The Unwreckable Car

The woman who sold Lena the station wagon had one condition.

“Kill it.”

June stood in the driveway holding a biscuit tin full of service receipts. The car was mustard yellow, twenty-nine years old, and cleaner underneath than Lena’s kitchen.

“It’s for a demolition derby,” Lena said. “That is generally the arrangement.”

“Then we understand each other.”

June refused to explain. She took eighty pounds and shut the door before Lena could return the tin.

On Saturday, Lena painted 39 on both doors and drove onto the county showground. She had stripped the glass and fitted the required safety equipment. Everything else resisted removal. The dashboard clock still worked.

June appeared at the fence wearing a raincoat over a purple dress.

“Front axle,” she called. “He replaced it in February.”

“Who?”

June pretended not to hear.

The horn sounded. A red hatchback struck Lena’s rear bumper and shed its radiator. Lena reversed into a white saloon. Its boot crumpled; hers acquired a scratch.

She began to understand the receipts.

By the third heat, only Lena and a green van remained. The van charged. Lena turned too late. Metal slammed, her teeth clicked, and the engine stopped.

Across the arena, June raised both arms.

Then the station wagon restarted.

The crowd cheered. June sat down.

Lena won sixty pounds and a trophy shaped like a steering wheel. The wagon needed towing, but it was the van that left in pieces.

In the car park, June circled the wreck without touching it.

“I did try,” Lena said.

“My husband taught me to drive in this car. Every turn, every gear change, something was wrong. After a while, he just drove.”

She nudged a loose strip of chrome with her shoe.

“When he died, everyone said how lucky I was. Such a reliable car.”

Lena looked at the biscuit tin on the trailer.

“I can crush it on Monday.”

June considered that. Behind them, a family argued over whether their flattened bonnet would fit inside their caravan.

“Did you enjoy it?” she asked.

“Immensely. Until the van.”

June put one hand on the yellow roof. There was a fist-sized dent beneath her palm.

“How much to make it ready for another derby?”

Lena studied her. “For you?”

“I can drive. I passed the test.”

“We’ll start with some practice. With an instructor.”

“Fine. An instructor who isn’t my husband.”

Lena fetched a brush and the remaining paint.

June crossed out the 39. Below it, in large, uneven letters, she painted her name.