On Rum, even car batteries – and mothers – need time to recharge |
As winter still reigns on Rum, a fading Fiesta and a newborn reveal how easily a mother’s own battery runs low — and how vital it is to pause and recharge, says Elle Duffy.
They say Rum is where cars go to die.
It’s not said unkindly. It’s simply a fact of island life, and my own island is no exception. The Isle of Rum is beautiful, but it is also exposed. Salt-laden winds barrel in from the sea. Rain arrives sideways. Cars sit outside year-round, absorbing it all. Metal rusts. Electrics corrode. Batteries give up in the cold.
Of course, I didn’t know I’d live here when I picked my shiny white Ford Fiesta in a car garage in the east end of Glasgow two years ago. Not two hours after passing my driving test, I was sitting in the dealer’s office, pen in hand and a fresh set of car keys in the other. My beautiful car, built for tarmac roads and loud music through open windows on sunny days, was mine.
I used it to commute from my city centre flat to my city centre job. It knew nothing but smooth roads and gentle braking for the first year of my ownership, its interior always gleaming and a cherry-scented air freshener dangling from the mirror at all times. I drove it multiple times daily, relishing in the freedom it gave me to nip to the Fort whenever I pleased, or pop up north to visit my in-laws without navigating buses and trains. It is safe to say I did not imagine it parked at the top of my dirt track road, gently dissolving into the elements.
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Today I’m hoping to bring my Ford Fiesta back to life, and take it on a drive to the pier with a special passenger. I’m yet to take my almost four-month-old son out in my car. To many reading this, that will feel bizarre - by now, most parents have mastered the art of the car seat, have learned to avoid coming to a complete stop at the traffic lights, and how to clean spit up from the upholstery. For me, though, this is a novelty. We don’t have much reason to use the car in the village, and my car doesn’t fare too well on these roads regardless. And yet, today feels like the right day to give it a go.
My car, though, has other ideas.
It’s my own fault, really. I knew the battery was dead two weeks ago, and not knowing much about cars, didn’t consider it to be a priority. After some coughing and spluttering, it becomes clear the battery is still dead, and leaving it to its own devices has not magically fixed the problem, to my surprise.
This is how I find myself learning how to jump-start a car for the first time, standing in the cold with the bonnet up, cables laid out and my phone propped on my wheelie bin as I rewind the tutorial again and again. One of my cats is on hand for moral support. It’s simple enough, but the sparks and the clicking sounds give me pause, something to be nervous about. There’s a brief sense of pride when it works. My car hums to life, the faint smell of petrol bringing a feeling of triumph. But it’s short lived. It turns out that in my neglect, the battery isn’t cooperating anymore, and it shortly dies once again.
The truth is, the dead battery had become symbolic of more than mechanical neglect. Over the past almost four months, my own internal battery has been running on fumes. There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes with a new baby on a small island in winter. The nights are long. The days feel impossibly short. The darkness settles early. The wind can howl for days. Sleep arrives in fractured, unpredictable fragments. My own warning lights are blinking, and I can’t ignore them.
I left my car to charge overnight - a good night’s sleep will help it, we joked. And it worked. I was able to take Cailean out on his first drive, and surprisingly, he loved it.
Slowly, almost imperceptibly, my own dashboard has dimmed. Not because the nights are suddenly long stretches of unbroken sleep, but because I have stopped trying to power through on my own, and accept help when it’s offered. The car battery is now fully charged. Spring is approaching. Lighter nights are ahead. And I’m learning to notice my own warning lights - and to take the time to recharge when I can.
Elle Duffy lives and works on Rum