by Ali McNamara
I smile at her unintended insult.
‘Whoops! Sorry,’ she says, realising, her pale face blushing as her hand clamps over her mouth. ‘I didn’t mean – I’m always being told I need to think before I speak!’
‘It’s fine. We both likely seem old to someone of your age.’
‘Actually, you don’t really,’ she says, considering this. ‘Not in the greater scheme of things…’ She appears to think about this for a few seconds, then she shakes her head hurriedly. ‘Sorry, now where were we? Oh yes, you’re right, Noah is Clarice’s owner, but I’m walking her today because the shop is really busy.’
‘Which shop do you work in?’ I ask, amused by the girl’s quirky nature.
‘It’s called Noah’s Ark – it’s just up off Harbour Street. We sell junk —’ She slaps her hand over her mouth again. ‘Noah says I’m to call them antiques or’ – she smirks – ‘vintage treasures.’
‘It does sound better than “junk”.’
‘But that’s what it is,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Other people’s old junk.’
‘I’ll have to come and have a browse sometime. Do you sell more modern stuff, like things from the eighties?’
‘The eighties? That’s hardly modern is it – it’s like decades ago!’
She was right, of course. ‘But your T-shirt is from the eighties,’ I point out, ‘and you’re wearing it? Well, maybe not the actual shirt, but the slogan is. It’s an iconic eighties design.’
The girl looks down at her top. ‘Is it? Well, I never knew that. My mate Angie knocks them out and flogs them on the market. I wonder if she knows?’
She goes off into another dreamlike state and Clarice impatiently shakes herself next to me.
‘Oh, I’d better be getting her back,’ the girl says with a start. ‘Thanks again for rescuing her.’ She takes the lead from me. ‘Pop in and see us in the shop sometime, won’t you? I’m Jess by the way.’
‘Thanks, Jess, I will. Goodbye, Clarice,’ I say to the little dog. ‘Be good now, won’t you?’
I watch them walk back the way they came, and as I do I feel something cold and wet on my arm, and then on my face too as I turn to look at it – spots of rain.
Then I notice how dark it has suddenly become, and how few people there are about now. Mainly because the dark grey rain clouds that hovered ominously in the distance a short while ago have now come all the way in with the tide and are directly above St Felix.
Quickly I gather my things and hurry back to the pub, but I can’t quite outrun the weather, and by the time I get there huge raindrops are pelting down from the sky, rebounding from the cobbles like little bouncing balls of water.
Taking shelter in the pub seems to have been the first thought of many, and the bar is crammed with people pulling off rain jackets and towelling down wet hair. To avoid them I head straight up to my room to get dried off. Sheltering in a pub in wet weather could be fun if you were with a group of people you knew, but I was on my own and didn’t fancy trying to make small talk with strangers this afternoon, especially not in a bar as packed as the one downstairs. No way.
So I get changed, wrap myself in a warm sweater and settle down in the window seat with my book, intent on reading for the next half hour or so while I wait for the rain to stop. Then, if it was still raining, I would catch up on the work I hadn’t done on the train journey yesterday.
Happy that I’ve planned my time accordingly, I open my book, but the slow, steady, rhythmical sound of the rain on the window makes me feel quite drowsy and I find my head drooping forward several times before I give in and drift towards my comfy bed, where very quickly I doze off and find myself dreaming of arks, floods, camper vans and a dog called Noah.
Five
When I awake, I’m yet again surprised to find I’ve slept for some time. Reluctantly I roll out of my warm bed and wander over to the window, where I’m pleased to see the rain has now stopped and people are beginning to venture from their shelter.
To wake myself up I hop in the shower, then blow dry my hair and get myself ready to meet Malachi downstairs. We’d agreed to meet at just past six in the bar after he had closed up the garage.
A few minutes before six o’clock I wander down to a much quieter bar than the one I’d walked through earlier. Now the weather was better everyone had escaped back outside. Relieved I don’t have to fight through a crowd, I order myself a Diet Coke, and then take a seat by the window to wait for Malachi.
At 6.15 he still hasn’t arrived. I’m starting to feel a little awkward sitting here in the bar on my own, and I’m pleased I’ve chosen a window seat so at least I can amuse myself watching the comings and goings along the harbour while I wait.
If I’d known he was going to be this late I’d have brought my laptop down from the room and done that work while I’m waiting, I think, tapping a beer-mat on the table in annoyance. I prided myself on always being on time and I didn’t like people who weren’t.
I wasn’t good at wasting time these days either. Some people could while away hours on end not really doing anything, but I liked to use my time constructively. Pleasant though it is watching the world of St Felix pass by, it’s not, in my book, constructive.
‘Sorry, I’m a wee bit late,’ I hear above me. Immediately I turn away from the window to see Malachi standing casually at the table next to me.
