Authors: Mark Dawson
“Lucky I pay you to mend ‘em, then. What are you going to do with it?”
Buck hauled himself out of the pit, scrubbing sweat off his forehead with the edge of his dirty sleeve. He looked at the Austin critically and sucked his teeth. “I’ll wind the clock a bit, take a few hundred miles off it. The engine ought to run well enough for another six months, maybe a year. The rest of it will be easy enough: the wing stay’s loose but I can anchor it with wire and insulating tape; there are rattles in the chassis, but some wet cardboard rolls will dampen them down; I’ll tie the battery box to the frame with string and change the oil. We had a delivery yesterday––very cheap. What it lacks in cleanliness it makes up for in heaviness. Perfect for what we need.”
“Good man.”
Ruby explained that he paid Buck forty-five shillings a week and a bonus of sixpence for every car he saved from the breaker’s yard. He took the cars as part-exchange, more of them than he knew what to do with. Some didn’t need that much work: a splash of paint, a squirt of oil, a new pair of tyres. The others he reserved for Buck.
They entered the main showroom. Five cars were carefully parked so that the spotlights overhead could sparkle down across their polished bodywork. Another row of similar cars was arranged on the forecourt, visible through the big plate glass windows. Prices had been written on the windshields and a sign overhead proclaimed GOOD CARS WANTED.
Ward poured two cups of tea from a pot on a small table and gave one to Edward. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I’ll give you a quid a week. Every car you sell is worth another quid to you on top of that. Simple, right?”
“Simple.”
“You’ll pick it up in an hour or two. If I were you I’d have a look around this morning, see how things get done. Watch the other lads, that’ll get you an idea of how they work. Once you’re happy with that, you might as well get stuck in. You’ll need to pull your weight, mind––Violet’s recommendation got you the job, but it won’t keep you in it if you can’t sell. Understand?”
“Yes, Mr. Ward,” he said. “I do.”
“Now then, we can’t have you dressed like that.” Ward looked at Edward’s suit with a distasteful expression. He peeled two pound notes from a roll he kept in the pocket of his jacket. “Get down to Marks and Spencer and buy yourself a new suit, a couple of shirts and a pair of shoes. We’ll treat that as an advance on your first two weeks, alright?”
Edward took the notes. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate the opportunity.”
“Not a problem,” Ward said, turning away. “Just don’t make me look like a mug, alright?”
13
EDWARD TURNED UP EVERY MORNING at six for the next week and worked hard. It was a simple enough trade to grasp. Most of the stock was old and near to the end of its useful life. Cars that had been shining and new just a few years earlier would now be bought for a pound or two, touched up by Buck and pushed on to unsuspecting punters for as much as they could get. Where once the motors had been immaculate, now they were battered and bruised: the axles creaked; the gearboxes groaned; the bodywork rattled; the upholstery was stained and torn; the registration books filled, in most cases, with a litany of names.
The other salesmen had little time for Edward or, it seemed, each other. It was a cut-throat way of doing business, the half dozen men circling the forecourt like hyenas, pouncing upon potential customers or, during the quieter periods, trying to round up likely looking prospects from the street. They were loud-mouthed Charlies with oil-slicked hair and faces full of spots, offering oleaginous handshakes and honey-dripped platitudes. They wore check sports-coats and grey trousers, or lounge suits, always completed with an old school tie and shoes polished to a high gloss. Their language was filled with incomprehensible jargon that baffled the punters and yet sounded impressively reassuring and authentic. Edward did not rate any of them in any sense other than the most important: they all had a sixth sense for selling. It was a seeming ease that allowed them to identify and then exploit every customer’s foible: vanity, security, reliability. They had a talent for detecting whatever it was to which they needed to pander.
Edward watched them in action. They gathered in groups when times were quiet, scattering at the first sight of a customer. He made to fuss with a nearby car as the man Ruby Ward had chastised on his first day latched onto a young buck who had come in looking for a sports car. He watched as the man smoothly guided him from the one that he had his eye on to another, an unreliable jalopy that Ward had bought for ten pounds and which they were offering for ninety. The salesman was a skilled liar, effortlessly extolling the virtues of a car he knew to be on its last legs, so persuasive that Edward suspected that he almost believed his own pitch. That was a useful attribute, he thought, and one he knew that he also possessed. The salesman summed up the customer in a flash, adapting himself to the man’s personality, instinctively knowing which would be the path of least resistance to a sale. After half an hour the sale was concluded. It was an impressive display.
