ordeal to go through. Anyway, I steeled myself and set the wheels in motion that afternoon.

I knew damn well the truck would be written-off, its age and condition left no other alternative really. As they no longer bother to send anybody to look over broken vehicles- if they can avoid doing so- the insurance company wanted me to beam over pictures of the truck to enable them to make a decision about it. With the help of my friend Bob, this was duly done the following week and I expected to hear back soon.

Huh! Some fucking hope. A month went by, so I phoned up. I was told there was a backlog of ‘cases’ and I should hear from them in the next two weeks. Another month passed, and I called again. I was put through to three different departments, yet no one could explain as to why I had not heard back by now. And so another month passed, again I called up and again was passed from department to department (see what I mean about impersonal!), and still there were no answers as to why I had heard nothing back about the truck.

Finally after another week, the phone rang. The man was very apologetic, it had obviously all gone on too long, but they had an offer for me. There was an excess of £450.00 on the policy and after this was accounted for they were offering me £1300.00 as final settlement, if I accepted, the truck would become their property.

It was, to be honest, far better than I had hoped for, and as there was no other real alternative I agreed.

The money was paid over the following week, and within days I received a call from a large local scrap dealership saying they had been authorised to collect the truck and so arrangements for this were made for the coming Wednesday morning. I now had the thankless task ahead of me to clear the cab of many years’ accumulated memories.

Where does all this stuff come from? The door pockets contained a selection of forgotten screwdrivers, large and small, bits of string and wire, some odd fuses, cloth and a demister pad, many bits of ‘useful’ paper, sweet wrappers and three pens and three pencils between them (how come you can never find a pen when you want one, but when you don’t…)?

Likewise, the glove box hid similar treasures, plus an original old AA handbook, a plastic ice scraper (Elaine had once used a metal one on her first truck, leaving the windscreen resembling a kids etch-a-sketch efforts). Here too was the rubber torch that came from an early house clearance. I always keep a torch in my vehicles and this one I put in the truck for Elaine soon after we bought it; new batteries were fitted at the time. I remember using it once, I don’t know if she ever did, but when I press the button, it comes to life and on opening it, the batteries are fine. They must have been in there twenty years or more!

There is a small tubular case, I’m not sure what it is, so I pull the top off and discover a pair of fold-up magnifying spectacles that Elaine must have put in here. There is also a little unused notebook that I remember being in a Christmas stocking that I had given her God knows how long ago.

Too many memories to count really, but I bag-up the main pieces and chuck the odds and ends.

Next I tackle behind the seats. Elaine’s heavy-duty jump leads are still in their original bag (she had an old battery charger but that’s long gone). Here are the ropes and bungees we used so many times to tie down so many loads. An assortment of waterproof clothing, in various states of distress, lurks under everything else; here too is my missing baseball cap. Several empty carrier bags are present in case they ‘come in handy’, but most poignant of all here are Elaine’s welly boots and her old pink Puffa jacket.

The boots she got from friend Coleen, they were two sizes too big but a good make and well lined, so she just wore two pairs of socks all the time. The jacket was her second Puffa, which I bought her. The sleeve is all chewed where Bruce used to get hold of it, smudges of mud still cling to the surface, old kitchen towels and one woolly glove are still stuffed in the pocket. These things will be staying with me, maybe not forever, but certainly for now.

I know the truck is going to be scrapped, but I don’t want it leaving here dirty, so I set-to and wash down the rusting, dented bodywork then vacuum out the cab and polish-up the dash etc as best I can. Maybe it’s a waste of time doing so, but I find it strangely therapeutic to do on this warm Sunday afternoon; it feels to me like a way of honouring an old friend and comrade.

Later, I plan to go for one final drive. It would be illegal to go out on the road, but I’m lucky to have a short amount of private track to drive on before I reach the security gate and public highway. 

It’s evening, and the mid-October sun is gently fading behind the trees across the park as I climb aboard the Skylark, for what I believe will be the final time. For a while I just sit in silence looking at the empty seat beside me. I can’t help wondering, yet again, why she had to go. I never will understand, not in this life at least, why, when two people love each other so much fate has to part them; it’s simply beyond my mind to accept any reasoning here, if indeed, there is any to be had.

