EQMM, December 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "How much?"

  The sarcasm ended when he told her. “You fool! That's a pittance, can't you see that? To professionally garage a car like that would cost ten times as much! And in the meantime, whilst he's sunning himself on the other side of the world, my house has been turned into a miniature bloody warehouse. I mean, how do you suggest we get around the place, in a goddamned forklift?"

  "Mary, he's a good friend."

  "No,” she quickly corrected him. “He's a user. Always has been, always will be—only you're too thick to see it."

  Loud complaints began emanating from upstairs as the three Jones offspring voiced their disapproval at the new living arrangements. But here, stepping around three boxes marked “CHINA—FRAGILE,” Chris called up the stairs and played his trump card.

  "Hey kids,” he shouted. “Come and see what Uncle Dave's left us all in the garage!"

  * * * *

  On Sunday, Chris took over duties as the unpaid (largely unappreciated) taxi-driver for the kids. Not in the BMW, however secretly tempting the thought might have been, but in the eleven-year-old family car—much to the children's annoyance.

  "When are we going to go for a burn-up in it, Dad?” his son asked on the way back from karate. “My mates'd think it was so cool if you dropped me off in it."

  "It's off-limits, Sam,” Chris replied, wishing it wasn't, wishing he could screech to a thundering halt in front of his son's friends, bask in shocked adolescent awe before wheel-spinning away. If only...

  Wasn't ever going to happen. He was a family man. Any dreams of leading the life were to be left far behind, steamrollered as they were by the hectic, exhausting reality of his and Mary's life together.

  A surprise awaited him when he got back around five. Mary had been busy. The hallway, packed with boxes just that morning, was now as clear as it had been a little over thirty-six hours previously. Not an item of his mother-in-law's remained.

  Mary stood, smiling at him, as the kids made their way upstairs, gasping at the change. Apparently, there was little to show for their grandmother anywhere in the house.

  "I've been having a clear-out,” she announced.

  "Wow."

  "Maybe getting that car was a good thing."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah. I guess it forced me to see all of Mum's stuff for what it was. Just boxes and boxes of old rubbish.” She looked at the recently cleared space, sighed. “Maybe it forced me to look at Mum, too. Her problem. I mean, I'm kidding myself if I think she's ever going to get out of that home."

  Chris went and put an arm round his wife.

  "She'll die in there, Chris. She'll never need any of it again, and it was just cluttering our lives."

  Chris tried not to nod too enthusiastically.

  "Anyway,” Mary went on, “most of Mum's stuff is now safely distributed around local charity shops. Nine trips I made. Good little car, ours. Couldn't have done it in that boy-toy of your mate's."

  Chris grinned, scratched the back of his head. “Amazing. And the charity shops simply took all that stuff?"

  "Sure,” Mary replied. “Like I say, I had to drop it off at a few of them. There was too much of it to give it all to one shop."

  He hugged her, pleased she didn't immediately pull back this time. “Top work, love. And I think it's what your mother would have wanted.” He felt her flinch at his last clumsy word, cringed himself.

  "Chris,” she admonished. “She's not dead, yet."

  True enough, but as it happened, also partially inaccurate; for part of Mary's mother was already dead, the onrushing Alzheimer's having cruelly seen to that. Mary sometimes wondered why she even bothered making the trips out to the rest home, such was the lack of recognition between mother and daughter. Take the previous day's visit. Her mother had greeted her with the wide smile afforded the sudden arrival of an old and unexpected friend. The problem being, she really thought Mary was an old friend, then spent the next hour detailing the wild time they'd both had way back as teenagers in the 1950s. Apparently, Mary was told afterwards by a rest-home worker, the long-term memories are the last to leave, often become more vivid, real to the Alzheimer's sufferer. And although the afternoon had proved depressingly bizarre for Mary, it had also revealed a new side to her mother, a pre-married side, which had really set Mary thinking...

  * * * *

  Around seven that night, with the kids either out with friends or glued to the virtual world, Mary took Chris's hand as he sat slumped watching television in the lounge.

  Something felt hard and cold in his palm. Looking down, he saw she'd pressed the keys to the BMW into it. He looked up quizzically.

  "I only want to sit in it,” she teased.

  "Dave's car? But I thought you said you hated the thing?"

  She opened a nearby drawer, handed him an old black-and-white photograph of a young couple in the front seats of a speeding car. It was wonderfully animated, a near-perfect moment of joyous celebration, the wind whipping the long hair of the laughing woman in the front passenger seat as she turned and laughed at the unseen photographer in the rear. The driver's eyes, his face obscured, could be glimpsed in the rearview mirror, marvellously expressive, eyebrows raised in tremulous excitement, as if directly addressing the viewer.

  "Any guesses who the woman is?” Mary asked.

  Chris already knew the answer. “Your mum.” He studied the shot. “Wow, must have been in her twenties. Look at her, loving it. The driver, is that ...?"

  "Dad? No. Look at the eyes. Totally different to Dad's. It must have been taken before she met him. I found it today when I was going through her stuff."

  Chris gave a low whistle. “Seems weird, doesn't it?—your parents being young, free, and single. Kind of always imagine them as parents."

  Mary turned at this. “And what is a ‘parent’ in your mind?"

  He shifted. “Mature, I guess. Responsible. Grown-up."

  "Boring, you mean.” She took the photo, looked at it. “This young girl, it's like she's another being. I mean, I know it's Mum, but it isn't. It's a sort of ‘before’ Mum—before she met Dad, had us kids, became the mum she is now.” She turned to him. “Yesterday, when I saw her, she thought I was some old friend from way back. Called me Woody, then went into some old memories. Quite racy, some of them. Started going on about her jugs."