On the second day, he decided to try for himself.
Ruby Ward had something of a name for sports cars and it was another young man who came through the door. Edward had noticed him idling on the forecourt and had positioned himself ahead of the other salesmen so that when the man had plucked up the courage to come inside he was able to smoothly attach himself to his side. The man had paused by a Jaguar XK that Edward knew suffered with a poor carburettor. “This one?” he said to the man with idle charm. “Funny you should notice that. Between you and me, we were going to take it off sale. Mr. Ward himself is rather fond of it, some suggestion he might buy it for his lady friend, but if you want it––provided we move fast––I reckon we could probably have it for you.”
“It’s nice,” the man offered uncertainly. “What’s it like?”
Edward assessed the man again: he was young, and, he guessed, this was his first or second car. What would he want? He would want the reassurance that the car was fast. He would want his sense that the car would make him popular with girls confirmed. He was too young to buy the car himself and so he would also need to demonstrate it was a sensible purchase to his parents. “She’s a beauty, alright,” Edward said, running his fingertips across the chrome bodywork. “Reinforced spring-gaiters. That dummy brake drums help cooling as well as looking good. The engine has unusually high compression, so that makes it extra reliable as well as giving it that little bit of extra poke.” He grinned at him. “It’s been carefully kept, one owner previous, he always garaged it when it wasn’t being used, and just ten thousand miles on the clock. You have good taste––she’s a lovely little number.”
He noticed Ruby Ward watching him from the side of the showroom as he led the helpless customer around the car, pointing out the particular features that made this model a more attractive proposition than any of the others. He discussed the success of the make on the track, reciting a long list of famous names who had had success behind the wheel: Ted Horn, Rex Mays, Bill Holland. The man requested a test drive and Edward told him that that was fine, he could have one if he liked, but that delay would increase the chances that the car would be withdrawn from sale. The man demurred, negotiated a small discount for cash, and drove away with the car.
“You’re a natural,” Ruby Ward told him afterwards, shaking him firmly by the hand. “You see what you just did?”
“I’m not sure,” Edward said, pretending that he didn’t when, of course, he knew exactly.
Ward beamed at him. “You made him think that you were his friend. It’s a real art––not everyone can manage it. You have to be an actor, or a born liar, and you’ve got the gift, alright, Fabian––you, my man, have got a silver tongue.”
14
IT WAS HIS FOURTH DAY at the garage, towards the middle of June, when he saw the girl on the forecourt. Edward had been talking to Hynde, the least objectionable of the salesmen. He had thick black hair and a slight paunch, his eyes were bright and greedy and his pleasant smile seemed to be fixed. “Blimey,” Hynde said. “Would you look at her?”
He got up quickly but Edward laid a hand on his shoulder. “She’s a friend,” he said.
“Course she is.”
“I’m serious.”
“All’s fair in love and war,” Hynde said with a vulpine grin as he set off. “And motor cars,” he added over his shoulder.
“You know Violet Costello?”
He stopped. “Course,” he said, frowning.
“That’s her niece. Still want to have a go?”
His face fell. “Really? Oh, bollocks to it then. She’s all yours.”
Edward strolled across the showroom. Chiara was stroking the chrome mirror of a sleek MG and was as beautifully attired as before: a cardigan with padded shoulders, a single pleat plaid skirt with nylons underneath and patent leather Oxfords with a continental heel. She saw Edward’s reflection in the MG’s windscreen and turned, smiling. “Hello,” she said. “I was passing. My Aunt said you had started working here. I thought I’d come and say hello.”
“A very pleasant distraction.”
“I’m glad you think so. Have you sold any cars today?”
“As a matter of fact, I have––a little Packard Coupe. I sold it to a charming chap just twenty minutes ago for twice what it’s worth. If he’s not back here complaining that it isn’t starting by the end of the week then I shall be most surprised.”