‘No problem,’ I lie. ‘Glad you could make it.’
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Malachi asks, looking down at my nearly empty glass.
‘Oh, er… yes. Another Diet Coke will be lovely, thanks.’
‘A Diet Coke with…?’
‘Just a Diet Coke, thanks. It’s a bit early for anything else. Plus I haven’t eaten yet.’
Malachi smiles. ‘Of course. Right ya are. Back in a mo.’
I watch him walk up to the bar. Now he’s not wearing his navy overalls he looks different than he had earlier. He obviously showered and changed before he got here because along with a clean white T-shirt with a sort of bird motif on the front and smart black jeans, his black wavy hair, combed back off his face, is still a little damp, and I couldn’t help but notice how nice he smelt when he was standing by the table just now.
‘One angelic Diet Coke,’ Malachi says, putting my drink down on the table when he returns. ‘And one not so virtuous pint of Guinness.’
He sits down in the seat opposite me, takes a sip from his glass and pulls a face. ‘Never tastes as good anywhere as it does in the homeland, and I’ve tried a few pints over the years.’
‘Which part of Ireland are you from?’
‘Ah, here and there. I’ve lived in many areas over time.’
‘So what brings you all the way to Cornwall?’
Malachi studies me over the top of his glass with a pair of sharp green eyes.
‘Let’s say I got the call,’ he replies ambiguously.
‘The call?’
‘From Bob!’ He grins. ‘Asking if I could look after his garage.’
‘Oh, I see. So…’ I say, not impressed by his joke, ‘did you manage to get some figures together for me today?’
‘Straight to the point, I see.’ Malachi puts down his pint glass. ‘There are no flies on you, are there?’
‘I like to get on with things, yes, if that’s what you mean. I can’t see any point in dilly-dallying around.’
Malachi smiles.
‘What now?’
‘Did you know the phrase “dilly-dally” is commonly attributed to the English music hall singer Marie Lloyd, but was actually in use much earlier than her 1918 song, as far back as the seventeenth century?’
I stare at him.
‘Wonderful performer, Marie,’ he continues. ‘You should look her up sometime.’
‘Sure…’ I say hesitantly, wondering what that was all about, ‘I will, thanks for the info. Now about this camper van…’
I was beginning to wonder yet again if I’d done the right thing in agreeing to let M
alachi help me, but now my concern wasn’t to do with the money, it was more about him. Even though earlier he’d seemed a little… unconventional at the garage, with his overalls on he had at least seemed professional. Now with his relaxed demeanour, his casual clothes and the tattoos I can just about see poking from underneath his T-shirt sleeves, he seems anything but that.
‘So,’ he says, pulling a notebook from his back pocket and laying it on the table. ‘Let’s talk camper vans.’
‘Let’s.’
‘First of all I need to know exactly what you require from the van.’
I look at the notebook Malachi has produced hoping to see pages of copious notes and complicated numeric equations, but the notebook remains unopened.
‘How do you mean? I just want it roadworthy.’
Malachi shakes his head. ‘No, you said, and I quote, “I want everything doing. When this van leaves St Felix, I want it to look and run like a brand new vehicle.”’
I have to smile as Malachi is doing a very good impression of my voice.
‘That’s quite the talent for mimicry you have there.’
‘And, if I may say, that’s quite the smile you have there too, when you allow it to appear.’
I glance down at the table and hurriedly take a sip of my own drink.
‘So, I’ll ask again,’ Malachi says, not appearing to sense my embarrassment. ‘What exactly do you want doing?’
I’m relieved he’s returned to talking business. ‘Okay, so most importantly I want the van doing up so it runs reliably and doesn’t break down.’
‘Not a problem.’
‘Then, I want it to look good too,’ I improvise. ‘I want it to look like those camper vans do on the postcards outside the shop up the road – all shiny, gleaming and happy.’
I glance at him after I’ve said happy. Had I gone a bit too far?
But Malachi doesn’t look fazed. ‘I can do all that, no worries at all. But what I think you’ve failed to grasp is just how many different specifications there are when it comes to vans.’
‘Are there? Like what?’
‘Like whether you want a pop-up top or a roof rack? The model you have would have had a roof rack originally, but I can add a pop-up if you want one?’
‘Why would I want a pop-up roof?’
Malachi looks me up and down. ‘How tall are you?’
‘Five foot seven, but I don’t —’
‘Do you want to stand when you cook?’
‘What?’
‘If you have a pop-up you can stand to do things inside the van like cooking and washing up.’
‘Oh, I see. I hadn’t really thought about it.’
I won’t tell him I’ve only thought as far as driving it home.
‘But if you have a roof rack you have more room to carry things like surfboards and bikes.’
