by Beth Corby
Alec pushes his bowl aside, and gives this some thought. ‘Maybe, but prams aren’t as common as they used to be. People value them.’ Far from being discouraged, Alec seems pleased by the challenge.
I stack my bowl on top of his. ‘We could try the Internet – maybe one of those free-cycling sites will have something?’
‘Good idea,’ he agrees. ‘And we should try the council recycling centres as well. Let’s make a list of the things we’ll need and then we can look for a few other parts as we go.’
Mrs Crumpton takes our bowls and places a pen and paper in front of Alec.
‘Thanks Mrs C.’ Alec writes ‘Go-kart’, then underneath writes ‘pram (if available)’.
I have another think. ‘Wood?’
Alec nods. He adds ‘planks, wooden box? Lots of screws, and maybe some U-bolts’ to the list.
Jim’s comments about making sure it holds together over rough ground spring to mind. ‘What about the bits that connect the wheels?’
‘Axles? I’m hoping they’ll come with the pram, but I suppose that depends on the state of it, and whether we even find one. Rope!’ he says, scribbling it down. He writes ‘axles’ underneath. He reminds me of a kid writing a list for Santa, and I can’t help wondering where all this enthusiasm comes from.
‘Have you built a go-kart before?’ I ask.
‘Yes, a long time ago. Do you understand the basic principles?’ he asks. I shake my head, so he turns over the page, sketching a go-kart as he explains the mechanics. ‘Three planks in a capital H shape, wheels at each of the outer corners – that would travel in a straight line, like a toy car. But if you put a pivoting bolt in just here, through the right end of the H’s cross bar, and attach a rope to the ends of this right-hand plank, here and here, you have steering, similar to the reins on a horse.’
I can see what he means, but there’s one vital element missing. ‘How do you brake?’
‘No brakes,’ states Alec. I stare at him. ‘You don’t need them. You choose a hill with a flat end-zone and come to a natural stop, or you stick your feet down and hope you don’t ruin your shoes.’
‘So . . . brake shoes?’ I ask dubiously.
‘Exactly.’
‘Why don’t you just choose a shallow hill?’
Alec looks baffled. ‘Where would the fun be in that? Half the point is being out of control.’
Oh great. While Alec collects his laptop, I pick up the pen and fiddle with it, because if I’m honest, I’m not great with anything on wheels. Cars are fine, bikes are OK, though I never did more than master the basics, but anything else ends in disaster. I tried a skateboard once and broke my coccyx, tried a wheelie shoe (just the one) in a shoe shop and knocked over an entire boot display, and when I was at university my friends thought we should all try roller-blading – big mistake! It turned out they had all had roller-skates as children and when I stupidly tried to keep up with them down an underpass I managed to remove several layers of skin from my hip bone, shoulder and chin despite wearing all the protective elbow and knee pads. I’ve been a bit nervous of speed ever since. Still, perhaps it’s time to get over that, and at least a go-kart is low down.
Alec comes back and sits down next to me, using his laptop to check the local swapping and recycling sites. ‘No prams,’ he says after a few minutes.
‘What happens if we can’t find one? Do we have to buy a go-kart instead?’
Alec’s mouth drops open and he stares at me in consternation. ‘You have to build the go-kart,’ he says emphatically, as if he’s talking to a particularly clueless village idiot, ‘and the go-kart has to be made from scrap. That’s literally the task.’
I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘But isn’t that just making life difficult for ourselves?’
‘No.’ He turns to face me impatiently. ‘You see, if you buy everything, there’s no spirit in the machine, and you only get half the experience. There’s no pride when it works. No beating the odds.’
‘But I thought the point of building a go-kart was so you can go fast down a hill?’ Now I’m the baffled one.
‘That’s part of it,’ he agrees. ‘That gives you the hit of adrenaline; but there’s so much more to it than that. There’s the joy of making something work and improving on it when it breaks.’ Alec frowns. ‘Making it from scrap is a long-lasting accomplishment. It’s . . .’ he’s struggling to find the right word, ‘. . . better. Fixing it, making it faster and getting it right can become an obsession.’ No kidding – it’s like a secret society, with its own set of distinct rules.
