Hillman Hunter

The back of my Granny's house looked like a breakers yard for cars, mainly thanks to my uncles, Mike and PJ. You were never sure which car was running or which was being cannibalised for parts. In the end, it all added to the madness that followed the boys everywhere.

PJ was very fond of one particular car, a brown Hillman Hunter. Admittedly he spent nearly as much time under the bonnet as he did behind the wheel but he never gave up on the thing. One evening, the hunter came limping into the yard, grinding metal screamed under the car, and black oily smoke pumping from the back of it.

Mike stuck his head out the kitchen window and yelled, "What yea done to the thing now?"

PJ got out and slammed the door hard, looking furious, "Flamen clutch is gone," he yelled, kicking the tyre.

"I'll make the tea and we'll have a look," said Mike, closing the window to keep the clouds of sticky smoke out of the house. 

As the two boys walked around the car, mugs of steaming tea in hand, they mulled over what could be done.

"You'll be going nowhere in that," said Mike, taking a sip of his brew.

"I have to get into work tomorrow," PJ moaned.

"You'd have more luck pushing a fart back where it came from than getting that thing running by the morning," commented Mike wisely.

"What about the old Mini?" asked PJ, nodding toward a carcass of a car up on four blocks.

"Nothing to lose I guess," said Mike, rolling up his sleeves. A few hours later and the Mini had been fitted with a battery that still held a bit of a charge, four scavenged wheels, one a bit smaller than the other three, new spark plugs and given a general clean up.

PJ syphoned petrol from the Hunter and poured it into the Mini then turned to Mike and said, "If this doesn't work, you'll have to drop me to work."

"Jesus lad. I've got to be on the far side of Cashel before eight! Not a chance!" Mike would work all night on a car but there was no way he was getting out of bed a minute before he had to in the morning. With fingers crossed they turned over the engine. It whirred and whined and coughed and spluttered but failed to start. Mike shook his big bushy head at the engine as they tried one last time. Whirr, whirr, whirr,  it went then Mike lost the rag. 

"Start-up, yea bitch," he yelled, and hit the distributor cap an awful slap with the hammer he was holding. That seemed to do the trick because the little car coughed into life and idled away like an asthmatic, with a sixty-a-day smoking habit.  

The next morning the car failed to start again, that was until PJ hit used the hammer again. Weeks passed, and the hammer became as necessary as the key to get the little car going. Work on the Hunter was slow, as the necessity of the job dwindled while the Mini was getting PJ around. He found, wink-wink, a clutch that would fit the car, but never actually got around to installing it. 

One afternoon, PJ was trying to get the Mini started but no matter how many times he hit the distributor cap, the bloody thing wouldn't turn over. Granny popped her head around the corner and asked, "Hey, what's all the caterwauling?"

"Blasted car won't start, and I'm taking Maggie to the pictures tonight," said PJ, throwing the hammer at the engine. With no other option, he set to work fixing the Hunter. He managed to get the car jacked up at a forty-five-degree angle, then rammed planks against the wheels to keep it up there. He began undoing the bolts on the gearbox, but then came a quandary. He needed a second set of hands to get this job done. There was nobody around but Granny, so Granny it would have to be. 

So, picture this scene; a brown car tipped up on its side, two planks precariously holding it up, a mad Irish man hunkered under a wobbling tonne of steel undoing bolts while his mother held the gearbox in place with a rope snaking in the passenger side window.

"Hold her, hold her, Mammy!" he yelled, and Granny braced herself to take the weight of the gearbox. The last bolt dropped into his hand and PJ yelled, "Lave her down! More, more, a bit more. She's out!"

In any other house, having your fifty-year-old mother acting as a hydraulic lift might seem strange, but not this one. PJ manoeuvred the replacement part into place as the car wobbled over his head. Granny had to hold a torch for him because night was drawing in. Eventually everything was in position and Granny was back on the end of the rope again.

"Pull! Pull! Another bit! Hang on and I give this a slap," PJ cried from under the car and a hammer blow rang out into the evening sky. Something gave and the gearbox slid into place. 

"That's it, Mammy, now hold her there while I get a few bolts into this thing."

After a few minutes, a sweating PJ appeared with his hand still brimming with bolts and a smile on his face. As he wiped his brow with the back of a greasy mitt he asked. "What time is it there, Mammy?"

Granny looked through the kitchen window at the clock on the wall. "Ten to eight."

"Jesus, I have to pick Maggie up at nine. He gave a quick look at the nuts in his hand and tossed them into the glove box of the car and began getting the four wheels back on the ground. Half an hour later, a freshly washed PJ turned the key and prayed. The faithful old hunter started up the first time and purred away into the night.

The nuts were soon forgotten and the Hunter became a regular sight on the roads once more. That was until a month later, the whole gearbox fell out of the thing doing sixty miles an hour on road to Dublin. Mike and PJ blocked the countries only dual carriageway for nearly an hour as they tried to explain to the Guards why the gearbox was only held in by two bolts.