Countryside road trouble

[Johan Van Dijck]

Place: Countryside outside London
Time: 13.24
Weather: Dry and sunny

It was amazing! Green as far as the eye could see.
Trees where blooming, the corn stood high in the fields, birds were singing...Johan felt like he was back in Belgium, camping with his friends. How he missed those carefree times...It was like he had crossed an invisible line and was in a whole new world. A world where war was just a nasty rumor. It was the total opposite from what he had seen in London.

The city of London was a busy city crowded with friendly people. Their prime minister Chamberlain had met with Hitler in his Adlerhorst. He had told the English population they had nothing to fear and that Hitler had no intention of getting into a war with England.
Newspapers were full of the German assaults and there was a certain tension felt under the people. A fear that grew stronger with everyday of new articles. Some said Chamberlain wasn't able to hold off the Germans if it would come to war. Others said they needed someone new, like the old war hero and Finance minster Winston Churchill.
But Johan knew that Germany would first have to take Belgium and the Netherlands, like they had done 25 years ago. That's why he had joined the army earlier that year. He didn't care about politics, he only wanted to protect his country.

Now he drove on a motorcycle through the countryside. He was on leave for a few days and was on his way to Tenby to finally meet again with the family that had took him in when he had been on a camping trip in Wales.

He longed to be back with the family that took him in at Tenby. The first nights the Belgian Boy scouts had camped on the beaches, getting sand on places you really didn't want. And nobody seemed to know what to do with all those foreign boy scouts. But than the Laughlins took him under their wings. The Laughlins were a modest workers family. The father used to be a mine worker and was now serving in the Royal Welsh Regiment in North Africa.
The mother was so kind to him and they made him really feel like home: Their Belgian son and brother.
He often brought things from the local market to the family and sat with them next to the radio, listening to the BBC broadcastings. Sometimes he sat in his room while looking at pictures of his family back in Belgium with wet eyes making sure nobody could see him.

His goggles were blurry and his newly commissioned uniform already dusty. The wind on his face made him smile. He was a nature's man but he also loved machinery. It made him feel alive.
Suddenly he saw something in the distance. He slowed down to see a car on the side of the road. A girl stood beside the car looking bewildered at the smoking engine. He stopped and stepped off his M20 motorcycle. "Need a hand miss?" He said as he placed his goggles on his forehead and patted the dust from his coat.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

The young woman wiped the sweat of frustration from the back of her neck, and sighed wearily, her hands over the car’s hood as she was staring into the patient’s dysfunctional organs with an expression combining both resentment and tediousness concurrently, her eyebrows knitted and her steel-gray eyes slightly narrowed in vague antipathy. “Why are you betraying me in this way?” she asked the 1932 Cadillac in English, now used to speaking the language on a daily basis due to her new location; her father, Gaspard Beaudoin, had been dispatched to Downing Street, London, on the account of critical political affairs needing to be thoroughly discussed, particularly in regard with Germany’s all-embracing, all-threatening moves around Europe and her ominous flirting with the Soviet Union, which could bring all but good. Considering politics bored her to death, Victoire had decided to drive around the countryside on her own and explore the beautiful and picturesque valleys and dense chestnut and oak forests of the English terrain, much to Ferdinand’s displeasure and initial disagreement. Ferdinand Congié, the butler, had showed more interest to the girl than her parents had ever done, tending to her as much as he possibly could and providing for advice whenever she was in need of some, when such times came to pass, and indeed so it was. He had also taught her how to drive, a fact which had that very day deeply regretted upon her impulsive request. With the straps of her violent red dress almost dancing alongside her arms as she bowed her head in an attempt to see what the problem was and mediate on how it could be solved, with her raven-black hair loosely tied in a bun, and with soot in her strangely pale-white face, Victoire Beaudoin was vexed and tired.

She cursed under her breath, and then bended over for the fifth time during the last half hour. She had been driving through the desert country roads of Narberth on her way to Pembroke Dock, when sudden noise began to shake the car and, soon enough, clouds of smoke surrounded the hood as the head warped, the head gasket blowing out through the warping’s gaps before she could say ‘Bollocks’. She knew for certain she had not run out of gas, and was not as stupid, she believed, in leaving the choke on and thus killing the engine, nor that the clutch had broken, considering it was hardly a car to be classified as old, having just been manufactured eight years before. Cars did not usually break down in such a way back in those days, the craftsmanship during that period was far more efficient than the decades to follow, and thus overheating was a common problem easily solved, especially since the combustion engines were made of steel instead of aluminum, thus rendering the problem less detrimental than it would have otherwise been. That much she knew. She was not really worried about solving the problem, as much as she was lazy in having to deal with it. The mere idea of spending an entire afternoon by the side of a country road on top of the car’s trunk, drinking from the bottle of wine currently resting on the co-driver’s seat, alone in the desert was something that in fact enticed her – under other circumstances, however. Being a lover of steel and metal, she had spent hours lying lazily on her bed, smoking cigarettes and reading on such materials, leaving ash trays on the floor upon which stood an utter mess of discarded clothes and towels, isolated from the rest of the world and feeling as though she could continue her life as such, indolent and slothful, away from everyone who would berate her upon such stereotypically masculine leisure pursuits and interests. As far as she was concerned, they could all go and –

