The temperature gauge needle heeled hard over into the red. ‘Not again,’ I said to Oscar, sitting beside me on his booster seat. Sunday evening, and I was returning him to his mother after having him to stay for the weekend. The distance door to door is around 20 miles: about 40 minutes along country roads. After ten miles, a steep uphill climb proved disastrous. Steam was pouring in through the heater vents and fogging up the inside of the windscreen. I tried the demist blower on maximum heat but only cold air came out. So I drove the car with one hand and wiped the steam from the glass with a sodden little tissue, searching for somewhere to pull over.
Oscar was as calm as an adobe wall in the moonlight, as Raymond Chandler once put it. He never knows what sort of car his grandfather will turn up in next, and this 1.3 Fiesta automatic is the smallest and slowest one he’s ridden in yet. But he is accustomed to automotive fiascos because whatever the make and model of his grandfather’s latest, it is invariably old and clapped-out.
I swung over into the entrance to a muddy lane and cut the engine. Then I got out and propped open the bonnet. The coolant reservoir was empty: all the water had turned to steam. I refilled it with our emergency supply and went a little way up the lane to take a leak. Oscar decided he’d get out and have one too.
Lying in the grass was a magnificent dog fox. He was stretched out on his side as though sleeping. He must have been hit by a car. The only sign of injury was congealed blood around the nostrils.