‘So, we’re not buying one,’ I conclude. ‘Should we try junk shops, then?’
Alec nods, satisfied I’m starting to understand, and as he looks them up, I carefully jot down their addresses. We also note down any nearby antique shops, though they might prove to be out of our price range.
Closing his computer, Alec frowns. ‘So, no pram yet, but we might find some parts in the shed.’
‘I didn’t know there was a shed?’ I say, perking up – I love rummaging through old stuff.
Pleased at my enthusiasm, Alec grins and beckons with his finger. ‘Follow me.’
We head through the kitchen, past Mrs Crumpton, who is punishing the porridge pan with a scourer, and leave the house by a small side door. I was expecting a little wooden shack, but nestling in the laurel bushes is an old-fashioned garage with wooden double doors. It obviously hasn’t been used as a garage in a long time as the brambles have streaked across the concrete in front of it and fingers of ivy are snarling up the hinges.
Alec tugs open one of the doors. It stutters across the cracked concrete, and its hinges creak in protest as they grind on their rust. As light floods in, I can see parts of an old mangle, an ancient electric cooker, some rusty bicycles whose chains have welded to their teeth, a decrepit chaise longue and some rolls of old carpet. I stand in the doorway and marvel at it all – it’s a proper treasure trove.
Alec rushes over to examine some planks leaning against the side wall. ‘Some of these will do,’ he says, looking along their length to check they’re straight.
I crouch down and touch the carpets. The top bits are all off-cuts, but the bottom ones, from their reverse patterning and fringing, look to be genuine old Victorian ones. I’d love to take them outside and unroll them, but the carpets won’t help the go-kart. I leave them, with one last longing glance, and pick my way to the small side window where there are some promising small boxes on the windowsill. I pick them out from amongst the cobwebs and dead flies and lift their lids.
‘Screws and nails,’ I call, holding them up victoriously.
Alec’s checking another piece of wood, examining its profile like it’s a particularly handsome dog at Crufts. ‘Great, if they’re not too rusty, we’ll use them.’
I grin at him. ‘Or we could buy some new ones if these aren’t long enough?’ I say. His head snaps up and he directs a frown at me. ‘Just kidding!’ I call in a sing-song voice, and his face relaxes into a genuine smile that softens the harsh lines of his face, while lending him a raffish charm. It makes a pleasant change after all the times he’s scowled at me.
‘It seems ill-advised to tease the person engineering your go-kart,’ he says with mock-solemnity.
‘Did you study engineering?’ I ask curiously.
‘Actually, I studied computing,’ he says more seriously. ‘But I’d have loved to study engineering . . . or English,’ he adds thoughtfully.
‘They’re hardly similar. And you shouldn’t cross the arts/science boundaries – very dodgy,’ I say, shaking my head, pretending to be shocked.
He nods. ‘But there are some similarities.’
‘Such as . . .?’
‘I like to see how things work, whether that’s sentences or machines, and you can take both apart and put them back together again with varying results.’
‘That’s true.’ I’m surprised by how insightful he is.
‘And they’re both creative and inv
entive, and involve learning a lot of basic principles so that they don’t stall.’
I hold up my hands laughing. ‘OK, you’ve convinced me – English and engineering are exactly the same. Perhaps you should consider philosophy while you’re at it,’ I add.
He picks up another plank and grins at me. ‘What about you? Do you miss university?’ he asks.
I shrug. ‘Not really. It was very different the second time around.’
‘How so?’
I struggle to put into words how I no longer felt dazzled by the intoxicating freedom of being away from home, how I was never impressed by drinking and casual sex, and that the constant and stringent need to budget got on my nerves. ‘I seemed to have a different mindset to everyone else: taking the assignments more seriously, more worried about my prospects, that kind of thing. I was ready to move on ages ago, I just wish I knew what to.’ I frown, feeling oddly vulnerable, and I’m pleased when he returns his attention to his stack of wood.