‘Ah…’
‘I have a pop-up so I carry my surfboard on the back. It just depends on how much equipment you have.’
‘You have a camper van too?’
‘Yeah, mine’s just a T2 Bay. Much as I adore her, I’d love a classic Splitty like yours.’
‘A what?’
‘A Splitty. It’s what we call a split screen camper van. All pre-1967 camper vans have a windscreen split in two. After that the new models all had the solid bay windows.’
‘Right, there’s quite a lot to it, isn’t there?’
Malachi nods. ‘And we haven’t even started to talk about air-cooled engines, bullet indicators, or whether’ – his eyes twinkle – ‘you’ll be needing a full-size rock ’n’ roll bed…’
Annoyingly I feel my cheeks flush. ‘I won’t be needing any sort of bed,’ I hurriedly insist. ‘I’m not going to be sleeping in it.’
‘You’re not? But how will you camp – will you need an awning or do you have your own tent?’
‘No… to both. I’m just going to be driving it home, that’s all. I’m not sure what I’ll do with it after that.’
There’s a sort of stunned silence from across the table as Malachi sits back in his chair and stares at me.
‘What now?’ I ask huffily. ‘What camper van law have I broken this time?’
Malachi shrugs. ‘It’s none of my business what you choose to do with her when I’ve finished my refurbishment.’
‘I’m sensing a “but”?’
‘But… you’d be mad not to at least try camping in her. It’s a wonderful experience. You can drive where you like, set up camp and cook your dinner in the open air, even bed down under the stars if you’re lucky. The freedom is amazing.’
‘I’m sure.’
‘It is,’ Malachi insists. ‘You’ll never have a night like it. You come from London, right?’
I nod. ‘Not originally, but I live there now.’
‘How much freedom do you have in London?’
‘I’m hardly imprisoned when I’m there, if that’s what you mean?’
‘Oh, you are,’ Malachi says softly. ‘You just don’t know it.’ He pauses and then returns to his usual tone. ‘What do you do for a living? Let me guess – you work in an office?’
‘No, wrong!’
‘What, never?’
‘Well, sometimes, when I have to go in for meetings.’
Malachi looks triumphant.
‘But I don’t work in one. I work from home most of the time actually – I’m a graphic designer. Freelance,’ I add for emphasis.
‘That explains a lot.’
‘What does it explain? You just berated me for not having enough freedom in my life, and yet I’m a freelance worker. I have all the freedom I need.’
‘Not that, the graphic bit. All a bit tight and conformist, is it, your work?’
‘No.’
‘It’s hardly avant-garde, though?’
‘Look, I’m sure this is all relevant – to you. But to me this is getting us nowhere. You’re supposed to be giving me estimates, not life advice.’
‘Sorry, occupational hazard. Right,’ Malachi says, opening the book on a blank page I’m disappointed to see is the first of many. ‘Do you have a pen?’
I find one in my bag.
Malachi takes it from me then looks up at the pub ceiling for a few seconds as though he’s working something out. Then he scribbles a number down in the book and shows it to me.
‘How much?’ I exclaim.
‘Obviously we still need to discuss the finer points, and you have to bear in mind just what a state the van is in right now. It’s a ballpark figure.’
I look at the figure again, and notice this time that it ends very specifically in two figures.
80.
Swallowing my desperate need to tell him to forget the whole thing, this was going to be far too expensive, I hold out my hand to Malachi to seal the deal.
Grinning, he takes it, and as we shake hands the strangest feeling runs right through me. It’s not an unpleasant feeling at all, but it’s definitely a feeling I’ve never ever felt before.
Six
‘So now we’ve agreed everything,’ Malachi says, after we’ve been discussing the renovations to the camper van for some time and seem to be pretty much in tune on what’s to take place, ‘let’s talk about you.’
‘Me? Why do you want to do that?’ I can’t help but feel a little flattered. Even though Malachi is somewhat eccentric, it’s impossible not to notice how good-looking he is.
‘Because these renovations aren’t going to be over and done with in a few days, are they? I’m fast, and if I may say, very thorough.’ He winks at me. ‘But sadly I can’t work miracles – yet. I was wondering where you were going to stay while I complete the work. You said you’d only booked in here for a few days.’
‘Yes,’ I reply feeling foolish, ‘that’s right, I have. I guess I’ll have to go back to London and come back again when you’ve finished.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I have a life back in London – a job to do, things to take care of. I can’t ju
st abandon everything for weeks on end to watch you tinker about with engines and stuff.’
‘I can assure you this renovation requires a lot more skill than simply tinkering about. If you think that,’ Malachi says, sitting back in his chair with a hurt expression, ‘perhaps you should find someone else to help you.’