The boy’s youthful voice interrupted her thoughts, and she immediately turned her head over her shoulder in slight surprise. “Perhaps,” was her answer, smooth but proud, as she closely observed the young boy, wearing his soldier’s uniform and goggles over his head. The first thing she noticed about him was, naturally, the stunning motorcycle he was riding, and for several seconds moved not her eyes away from it, instead admiring the hard steel and masculine form it was made of. Turning her eyes back to the boy, without delay reminding herself of the problem at hand, she motioned to the car. “I have idled the engine, but it is still rather hot,” she informed him. “The clamp on the hose to the overflow bottle isn’t tight enough, I believe. It felt rather loose as I pressured it. Do you think the cooling system is low on water?” She had expected someone to show up in the deserted country road, and rather hoped she would not have waited for hours and hours for this to happen; thankfully, this young boy had appeared out of the blue, the screeching sounds of his motorcycle resounding in her ears as cherubic hymns sang by unbelieving little nuns on Benzedrine. Of course, she knew not whether he had sufficient expertise or the remotest knowledge in vehicles, or whether he had simply (like boys were often prone to do) wished to boast about assisting a young woman on the road’s side, in reality being a pain in one’s backside. Be that as it may, she had not dared attempt anything to fix the problem, lest she would have ruined the car. And then she would have strangled herself.

With handcuffs.

[Johan Van Dijck]

He looked at the young woman as she turned her face to him.
"Perhaps."
Her black hair tied in a bun, the red dress and the tone in her voice and the look in her eyes made Johan lift one of his eyebrows and he gave a slightly cocky smile.
“The clamp on the hose to the overflow bottle isn’t tight enough, I believe. It felt rather loose as I pressured it. Do you think the cooling system is low on water?”
He quietly nodded and was impressed that the girl knew those things about cars.
"Alright. let's see shall we?" He did his best not to let his accent being heared. Not that he was ashamed but he didn't want anyone to think he was German.

He looked under the hood of the car like he had seen his uncle do all the time in the garage."Beautiful...V8 L-head engine...producing 115 horsepower..." He said softly while he looked up and caressed the hood with his hand. "LaSalle model...powerful car you have miss..?" He gave her a smile and returned to the motorcycle. He unbuttoned his tunic and hung it over the sadle. Dust was one thing but motor oil...? If he dared to show up in the barracks with his clothes all messed up the drill sergeant would made him run several laps while he was shouting orders from a jeep that rode next to him.

He brushed away the smoke and coughed. He touched the radiator hoses using his handkerchief. They both felt warm and he nodded. "It's at least not the thermostat. The hoses are clamped to the radiator and no sign of leaks..." He looked under the car laying on his back. "...No coolant leaks under the car...Guess it must be the radiator...or else there's a leak that I can't find." The engine had cooled down enough to let him check the radiator. He put the cap off and sighed as he looked inside it. "Almost empty...Easily fixed. Only need to fill it with water and anti-freeze and I sincerly hope you have those things with you. Because it would be a shame if you didn't." He cleaned his hands on with his handker. "A shame indeed." the eyebrow lifted again and the slight smile on his face returned.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire, naturally, was able to immediately register the cockiness of tone once he addressed her problem, by the way he looked at her and the way with which he removed his tunic; she, however, was hardly concerned with such trivialities when her car needed immediate attention. And, sadly, when it came to choosing between whom she should offer her attention to, a man or a car, it would unquestionably and without a second thought have been a car, for the simple and gratifying reason that men deserved not her affection and caress as much as that goddess of steel and muscle did, a receptacle of her distress and passion, her love and anguish, a silent lover who preferred listening to her when she felt like speaking of her vexations, an androgynous companion and understanding friend, a loyal comrade and undeniable devotee – but above all, a means of escape from everything she desired to run away from. No, men could not perform either of these, they were useless in their arrogance, over-confidence and superiority, drowned in foolishness and swam in waves of foamy and blinded illusions that she was going to tolerate such traits.