I perch on the dusty chaise longue to watch Alec sort happily through the last few planks, and it suddenly dawns on me how clever Donald has been. Not only are the tasks helping me and Donald achieve our goals, they’re also keeping Alec, and perhaps even Mrs Crumpton, from brooding by keeping them involved. Even Donald’s friends, Jim and May, are keen to know what will happen next. Everyone’s on their toes, waiting for Donald’s next move, and that’s keeping them going. I think I’ll let Donald off for making me look a fool with the scrumping, given the good it’s done.
‘Ah-ha!’ says Alec, holding up a third plank like a trophy, before stacking the rejects back where he found them. He climbs over the carpets to the window and starts sorting through the selection of screws I found.
‘Finding a pivoting bolt and fixings to hold the axles might be tricky, but these are a good start,’ he says. ‘If we use enough you should be fine.’
‘I’d have thought that was a given?’
Alec shakes his head. ‘It’s never a given,’ he says, a hint of glee in his voice. Pulling the list from his back pocket, he strikes through the entries for planks and screws. ‘We’ve made a good start, but we still need to find a pram.’ He beams at me without reservation, and I’m struck again by the change a simple smile can make.
‘I was hoping it’d be a few more years before someone said that to me.’
Alec looks confused, but I don’t enlighten him. I walk back to the house to fetch the list of business addresses and my car keys, and we set off to visit the closest town.
Chapter 10
We’ve climbed around every rusty junkyard and badly organised antique shop within a ten-mile radius. I’ve scaled everything from small hatchbacks to tallboys, and even climbed under a kneehole desk, but all we have to show for it is some rope, a big hex bolt and nut that ‘will be fine after some WD-40’, and some pipe-retaining clips that should hold the axles ‘at a pinch’.
We return to The Laurels tired, dirty and pramless.
After a quick wash, we sit down at the table to eat our lunch, but Alec hasn’t said a word since we got back. He seems downhearted and I suspect he’s missing Donald. Yesterday, I wouldn’t have said anything, but now that we’re getting on a bit better, it seems wrong to ignore it.
‘This is nice,’ I venture, taking a mouthful of the ham, salad and boiled potatoes Mrs Crumpton has cooked for us.
‘Yes,’ Alec says distractedly. I lean into his peripheral vision and wait for him to surface. ‘Sorry, miles away.’ He shakes his head as if to clear it.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’ He sighs heavily and forces a smile. ‘It’s funny the things we’re doing at Donald’s instigation, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘But I guess that’s the point – he wants us to experience new things.’
Alec nods and I nudge a potato around my plate, unsure what to say next, because I don’t actually know much about Alec.
‘What do you see yourself doing after this?’ he asks casually.
‘I’m not sure. I guess it depends on how much Donald’s will changes everything.’
‘In what way?’ asks Alec, a slight edge coming into his voice.
I look at him, trying to understand what’s made him uneasy. ‘I don’t know, but there might be a few new possibilities.’
‘Because of your “unspecified” reward?’ His tone is mocking and his forehead is creased, and I see what’s happened. The merest hint of the mention of money, and he’s back to the distrust-the-gold-digger stance he had yesterday.
‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ I say patiently, holding his gaze and not afraid to show that I’m hurt that he would even think that. ‘I was wondering if Donald might give me the confidence to try . . . something new.’ I’m not confiding my hopes of becoming a writer with him in this mood! ‘Though the reward is something to think about,’ I concede, because, let’s face it, it is, and it would be stupid to deny it.
‘What are you hoping it will be?’ he asks slightly less coldly, but his eyes are still watchful.
‘I haven’t a clue, but whatever it is I reckon Donald will have thought long and hard about it.’
‘And if it’s money?’ he asks, the sour edge back in his voice, and I look down at my plate, coming to the limit of my ability to take this kind of questioning.
‘Then perhaps it can support me for a while, or more likely, go some way towards paying off my university debts.’ I frown at him, and he’s the one who looks away first. ‘Though that seems dull,’ I admit, returning my attention to my plate. We eat in silence for a while, and I leave it to Alec to speak next.
‘Would you like to go travelling?’ he asks, tendering an off-white flag.