She laughed. “Does Ruby still employ the same disreputable types as before?”
“I work here,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”
“Promise I won’t tell anyone.”
“Well, then, seeing as you insist. There does seem to be a type.” He struck a pose, pretending to spit on his hand and slicking back his hair. “The chaps here all have a certain something about them.” Edward did it in pantomime, scooting around the periphery of the MG, pointing out the splendid features, complimenting madam on her excellent taste and, when he learned that she intended to pay in cash, exploding in a little paroxysm of joy and excitement.
“Wonderful!” she clapped.
His tongue rattled on almost independently of his brain. His brain was estimating how high his stock was shooting up with Chiara. He could see it in her face. He smiled, terribly pleased with himself. “Can I tempt you with a cup of tea?” he asked.
“Oh, that would be lovely but I don’t want to get you in trouble and I should probably be going, anyway––I’m supposed to be meeting my sisters at Dickens and Jones for lunch.”
“Another time, then,” Edward said graciously.
“I should probably come clean,” she said. “There is ulterior motive for the visit. I don’t know if Joseph has mentioned anything to you, but I’m afraid it will be my twenty-first birthday on Friday. My aunt has taken it upon herself to organise a party for me.”
Edward sensed an opportunity. “That sounds lovely.”
“Oh, it’ll probably be dreadful. I’d much rather do something peaceful but everyone is coming and so the best I can do is make sure there are some interesting people there who I can talk to when it all gets a little too much. I was wondering whether I could twist your arm?”
“Friday,” he said. He pretended to muse upon it. “I’d like to say I’m busy enough so that I would have to change my plans but that would be a shocking lie.”
“So you’ll come?”
“I’d be delighted.”
Chiara was rollicking on about the party and who was coming and it was not the least bit interesting. Edward said it sounded wonderful, and how he was thrilled to be asked, and as he caught a glimpse of his face in the shining bodywork of the car he saw his mouth turned up at the corners and his eyes shining brightly. He was doing the right thing, behaving in the right way. He suddenly had an unpleasant feeling of dislocation. He had the feeling that he was in a film and that in a moment Chiara or someone else would shout ‘cut’ and he would be back at the Shangri-La, his hands and apron covered in gore, his eyes stinging with sweat, his prospects narrowed down again from a widening vista into a microscopic, insignificant jot. He mastered the feeling, dismissed it, and the moment passed. Chiara was saying that it was time to leave. They shook hands, hers smooth and cold in his, and he said, again, that he was grateful to be asked and that he was looking forward to it already. She held his hand a moment longer than usual and smiled brightly, right into his face.
“I’m looking forward to it a little more,” she said as she collected her bag and made her way back outside.
Edward poured himself a cup of tea and drank it with a smile on his lips. Hynde had watched the episode from the edge of the showroom. Edward held the teacup aloft and nodded in his direction. Hynde wrinkled his nose and shook his head. Edward smiled at him, his mood lifted. This was progress, he thought. He was making excellent, promising progress.
15
THE REST OF THE WEEK followed the same pattern as the days before it: he got to the garage early and left late, selling a car or two every day. It was long and monotonous and Edward distracted himself from the boredom with the promise of the weekend in the country. He had enjoyed his trip to the Hill. It had been, by some considerable margin, his most enjoyable day since he had been demobilised.
Friday was particularly busy and, when, he finished the shift, Edward was exhausted. He brushed down his suit in the bathroom and slicked his hair with pomade that he had purchased in his short lunch break. He bid Ruby Ward goodbye for the week and set off for the underground.
Halewell Close was near Withington. He had arranged with Joseph that he would take the train to Gloucester and be collected from the station. He embarked at Paddington and found an empty carriage. That was fortunate: his mood was tranquil and kindly, but not at all sociable. He wanted his time for thinking and he did not care to meet anyone else, though when a couple entered his carriage he greeted them pleasantly and smiled. As the train cut through the countryside, the sky gradually darkened. They eventually caught up with the storm up and peals of thunder rolled around the low hills.