Spaghetti Junction Blues

The late-night drive north, from London to Glasgow, was a journey Paulie knew by heart. It was four hundred miles of motorway with a coffee break at Spaghetti Junction, and a chance to stretch his legs. Paulie joked he could do it blindfolded, and Jenny swore he was daft enough to try. Before the couple got married, they’d travelled together every fortnight to visit his Pa, but after the little ones arrived, Jenny made her excuses and stayed at home. Not that Jenny had fallen out with Paulie’s father, but she said he was a bad influence and the family visits became sporadic. 

#

Years of driving to Glasgow had taught Paulie that Saturday night offered less congested traffic, fewer roadworks, and smaller queues at the service stations. Pa was a night-owl and didn’t mind if Paulie arrived late. 

Whenever you arrive is fine by me, he’d say when Paulie called to confirm arrangements. You know my door’s open and the kettle’s always on.

However, Pa enjoyed a wee dram of single malt with company and only offered a cup of tea as an after-thought. Paulie looked forward to his visits and ‘chewing the fat’ with his old man. Pa had a great sense of humour and was often recovering from some misadventure or amusing exploit. He’d enjoyed his life and saw no reason to quit living, despite his advancing years. 

#

Pa had developed a passion for jazz and blues music when he’d travelled across America as a young man looking for work. He’d had a whale of a time out west, returned home and met Ma; the love of his life after the jazz, of course. As a youngster, Paulie recalled his parents dancing around the family home to the sound of scratchy gramophone music. Pounding rhythms, jangling pianos and squawking harmonicas were the backdrop to his colourful childhood. And there was laughter. His family home was full of mirth, even when Ma got ill. They laughed away the tears and carried on dancing; dancing and laughing. The echoes of merriment remained, even after Ma passed away.

#

That latest Saturday night visit to Glasgow started like any other, except Paulie had to collect his car from the garage after its annual service. He paid the bill, topped up the tank and bought enough snacks to keep his jaws busy all night. It was just another trip up north. What could be simpler? Short of a major detour and interminable hours spent nudging past roadworks amongst shoals of eighteen-wheelers, Paulie had no reason to worry. He enjoyed his solitude on the open road. As a father of three, it was seldom he listened to music for five minutes without changing a nappy or fixing some wretched household appliance; five hours of undisturbed musical appreciation was a luxury he relished.

#

On the doorstep, Paulie kissed Jenny’s cheek, and she stroked his jaw.

You ought to return Pa’s harmonica, she said, clicking her teeth.

He said it’d take time to master, but---

It’s worse than Rachel’s recorder, she’d said, sighing. Bless her for practicing, but three blind mice all night long, really? 

You can’t knock me for trying. 

Yeah, she said, rolling her eyes. You’re trying, I’ll give you that.

Jenny adjusted Paulie’s lapel and patted the boxed-up Hohner in his jacket pocket. 

Do me a favour, she said, pouting. Give it a good send off.

But it was Pa’s favourite old harp, Jen?

Just lose it somewhere, she said, kissing him goodbye. He’ll never know.

#

It’s a well-known fact that every car driver in England has passed through Birmingham’s Spaghetti Junction; it’s the country’s biggest elevated intersection. Eighteen major roads ascend and intertwine over five levels, passing over bridges and under fly-overs as they collide and diverge, descending past the city’s soot covered chimney stacks, slate tiled roofs and grimy windows before dispersing to all points of the compass.

Anyone travelling here at twilight will have witnessed the magic when the sun drops below the skyline and every headlamp reignites with a flourish of dazzling light. The traffic’s probing beams illuminate the brutalist architecture; highlighting the sturdy concrete columns and soaring girders that bear the weight of a thousand vehicles. The gaudy crimson taillights leave streamer trails as they zip past, gliding from lane to lane as they overtake and hare out of sight in endless pursuits.

At nighttime, Spaghetti Junction is a colossal kinetic sculpture constructed from concrete, steel and liquid light; a cathedral populated by regular worshippers who congregate for their daily ritual. They gather here morning and night, and jostle for space with fellow commuters; tripping the light fantastic on tarmac and leave little more than particles of black rubber and gasoline fumes in their wake. And yet, none of this would exist without all those cocooned creatures hurtling around the interlocking roads in their shiny metal boxes. They are like the red blood platelets coursing through the arteries of a recumbent leviathan who’s stranded forever and lifeless without their invigorating presence.

#

Pa greeted Paulie with an enormous bear hug.

Paulie handed him the Hohner, and Pa frowned.

You never know when you’ll get the blues, son, he said.