I assess his expression, and he seems to have let go of whatever offended him, so I consider his question. I imagine travelling by myself, taking selfies, and staying in youth hostels. ‘Not really. I think I’m past that now – I just want to get going with real life, whatever that means. What about you? What do you see yourself doing after this?’
‘Not sure. I’ve loved working here, and I can’t imagine anyone else being as much fun as Donald, but I expect I’ll apply for some posts and see what happens.’
‘What about Mrs Crumpton?’
‘Retiring, but I’m not sure she’s happy about it.’ I glance at Alec questioningly, and he shrugs. ‘Donald suggested she retire a few years ago, just after her husband died, but she gave him a flea in his ear – went on about stagnating and dropping off her mortal coil from sheer boredom and no one noticing. She’s considering it now though, and since Donald left her a nice nest egg . . .’
Alec pauses as the lady herself comes in to exchange our empty plates for bowls of jam roly-poly and custard, and in the silence I remember my family’s shock at the sum of three hundred thousand pounds left to someone who wasn’t even at the will reading.
‘Neither of you will be here, then?’ I ask once she’s returned to the kitchen. Alec shakes his head, and I feel a stab of sadness for them both. ‘Will you be sad to leave?’
‘No, not with Mrs C and Donald gone.’
‘But the house?’
Alec’s smile doesn’t meet his eyes. ‘It’s just a house, somewhere to live,’ he says after a brief pause.
I glance incredulously at the gorgeous Georgian dining room. ‘If you think this is just “somewhere to live”, your parents must have been rich!’
Alec looks down at his plate, his jaw muscles contracting, and I realise I’ve struck a nerve, though how, I don’t know. I dig my spoon into the jam roly-poly and cast around for a change of subject.
‘So, go-karts . . .’ I say, and carefully lead him back to discussing the last few avenues we can try for a pram.
It’s been a long afternoon and my bum is almost numb from sitting on the stairs with the laptop open on my knees, telephoning every single flipping dealer, estate-clearance company and reclamation yard within a fifty-mile radius. I suggested to Alec that he could take ove
r at one point, but he firmly reminded me that this is my task and therefore my job. That rankled, but he has stopped by every ten minutes or so to see how I’m doing. So far there’s been no luck, and I’ve listened to endless dealers telling me how I’ll have trouble finding one of those these days. One even told me I’d have more luck finding a Fabergé egg, though how he expected me to ride one of those down a hill, I have no idea.
Mrs Crumpton, who’s passing through, stops to listen as I explain yet again what I want to an antique shop owner, over thirty miles away. The refined gentleman gives me another teeth-sucking negative and starts to say that he hasn’t seen one of those for—
‘Did you say “pram”?’ asks Mrs Crumpton.
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Yes, one of those old-fashioned ones with a hood and big wheels. I don’t suppose you’ve seen one, have you?’
‘What’s it for?’ she asks suspiciously.
‘A go-kart – Donald’s making us build one.’
Mrs Crumpton throws back her head and laughs. ‘The old fool! It must’ve been three months ago that I saw ‘im trying to get one of them things up the stairs. He said you’d need it. I thought ‘e was losin’ his marbles and said you’d be wanting one of them new-fangled three-wheelers.’ She shakes her head, still tickled by Donald’s antics. ‘I’d try the attic if I was you. Alec will show you,’ she adds, sweeping past Alec, who looks at me questioningly.
I thank the antique dealer over the top of his pram-related reminiscences and hang up, shaking my head in disbelief.
‘What?’ asks Alec.
‘Mrs Crumpton says we should try the attic. She says she saw Uncle Donald take one up there.’
Alec bites his bottom lip, I think to stop himself swearing. ‘I guess I should have thought of that, really.’ He takes the stairs two at a time, and I follow hard on his heels as he heads through a slender door (which I thought was a linen cupboard) and races up a narrow flight of stairs to the attic. By the time we reach the top I’m feeling the thrill of the chase, excited by what we might find. I stare about in wonder. The attic, far from being dark and dingy, has a row of small dormer windows along one side, probably thanks to its servants’ quarters past. I look around at the tempting dusty boxes, trunks and old furniture and see, over to one side, a dilapidated old-fashioned perambulator – perfect for our go-kart.
