I stare at the protruding wires of my brand new Honda Accord mirror lying smashed on the ground like the head of a Cobra. Nauseous, I phone the seller of the car, to be informed the mirror is unrepairable. A new one is £350 plus vat. Only authorised Honda dealerships could provide them. Nosy Stella, the receptionist who was eavesdropping the phone conversation informs me,
You should go to a breakers yard and try there.
There’s one in Upperlands, Quinns.
You’d have passed them going to work this morning.
It’s near the fancy guesthouse.
In those pre sat nav and Google Maps days I head off on my quest. Reaching the environs of Upperlands I am totally lost. I’m told by three people that there are no garages or breakers yards or Quinn’s in Upperlands. I’d have to go to Cookstown on the Moneymore road. There’s Quinn’s there. It meant going back on my initial journey. So I drive back past my workplace to Cookstown. I ask several people for directions. I am informed by flat cap man walking a dog that
Deres no car brackars in Cookstown or Moneymore.
But Deres definitely a Quinn’iss car brackars in Swatragh.
This meant I had to go back the way I came, pass Upperlands on to Swatragh.
In Swatragh I see a rotund man puffing on a Falcon pipe. I pull over and explain my predicament:
Wing mira, wing mira, Quinn’is Quinn’is.
Dere no Quinn’is ‘bout ‘ere, nor is dere car dalers.
Apart from the mcGuigans and they don’t brak cars.
You need to go to Makrafaalt.
I inform him that I have already been to Magherafelt, Cookstown, Moneymore and Upperlands.
Ah brackars yard!
He closes one eye. His face scrunched up like he was chewing a lemon or someone had kicked him in the groin. He bends down, pointing an outstretched arm and finger like a referee awarding a last minute penalty. Bouncing about the pavement like he was on an imaginary space hopper he warns me.
Turn back, turn back, head to Upperlands again.
Take the left fork at the derelict thatched cottage.
Deres definitely Quinn’is about there that braks cars.
I drive off happy as Cher leaving a plastic surgeon. I spot a farmer chasing a Friesian heifer into a field. He has eyes like Jack Nicholson in the movie The Shining.
The farmer.
Not the Friesian.
He says his name is Bertie.
Quinn’is Quinn’is car brackars.
Aye up there to the left at the red gate, deres Quinn’is dere.
I thank him as I wind up the window. He scurries after me waving his hands like James Last.
I stop the car.
He’ll be no good till ye.
Why’s that Bertie?
He’s did.
Tuk a art attack a year ago.
Dropped stone did in front ada wife.
The family moved till Fermanagh.
You’ll not get anything up dere as the yard is tossed.
Ya need to till Makrafalt.
Now he transforms into John Hurt from the movie The Field, beaming with pride at The Bull Mc Cabe, the diastema in his teeth the keys on an aged piano, taking great delight at my misfortune. My head drops like he told me I had a terminal illness. I turn the car back to head to Magherafelt. Now the heifer is laughing at me.
On my return journey to work there is a PSNI checkpoint as there had been a small car accident. I’m pulled over. The young officer states the obvious that I am missing a wing mirror. He further informs me that I shouldn’t be driving the car. I point to the damaged mirror on my passenger seat to explain I’m trying to get to Belfast to Chapman’s dealership to replace it. He goes over to an older man, a sergeant who races over to the car, hands in the air waving like he is warning me of impending doom.
Ah Jaysus don’t be going to Chapman’s.
They’ll rob you.
You need to go to Upperlands.
To Quinn’is the car brakers.
They’ll sort you out.
He lets me go on without charge.
I turn on the radio.
What comes on only How to be Dead by Snow Patrol.
You know, at that very moment.
I wished that I was.
Originally from Clones Co. Monaghan, Houdi McCabe is a legend in his own mind. He worked as a Branch Manager with Dunnes Stores all over Northern Ireland for 42 years. Retired, he now writes and acts on a full time basis, with over thirty films/plays within his oeuvre. Some of his stories have been adapted for short films, by himself and with other collaborators. He is a regular performer at literary events TENX9, Soundwaves Portrush, Pub Poetry Causeway Coast, First Drams NI and Flash Fiction Armagh. Resident in Portrush Co. Antrim he is married to local girl Carole Robinson.
They have three adult children and one grandchild, Genevieve. Houdi doesn’t have any pets as he loves himself too much.
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