One Winter's Day in the Pig on Wheels

It’s fair to say that when you’re stuck in a traffic jam, and realise that you’re likely to be stuck there for quite a while, realising that your former neighbour (whom you were glad to see leave!) is in the car in front of you doesn’t make your mood any better.

     I’d have known that car anywhere. An old VW Beetle and sprayed a shade of pink that no car was ever meant to be, even though I’m not a follower of the Ford “as long as it’s black” doctrine. We nicknamed it the Pig on Wheels – and quite apart from its decidedly porcine colour, its noise when Nigel was trying to persuade it to life really did resemble a snuffling and grunting pig roused unwilling from a dream of endless acorns.

     Still, in its way, it was quite an endearing little car. Not one I’d have chosen myself, but one whose owner and driver you might have expected to be at worst a tad eccentric and possibly colour blind. Or inordinately fond of pigs. 

     The kind of person who might be an amusing, amiable neighbour.

     For at least two weeks, after Don and I moved into Hollyhocks Close (where there were no Hollyhocks, not even planted in a front garden to turn art to life) we thought we were getting on well with Nigel. He even brought us a quiche when we moved in, and fair enough, kidney beans and kale might not be to everyone’s taste, but we agreed it was kindly meant. I told Don he was being mean when he said he reminded him of the infamous murderer John Christie (Don was a devotee of the TV show Murder Maps), pointing out that a prejudice against little round glasses and a comb-over was just as bad as any other kind of prejudice, and I must make it plain that I have absolutely no reason to believe that Nigel had a stack of bodies in shallow graves in his back garden. Said back garden was, in fact, very neat and well-tended, just as his front garden was.

     Gardens were the first thing to start to dissolve the quiche-fostered hopes of pleasant neighbourliness. He knocked on our door one Saturday morning, looking almost apologetic. Until I knew Nigel I didn’t realise quite what a chasm there can be between apologetic and almost apologetic. “Sorry to bother you, Ruth,” he said, and I swear if he’d been wearing a hat he’d have tipped it, “But – well – your front garden – I was wondering if you’d just – when you have time – I mean, it’s a bit – well, busy.” 

     I have as much sympathy as anyone else for people whose neighbours regularly treat their front garden as a scrap metal yard or graveyard for moribund motorbikes, and am even prepared to concede that a degree of weeding is an act of courtesy. But the worst you could say about our garden was that there was still one crate we hadn’t unpacked (and that was discreetly near our own door) and that we hadn’t got round to dead-heading the daffodils that our predecessor had planted. Okay, the hedge could probably have used a bit of a trim. 

     There are people who make a comment on the state of your garden whom you can disarm with a remark along the lines of “Fair enough, I’m no Alan TItchmarsh,” (or whoever your celebrity gardener of choice happens to be). Instinct told me that Nigel wasn’t one of them. Still, over that weekend we did at least relocate the crate to the shed, dead-head the daffodils, and give the hedge a somewhat perfunctory clipping. 

     Nigel, we discovered over the following weeks and months, was very fond of the word “just”. He seemed to be of the opinion that its insertion made any request (and I became increasingly aware that “request” might not always be the most appropriate word!) was rendered eminently reasonable, and anyone who failed to comply eminently unreasonable, by the insertion of the word “just”. Could we just keep the noise down a bit, especially at night (by the way, we both started work early and were usually in bed by eleven, and were not exactly fans of thrash metal or fortissimo action movies!) ? Could we just not leave the washing out longer than we needed to? I fancy he would have liked us not to do anything as common as have a washing line at all, but the Housing Association had no issues with them, so he probably reluctantly realised he couldn’t issue a veto. And if we’d just close the kitchen window if we were cooking, “that hot stuff you seem to be so fond of”. Though we liked an odd chilli or curry, I’d hardly say we took it to extremes, but as Don said, “If you live on boil in the bag fish in parsley sauce and overcooked cabbage, all things are relative.” A month or so ago, I’d have gone through the motions of telling him he had no way of knowing that, as it was, I merely said, tersely, “Don’t forget the kidney beans and kale.” 

     Anyway, there, in front of me, in its full glory, was the pig on wheels. I wondered if Nigel might have sold it. But I knew he hadn’t. I just KNEW. Even though I couldn’t see his head popping over the headrest, and couldn’t hear that voice that was not quite a whine, but always seemed on the brink – though it would have been a decidedly bossy whine.

     Well, at least he’s not likely to get out, I thought. Not in this weather. I had never known more than a brief flurry of half-hearted sleet whilst Nigel lived next door, but he seemed to treat even that as an affront to his safety and convenience. No way on earth, I told myself, would he venture out into the teeth of the gale and risk slipping on his shiny-soled shoes on the icy road. But I’ll admit I was glad he was in front and I was behind and not the other way round, though my grey car wasn’t nearly as distinctive. All the same, I phoned Don and said, “You wouldn’t believe it. The Pig on Wheels is in front of me.”

     “Oh, my God,” he said, “My Gran used to annoy me when she said misery always brings company, but perhaps she was right. Don’t get out of the car, Ruth!”

     “I hadn’t intended doing anyway,” I said, “My name isn’t Captain Oates – but this makes me even less inclined!”