Yeah, but, Pa—-

Trust me, it’ll help, he said, removing the harp from its case.

But I don’t know how to…

Pa pursed his lips and let rip with a foot-tapping ostinato; simple and pulsing like a rolling freight train; colossal and unstoppable; tooting and chugging its way on shining metal tracks. Pa’s eyes lit up, and he was a world away and yet poised between each breath. Eventually, he slowed down the pace and ended his riffing with a spine-tingling note that shifted pitch from a heart-rending minor up to a strident major and back down again. Pa played his blues like a whiplash that snaps and cracks in the midnight hour. It was beautiful and raw music, and came out of nowhere like a desert squall blowing hot sand across mountainous dunes.

Wow, that’s some kinda blues, Pa.

Pa rapped the harmonica in his palm to clear drops of condensation from the reeds. It’s a question of good luck, is all, he said, replacing the instrument in its box.

I guess we all need good luck, Pa.

That’s all it is, he said, smiling.

Paulie pocketed it once more.

#

On the first half of his journey south, Paulie made good progress and broke the trip just before Spaghetti Junction. At Hilton Park services, he stretched his legs, had a coffee, and called Jenny to update her on his progress. Nothing to report and no need for concern. The car started up first time and Paulie proceeded back onto the motorway to resume his journey. 

Disasters rarely announce themselves in advance. However, as he joined the slow lane, Paulie noticed a warning light on his dashboard. He furrowed his brow.

The temperature gauge started flickering amber, then as Paulie picked up speed, he saw a rhythmic red pulse followed by other stuttering alert icons; all showing faults. Soon, every warning light joined the deluge of blinks and flutters until there was a continuous tsunami of flashing diodes. The dashboard was a festival of lights.

Paulie had progressed onto the elevated section of the interchange and there was nowhere to pull over. He had no choice but to ride it out. There were four fast-flowing lanes of charging vehicles buffeting him as they sailed past his fevered engine. Other travellers were oblivious to his plight, determined and pushing hard from all sides. With no hard shoulder for ten miles, Paulie had one option; grip the wheel and hold a steady course; hope he can descend and freewheel to safety beyond the junction’s merciless grip. 

There’s a long stretch ahead with a breakdown lane. The engine shuddered and complained. Paulie gripped the wheel and manoeuvred the car to a spluttering halt. His forehead crunched down onto the steering wheel and he paused there, exhaled, cursing under his breath…. Shit.

#

Hey, Jen, you’re never going to believe what just---

I hope you’ve dumped that harmonica somewhere.

You know Pa, Paulie said, biting his lip. He persuaded me it was lucky and---

Jenny laughed. So how’s that working for you?

Well… Paulie sighed. The car died on Spaghetti Junction.

So much for good luck then. 

Don’t wait up for me, love.

I blame that damn harp.

#

Damn harmonica! Paulie tossed the little case into the middle of the motorway. He slammed the car door and retreated from the heavy goods vehicles thundering past. Before ascending the sloped grass bank, he turned and spotted the metal case at rest on the edge of the fast lane. Pa’s wretched harp stood proud and defiant on the rough gravel. It glinted in the oncoming headlights and twinkled like a diamond; immaculate and invincible.

Pa would be wounded if he ever found out.

The harp case sparkled in the headlights of the roaring juggernauts. 

Paulie had no choice. 

A mighty air-horn bellowed at him as he dashed across all three lanes.

Paulie rolled onto the central reservation, clutching Pa’s Hohner. 

He would’ve found out, Paulie said, shaking his head. 

Part of him would’ve died inside.

#

There was a chill in the air as Paulie trudged up the embankment away from his stranded vehicle. Illuminated by a bright full moon, he squatted on the sloping grass and pondered the situation. There’s nothing he can do until the rescue vehicle arrives. In the distance a farmer’s dog howled at the clouds drifting like spectres across the star-flecked firmament. 

It was then that a thought occurred.

I might be stuck here, but I’m not alone.

He patted his chest pocket, extended his fingers down inside, and extracted the little metal case. The night could only get better. He had good company.

#

It was six o’clock when the recovery van arrived.

You wouldn’t believe the chaos, said the driver, winching the disabled car onto his low-loader. It’s been non-stop carnage all night.

I get it, said Paulie.

You’ll soon be home, sir.

It’s fine, really. I’m doing all right.

It hadn’t been such a disaster after all. Paulie had learned the blues scale over two octaves, mastering an impressive bend and over-blow, and worked out how to play “Smoke Stack Lightning.” 

Pa would be damn proud.

The End