Almost immediately, the motorists behind us gave their assistance by hooting their horns. Some manoeuvred out and passed around us, making sure we were aware of their feelings on the subject, and of the terrible crime of breaking down in the worst possible place. They made a variety of angry gestures that we might feel the full weight of our guilt.  Malc and I took turns in clutch and throttle technique, but to no avail. At each attempt we could only gain a few feet before the engine stalled again. Then we heard:

"What's the matter with it?  What IS the matter with it, Ronnie?"  Mam repeated peevishly.

"I suggest you all get off to lessen the weight, and help us push," said I sarcastically, sweat streaming down my face.

"Get off!?  I'm not getting off, Ronnie.  You keep trying.  It'll go,"  Mam insisted.

The girls just stared at me in defiance. In response, Malcolm and I decided to lay down on the grass verge to ease the pain in our legs, to listen to Mam's further admonitions on the subject, and to wait for the battery to recover a little more of its charge. Finally, we conquered that hill, and regained some of our composure     for a little while anyway. Such experiences equipped us for much more vehicle nursing in awkward locations in the years that followed, and always with the same sense of exasperation. At last we pulled in to Heol-yr-Onen, and were greeted with, "Where have you bloody lot been?" said Dad, sounding put out.  (He rarely came home to an empty house, without a meal ready and waiting on the table).

"We've all been to Porthcawl. We had a lovely time, Alf. You would have enjoyed yourself. Your dinner's in the oven. Put the gas on," Mam replied, knowing of his resentment of seaside trips, adding, "You know Alf, I think you've outgrown it."

In all honesty, we were exhausted, but wouldn't let on. We had already let on among ourselves during the return journey     like mirrors reflecting each other's true character when subjected to the adversity of a day at the seaside.

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