Inspired by our own much-loved Moggy Traveller, and the hours my hubbie used to spend looking after it...
It was to be her final triumph, the life insurance.
She had planned it to the last detail.
He’d spent hours on the blasted thing, leaving her alone in the house with a silver screen of flickering images for company.
Each evening, he returned from work, wolfed his dinner and donned the tatty, oily jeans and grubby jacket to which the smell of oil, fiberglass filler and Swarfega clung. Then he disappeared into the garage.
Hours and hours he spent in there, rebuilding.
‘It’s an investment’, he told her. ‘It won’t cost us a penny in road tax once it’s done, and I’ll be able to maintain it myself.’
But already, the restoration had taken thousands. From their holiday fund.
Her dream - of a beach hut with an infinity pool on a desert island - had slipped away.
Every moment he spent with his new love, hate ate her up a little more. At Christmas, she even hung a bunch of mistletoe over the bonnet...he thought it was a great joke.
So he wasn’t the only one who spent hours reading the Haynes manual for the Morris Traveller. Or who knew how to tighten a brake union.
When the money finally arrived after the tragic accident, she smiled bravely.
‘I kept asking him if he knew what he was doing,’ she murmured through her tears.
He wasn’t the only one who knew how to fix up a car.