But her car was not as such. Bearing a most healthy and mutual love for her car, Victoire never felt betrayed by it. Men could use her as a passing fancy and then divert their eyes to other females, but she knew her car would always remain loyal to her, forever. Men could laugh at her cruelly, and move away from her slowly, no longer interested, but her car would make those grumbling engine sounds that assured her of a most warm and authentic affection. When she had the blues, she would lock herself within this strange lover’s arms and express her anger in fits; when she was thrilled or impatient, she would complacently seat herself and smoke a cigarette, her pale-white fingers stroking the steering wheel with fondness and a meaningful smile. She need not worry it would sometime end, she need not vex herself with thoughts of disloyalty or disinterest. It would be forever, and with that self-assurance she had persuaded herself that this was at least a form of relationship which, contrary to those she established with people, was stable and healthy.

She appreciated the man’s palpable adoration of her car with a warm smile, but then as she stood next to him, she bowed her head along with him and followed his eyes. “Victoire,” she spoke as his voice trailed off to a question; “Victoire Beaudoin.” She placed the radiator cap back on, and then sighed. “The upper and lower radiator hose hasn’t burst, you see? And neither have the heater hoses. I usually use a 50-50 combination of water and anti-freeze, but are you certain there are no leaks?” she asked him indecisively. “There must be some accumulated deposits in the water jackets, or the water pump impeller is eroded? I have never had problems before with the anti-freeze.” She walked around the Cadillac, and one minute later she returned to him with the things he had hoped for her to have. “A good relative believed a Cadillac would make an excellent birthday present,” she informed him, stepping right next to him once more and handing over a plastic bottle of water and the anti-freeze. “Indeed it was,” she finished the sentence, and smiled. “Good muscle you have there, Monsieur,” she told him, turning to look at him, but then diverting her eyes towards his motorcycle; if he was going to be cocky, she was simply grasp that chance and play around with him. “An AJS M20, if I am correct? I like your style,” she said, her fingers stroking the edge of her car’s hood fondly.

[Johan Van Dijck]

He could faintly smell the sweet scent of her perfume as she stood next to him. He saw from the corner of his eyes that she looked together with him under the hood. She doesn't trust me! It was already obvious that she knew what she was talking about and he had the feeling she was testing him in some way.
And her name...Victoire..It suits her. She was the kind of girl that could get away with things. But he had to admit that he liked that.
"By the sound of your name you're not English? You could've fooled me." He gave her a warm smile. "Française perhaps? Paris est très magnifique ce temps de l'annee."

It had been some time since he had spoken French. It reminded him of his school days not so long ago. The laughs they had in mister Dalemans classes. The times he spent in Mother Superiors office. The nightly escapes to the girls school across the street...

"I didn't see any leaks." He said as he bended over the engine again. I'm not a professional mechanic but if you rather like someone else to look at it..." He tried to sound serious. She still doesn't trust me... He took the anti-freeze and the bottle of water from her. Bottled water was better than ordinary kitchen water because it contained less salt and calcium that would ruin the engine.

Suddenly he looked at her in surprise. Off course! Why haven't I thought about that! If it were the water jackets the problem wouldn't be that hard to solve but if it was erosion of the water pump....That would be much harder, not to say impossible to fix without proper knowledge of the engine and the right tools. "Let's hope not." He sighed.
“A good relative believed a Cadillac would make an excellent birthday present. Indeed it was,”
"I would choose a car like that over my motor any day mademoiselle." A birthday present...typical... He grinned as he turned away.
“Good muscle you have there, Monsieur. An AJS M20, if I am correct? I like your style,” She stroked the edge of her car's hood. He swallowed as he followed her eyes to his motor.
"Indeed she is. I'm impressed. A pleasure to ride her, if you like the wind caressing your face. Powerful sound and decent speed. Now let's hope I can fix your problem otherwise I am willing to give you a ride to the next town. I'm sure there will be a mechanic..." He looked as innocent as possible but he hoped she would decline his offer and make him stay. He sat himself down on the saddle, his eyes glanced at her and a soft playful grin on his face.

[Victoire Beaudoin]

Victoire smiled at him, pleased but not surprised he should find her true identity. “Mais oui, je suis le français,” she assured him, looking over at him. “But I won’t accept your compliment because I know it’s a lie!” she told him as she leaned over to his side and looking – perhaps in a purposely inconvenient manner – directly into his green eyes, and laughed under her breath, her eyes glinting playfully. After all, the French touch of her British accent was easily perceivable, but she appreciated the compliment, naturally. She thought he was a sweet young man, absolutely handsome, with a youthful fire burning inside his soul most certainly. Just because he had spoken French, she already esteemed him, strangely enough, but Victoire had a peculiar personality that often abandoned reason for madness. “What about you, Monsieur? You don’t look English, and you certainly don’t sound like an Englishman – are you Dutch?” she questioned him in a sudden feat of inspiration, and leaned against the car.