Turning the key the starter gives its familiar screech, and the engine comes to life. Out loud I say “All Aboard the Skylark” then beep the horn twice and set-out up the track so well-known to myself and the truck. We barely get into forth gear then turn and come back. As the Lodge comes into view, I blast the horn again as Elaine would often do when returning home and knew I was back before her.

I turn around and pull-in by the front hedge, rev the engine a couple of times and turn it off. Quietly, I thank our dear friend for all its years of happy, faithful service, then I quickly get out before the emotion has a chance to overwhelm me.

Wednesday morning, and it’s raining heavily out of thick leaden grey skies. It’s not really cold but I light the wood burner anyway to please the cats, and mooch around waiting for midday to arrive when the collection is due.

The driver’s on time, and phones me once he’s through the security gates. He is worried about the overhanging trees in the drive down to me, “I’ll get down ok but I’ll be a lot higher with your truck on the back and might not get out again.”

“That’s okay,” I reply, “You turn round at the top and I’ll bring the truck up to you.”

So I’m going to get one more drive after all. Donning coat, boots and hat, I go out into what is, I think, appropriate weather for this occasion. I climb into the driver’s seat and sit quietly for a few moments. So many adventures for Elaine and I started right here like this, not always certain what the day was going to bring for us, we enjoyed or endured it together and that was the main thing… together, always together.

The familiar screech as I start the engine and, of course, two beeps of the horn after “All Aboard The  Skylark” said for what I certainly now know is the last time, then into gear and off we go. It is the shortest of journeys but I am strangely grateful for it.

The driver has the paperwork ready, I sign where indicated and then I no longer own a truck. As he walks back to his cab, I kiss my hand and pat the bonnet of the Skylark, “Farewell old friend, thank you for always looking after us”.

I walk away without looking back. Inside me I feel a bit like Judas must have; he had his thirty pieces of silver, I have my £1300.00 bank transfer.

It’s still pissing with rain and though just a short walk I’m pretty damn wet by the time I reach home.

Shutting the gates I turn and look across the park. Due to the topography of the land I can see the top of the truck and the lorry quite clearly, but I just can’t go indoors; despite the weather I stand and watch. I feel that to go inside now while the truck is still there, would amount to the final abandonment. The minutes tick by, then I faintly hear that familiar screech and the Skylark moves forwards to take its place on the lorry.

A few minutes pass, I guess it’s being tied down now, then I hear the lorry start and it moves off. The Skylark looking very regal high up on the back, about to pass out of the park and my life for the last time ever.

Put bluntly, I’m fucking wet through by now but what does it matter? In my head turns a kaleidoscope showing all the colours at once of all the happy times and fun Elaine and myself enjoyed in the company of that old truck.

As it leaves, another door of our life together closes forever. My heart and spirit seem to mirror the heavy grey skies around me, then strangely the rain feels warm on my face and I realise I’m crying.

Anger flushes through me, “Fucks sake Mark, you’re a grown man and here you are stood shedding tears for a bloody old pick-up!”

I’ve spoken out loud, a reply forms but not in audible words as such, just as has happened before it comes quietly, a still voice from somewhere inside of me.

“It’s not the truck you’re crying for. That’s just metal and plastic, rubber, cloth and whatever forms it in this world. But for you it’s so much more than the total of its parts because of what it came to represent in your life. It’s an embodiment of the love you had for, and shared with Elaine, but its time is done in your world; that’s no fault or doing of yours, it just is. Accept what you know is the truth, your life can move forwards or stagnate into a wasteland, and if allowed to happen, that would be the greater evil here. You don’t lose the past or the love that lives within it, by the loss of a truck, learn to embrace the fact that you lived it all with, and alongside her, in the first place.”

I know this voice is not a liar, it speaks the truth, but letting go of anything that was part of my world with Elaine I find so very difficult to do. Then again, there are rooms, once full, that are now empty to me, their doors have to close or new ones can’t or won’t open.

Taking one last look over the bleak empty parkland, I leave the unrelenting rain to run its course, and turn for the warmth of home and some dry clothes.

As I do so there is a small inkling in my mind that another door, to an even larger room from my time with Elaine, is also beginning to quietly close before me.

Back soon…

PS: the front badge of the truck came loose in the accident, it is the only physical piece of the Skylark that I have kept.