     The door on the driver’s side of the Pig on Wheels seemed to open as if by increments, but I don’t think it was because the mechanism was frozen. I have never quite subscribed to the idea that pulling a plaster off in one brutal rip is necessarily preferable to a more gentle and gradual removal, but still found myself wishing he would get it over with. Any lingering hope that there might have been (but wasn’t) that it wasn’t Nigel evaporated as if someone had operated a flame-thrower on the snow. I couldn’t see the comb-over as he was wearing a woolly hat with ear flaps in a colour that couldn’t make up its mind if it were brown or grey. He gave that universally recognised and irritating “wind down your window” gesture. Making a pointless point, I opened the door instead, thinking in passing that despite the unabating snowfall it wasn’t quite as cold as I’d thought it was. “Ruth!” he exclaimed, “Small world and all that, eh?” Just small world would have more than sufficed. The all that and the eh were entirely superfluous, and he didn’t even really seem that surprised. Well, I supposed he had a rear view mirror. I was, at least, relieved that he didn’t say “Nice to see you again!” as that would have forced me to be either rude or a hypocrite. “I just had to point out,” he said, “Your engine. It’s idling. We might not be moving for a while, you know.” Well, I’d been keen enough before now to sound off about other people leaving their engine idling, though I’d never gone so far as to take anyone to task about it. “I thought it might be best,” I lied (it had been pure negligence!) “In the cold.”

     “Well, I suppose that’s up to you,”  Was he really giving up without a fight? It almost made me nervous! But what made me more nervous was the fact that I realised the door of the Pig on Wheels appeared to have frozen – maybe I’d misjudged the temperature after all! – and Nigel couldn’t get back in. I willed that door to open. It wasn’t listening. I waited for someone else to offer him a seat in their car. But they were evidently thinking that I appeared to know him. He was an elderly gentleman. He had once said he was a martyr to his chest (all the more reason for him to have not “just” got out of the car!). With my heart plummeting to the faux fur lining of my boots (which weren’t nearly as warm as they’d seemed in a centrally heated shoe shop) I opened the door again and said, “Come and sit in my car, Nigel. You’ll catch your death.” No, it wasn’t wishful thinking – anyway, it’s a fallacy that you get a cold from cold weather, isn’t it?

     He climbed in, thanking me profusely. I heard myself saying it was fine, he’d have done the same for me. I realised we were obliged to make small talk. I remembered that he had gone to live with his daughter (I also remembered that Don and I had agreed she must be either a saint or an imbecile, but of course I didn’t mention that bit). “How are you doing, Nigel? How’s your daughter?” For the life of me I couldn’t remember her name.

     “Mustn’t grumble, and Clarissa is doing fine. She gets more like her mother every day!”

     I know this sounds ridiculous, but somehow I hadn’t really thought about the fact that – especially for someone as keen on decorum as Nigel – having a daughter meant he must have had a wife. I was vaguely ashamed of myself. 

     “That’s nice,” I said, a tad inanely.

     “And she bosses me round just as much as her mother ever did!” But his voice was affectionate, and I found myself smiling as I said, “Don says the same about me!”

     “Did you just have the one child?” I asked. I realised that thought I might not have gone as far as to say I was interested, at least not yet, I wasn’t exactly NOT interested.

     He cleared his throat – and it was nothing to do with being a martyr to his chest. “Just the one who was spared to us,” It was a strange, rather quaint, typically Nigel way of putting it, but suddenly that didn’t matter. 

     “I’m sorry,” I said, awkwardly.

     “I – don’t talk about it much. If you’d listen to folk nowadays, they’d say I should. And perhaps they’re right. Clarissa had a little sister – Anthea, we called her. But – she only lived a couple of days.” My thoughts were all over the place. I wanted him to stop talking about it, and couldn’t convince myself it was wholly because it must be painful for him, but I wanted him to go on, too. “Lydia took it hard – well, of course she did. She’d always been quite house proud, but not – what’s the word – obsessive about it. But – afterwards – it was almost as if keeping everything just so was some kind of therapy for her. And – I suppose it rubbed off on me. Maybe it didn’t need much rubbing. I keep telling myself, stop nagging folk, stop making a fuss about things that don’t matter. I don’t suppose I was the easiest neighbour.” I struggled to find a response that was both tactful and truthful, which wasn’t a simple task. “There was – right and wrong on both sides,” I said, finally.

     “You know what Lydia would have said to an answer like that – you’re wasted here, you should be at the United Nations!”

     “That’s one of my Mum’s sayings, too,” I admitted.

     We didn’t have any particularly profound conversations after that. He showed me a picture of Clarissa he had in his wallet, “She’s teaching me how to store photos on my phone, but – well, deep down, it doesn’t quite seem the same,” he admitted. She was the kind of woman you could never call pretty, but something about her rather crinkly smile was very appealing, and the look in her dark brown eyes was warm and a touch ironic. She was holding a very cute West Highland terrier in a green tartan coat. “That’s Angus,” Nigel said, “I never thought I was much of a dog person, but he’s a fine little chap, though he’s spoilt rotten.” Somehow I knew without needing to be told that he was Clarissa’s child substitute and, perhaps, Nigel’s grandchild substitute. 

     We had begun to think we were in for what Nigel termed “The duration”, but it turned out we weren’t quite as deserted and forgotten as we thought. Snow ploughs had been mobilised like helpful armadillos clearing a path so, with an escort vehicle, we could begin to make our cautious way onward. One of our fellow traffic jam veterans managed to release Nigel’s lock with his cigarette lighter, and we all joked about bad habits having a useful side. And I WASN’T thinking, I could have done with you half an hour ago! 

     Maybe you’re wondering what happened afterwards. Well, I’d be lying if I said that Nigel and Clarissa are now bosom buddies with Don and me and that we visit each other at least three times a week and know all our innermost secrets. But I’d also be lying if I said that we saw it as just one of those random coincidences that now makes us wonder if it ever happened and feel a bit embarrassed and confused about. 

     Anyway, tonight we’re going round to visit, and Nigel has assured us that Clarissa makes a mean quiche that has never been near kale or kidney beans, and we’re taking round a decent bottle of wine.

     And a toy for Angus – shaped just like a pig, and it even squeaks! I think he’ll like that.