That's Another Story: The Autobiography by Julie Walters

Author:Julie Walters [Walters, Julie]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780753826089
Publisher: Phoenix
Published: 2009-10-02T00:00:00+00:00

10

Foreign Adventure

Later in the summer of 1971, DT and I took off overland in a Mini to Istanbul with another couple from London, whom we had met working at the hospital. Both were students at Birmingham University and the chap, whom we codenamed Rupert, was the owner of the said Mini. I’m not saying that he was a car owner ‘who loved too much’ but heavy breathing could often be heard coming from under the bonnet as he drooled over the engine beneath. It was always best to knock before entering his garage and pages of his What Car? magazine were frequently found to be mysteriously stuck together. He was one of those car anoraks who spent all his free time sniffing around underneath the vehicle, twiddling and tweaking, and although DT was meant to share the driving with him, Rupert could never quite bring himself to let him take the precious wheel. People often refer to their cars as ‘she’, but somehow when Rupert did it had a greater resonance. Interestingly, he called his girlfriend, who did all the navigating, by her surname, firing orders at her as we went along.

‘Henman? Passports!’ or ‘Henman? Chewing gum!’ or ‘Henman? Consult map, please!’

Almost as an omen, and after Rupert had spent days fiddling and ferreting under the bonnet in preparation for the trip, one of the wheels began to wobble free as we drove off down the Balham High Road, just minutes into the first leg of our big adventure.

We went through France, Germany, Austria, Italy, Hungary, Bulgaria, Rumania, Greece and finally Turkey, with Rupert driving as if a homicidal maniac were in hot pursuit. DT and I were squashed into the back seat with assorted belongings crammed in around us. Convinced that it would prevent the engine from overheating, Rupert insisted that we had the heater on inside the car, which became unbelievably stifling almost as soon as we crossed the Channel. I’m not entirely sure when we discovered that we might have made a mistake embarking on that trip, but it was probably on the Balham High Road.

In Rumania we travelled through the High Carpathians, where bears are meant to roam and where huge mountains on either side of the road almost touched in places, leaving just a tiny blue crack of sky above us. We set up camp in a borrowed tent that was slightly superior to the one we had used in France, and at night we listened to the sounds of wolves howling. In the little towns, the local people crowded around the car, stroking it, with Rupert darting about to check that they hadn’t left any mark. They were saying its name, incredulously, over and over again, almost chanting with wonder, ‘Owstin Meenee!’

It was like an incantation, with Rupert joining in each time it was said, and nodding in confirmation.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, Austin Mini, yeah, that’s right, mate, yeah, yeah, don’t touch the windscreen wipers, mate. Yeah, yeah.’

One man, who had stroked virtually every inch of the car as if it were a flying saucer newly arrived from outer space, spoke a little English.

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