She, however, laughed at his adorable display of masculine insecurity, and looked at him pleasantly. “But, Monsieur, I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about! I fancy being one of those people who enjoy looking at cars without having the slightest idea on how to fix anything whatsoever should they break down!” she laughed. “Elementary information is all that I, sadly, have – don’t let my attempt to sound more knowledgeable than I really am befuddle you. It was not my intention … or perhaps it was,” she added thoughtfully, toying with the young man, and smiled. “I don’t know more than you do,” she then assured him seriously; “please, do as you must, and I shall trust your judgement when you finalize it,” she said, giving him every confidence in that respect, as the sun overhead was shining down upon her face, her raven-black hair glimmering and her steel-gray eyes glinting with a good-humoured intention for the sheer purpose of tease. He swallowed at her pun, she observed that naturally, and responded with a loving fashion for his motorcycle; she watched him closely, every display of emotion shown through his facial features, and how he seemed to enjoy the interest she held for his AJS M20.

He went, of course, to sit on his motorcycle, but Victoire had no intention of showing such rudeness as disrespect towards his ‘jurisdiction’. She did not know him, of course, but he was an amiable, handsome young man, and that sufficed for her. “Non,” she briskly told him. “By all means, look at the problem at your own ease, only be careful in case you make your uniform dirty – and then what would they say back on the base, eh?” she questioned him with another smile, and as she approached the car once more, she allowed him every leisure of space while she busied herself over his motorcycle, walking towards its direction, and then touching the steely surface; leaning over, her fingers traced across the glass as she looked over at her reflection in the mirror, unsmiling, unblinking, quietly moving around to wholly inspect it while the young man was examining her Cadillac. She had no idea what time it was, but it could not have been later than half past two in the afternoon; she knew her father would finish that day’s agenda by three o’clock in the afternoon, have lunch, enjoy a few hours of rest within his private chamber and then take her in the evening to the Royal Opera House in Convent Garden, London, accompanied by other significant political figures and their dull wives, who would gossip mercilessly at the expense of every different woman who walked amongst their crowds. Those English hens; how they envied them French women.

[Johan Van Dijck]

He enjoyed talking to her. Especially now he knew she was French and he chuckled at her remark. He had to admit his compliment was a tad transparent.
He raised an eyebrow as she said he didn't look English and asked him if he was Dutch.
"Dutch? No. But close. Belgian or rather Flemish. I'm Johan. Johan Van Dijck. It's common mistake. The accents are almost the same while talking English."
He said with a tone of amusement in his voice. "But I do try my best, mademoiselle."

She laughed. Not to mock him but a very sincere laugh. A beautiful and clear laugh.
“But, Monsieur, I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about! I fancy being one of those people who enjoy looking at cars without having the slightest idea on how to fix anything whatsoever should they break down! Elementary information is all that I, sadly, have – don’t let my attempt to sound more knowledgeable than I really am befuddle you. It was not my intention …"
He looked at her with interest and he grinned. She was playing him. He just knew it and enjoyed it.
I don’t know more than you do, please, do as you must, and I shall trust your judgment when you finalize it,”

He was glad she had decided to let him stay and look at her car. That meant he had more time to get to know her better. Even under these circumstances. He looked at his uniform. "Don't worry. It was already dirty from the ride on my bike. What can they do? Maybe let me run the obstacle course 5 times or drill exercises on the square. Nothing I can't handle though. Besides I'm off duty. Time enough to clean my clothes..."
He grabbed a toolkit from the bag on the back of his motor. "I was on my way to Tenby...Visiting my...sort of family."
She walked over to his motorcycle and he followed her movement while he walked past her. She looked absent for a moment. He wondered what she was thinking about.

He unscrewed the cylinders to take a closer look at the water jackets. "Hmmm...I see...maybe..." He took a small hard metal cord from the kit and scraped the inside of the water jackets. He pulled it back out and saw that some black dirt had colored the cord. "It seems I've found something. Can you hand me that white pack from my bag." It was washing soda he had bought from the market in London, together with some other groceries for the Laughlins.
He drained the radiator and made sure it was completely empty. He poured the bottle of water and some washing soda into the radiator. "Good that I had bought it this morning. It's a trick I've learned from my uncle...It cleans the tubes and water jackets...But only if the dirt hasn't clogged the tubes tight, which I don't think that's the case here...And with this water-soda solution you will be able to travel to your destination."

He walked to the car door. "May I?" He sat himself behind the steering wheel and softly caressed the leather seats.
He tried to start the car but nothing happened except for a grumbling protest from the engine. He tried again and this time succeeded. The engine roared loudly. "Beautiful...Now If you arrive at your destination make sure to drain the radiator again and clean it with fresh water...The dirt in your water jackets will be gone and you can put the anti-freeze and water solution in."

He looked at her from out the open door from the car.
He felt happy but a little disappointed too. Now he had fixed the problem he had no excuse to stay with her.