Buttercup was my first car. She was a comfortable rounded, elderly gentle woman. Prosaically staid, efficient and sweet tempered. She would normally have blended unremarkably into the background, except for her raiment. Buttercup had a body of bright yellow! She was indeed a ray of sunshine on the cloudiest of day and stood out in traffic like Joseph’s Technicolour Dreamcoat among his duller brothers.
I loved buttercup. I had saved and saved forever and had hunted the adverts for a suitable car on which to spend my hard earned cash. “A Morris Minor!” said one of my more knowledgeable motor aware male friends, “would be very suitable”. So subject to his inspection and approval, I bought her – for the grand sum of £50! To put that figure into perspective, it was almost all of my monthly take home pay.
Buttercup took me on my first long distance journey as a novice driver. I discovered calf muscles I’d have never known before! It’s amazing how much effort is required to hold down an accelerator! I was thoroughly exhausted by the time I got home.
The next noteworthy journey with Buttercup was when my daughter was only twelve days old. We had moved to another city. She and I drove to our next home alone. It was an exhausting day, but my faithful, loyal Buttercup was a Trojan and withstood the long journey with her bright and breezy manner.
She took me on another house move and, as it does with all of us eventually, old age crept up on her.
I was weary with a toddler and with another baby on the way, an unexpected breakdown meant my husband had to take Buttercup the garage: “head gasket’s gone” or something they said. It was too expensive for us to repair, so he sold her there and then to the mechanic.
On occasions afterwards I saw Buttercup, obviously fully recovered from her ailments, toddling around town in her bright familiar attire. It always made me smile. I am certain I saw a smile of recognition from her too!
By Sheena Freeman
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