  "No, no, no,” Chris moaned. “Don't, please. That's just not right."

  "It's true,” Mary insisted. “Honestly, she really thought I was this Woody person, and she was going on about her boobs."

  Chris winced. “Sorry, love. Must have been awful."

  "It never even caused her to blush. And there I was, listening to this old woman—my mother, for God's sake—and do you know what I was thinking?"

  "That you never really knew her at all?"

  "No,” Mary firmly replied. “I was seeing myself as her. There, alone, and balmy in some rest home in forty years’ time, you long-since dead like my dad, and our kids coming to visit me."

  "Thanks for writing me off so early."

  She ignored this. “Which is when it struck me. I'm not going to have any racy memories to tell them. My life's been a bloody boring series of expected events. God's sake, you were even my first proper boyfriend."

  "Thanks for that, as well.” He tried not to sound too hurt.

  "All I'm saying,” she went on, snuggling closer, “is it struck me that maybe now's the time to make a few memories."

  He brightened at this. “Racy ones?"

  "Perhaps,” she replied with a suggestive smile. “But maybe not in the way you think, lover-boy."

  * * * *

  They didn't just sit in the car that night—inevitably, they took it for a spin. Even though Chris knew he wasn't insured, that he could easily drive the thing into a wall with one tiny slip of his foot on the accelerator pedal, he nervously reversed all 43,000 pounds’ worth of two-seater designer car from the double garage and cautiously drove out into surrounding streets. With t
he soft-top down, wind in their hair, they slipped effortlessly out of the town and into the surrounding late-evening countryside, until finally stopping for a drink in a small country pub they'd often spied but never had the chance or opportunity to pull in at before.

  And how they pulled in! Chris, getting more confident behind the patent-leather covered wheel, managed to turn most of the heads sat drinking outside as he skidded to an impressive stop in the gravel. Then, going for the kill—and much to Mary's rising amusement—he unbuckled the seat belt and, in one totally unexpected move, stood on the driver's seat and semi-vaulted over the door, before casually strolling to Mary's side and making a big show of helping her out like a royal chauffeur. Three or four of the amused onlookers actually clapped, whilst Mary was especially grateful for the wolf-whistle as she and Chris ambled inside.

  "This,” she happily concluded, as they sat down with their drinks at a small table by the fire, “is finally living."

  He raised his glass to hers. “Here's to us."

  "Here's to racy memories,” she replied.

  Chris stuck to soft drinks, as Mary matched him with large glasses of white wine. Within three, the effects were beginning to show, as she began slurring her words and giggling a little too much. Chris, at ease, looked around the pub, basking in the spontaneous contentment of it all, enjoying the sensation of simply being there with Mary, idly playing with the BMW key fob in his hand.

  ” ‘Scuse me, mate. That your motor outside?"

  Chris looked at the large beer-bellied man, his gaze drawn to the dried oil patches on the huge hands that made the pint glass he held look like a half. “Yeah,” he replied, trying to sound oh-so-cool about it; loving it as Mary giggled again.

  "Nice motor. Mind if I join you for a mo?"

  "Sure."

  The stranger sat down, quickly introduced himself as Jake, then began a conversation built entirely around the technicalities and specifications of the BMW. Chris, realising he'd unwittingly invited a car nut to join them, did his best to feign a slight interest, whilst trying to adopt the character of someone who was simply too rich to care about traction bearings, overhead camshafts, and cylinder rebores.

  "Thing is,” the bearded intruder concluded, lowering his voice, “if you're ever thinking of selling her, I'd be, you know, interested."

  "It's not for sale,” Chris quickly replied, wondering just when the colossal bore would leave him and Mary alone.

  But then Mary suddenly asked, “How much?"

  "Twenty grand—cash,” Jake quickly replied, winking at her.

  "Twenty-five, maybe,” she said.

  "Guess we could haggle all night, you and I, lady, eh? Come to some sort of arrangement?"

  Chris was beginning to get uncomfortable with the way Mary's eyes flirted as she looked at the man over the top of her fourth large wine. “Like I said,” he soberly interjected, “it's not for sale. I don't even have any of the paperwork."

  Jake shrugged. “Not a problem, mate. You ask any of ‘em in here about Jake's ‘vanishing’ motors, you'll soon see."

  Mary leant across the table a little unsteadily, then whispered, “Tell me more, Mr. Magic-man."

  He smiled. “Let's just say you hand those keys over to me right now..."

  "No way!” Chris insisted.

  Jake held up a hand. “Listen me out, pal. It's just a hypothetical."

  "I'm listening,” Mary slurred.

  "You give me those keys, I give you the cash. When you get back home, you report the motor stolen to the police. In the time it takes for the insurance and the coppers to sort themselves out, I've had it resprayed, new plates on it, and it's on its way to some Russian fellas I know who'll pay a tidy sum for it.” He finished his beer. “Job done. Everyone wins. Just think of it as an early equity-release scheme."

  Mary said, “Maybe now's the time to tell you about my husband's day job. He's an undercover officer investigating car fraud."

  Jake laughed. “I doubt it, love. Wouldn't be able to afford a motor like that on those wages."

  "Aha!” Mary replied, enjoying the banter. “But maybe he's a corrupt undercover officer who takes large bribes."

  "In that case,” Jake concluded, “maybe I was talking to the right person in the first place."

  * * * *

  Chris was in no mood for Mary's singing on the way back home. It was dark now, and negotiating winding roads back to the town was far more difficult than on the drive out.

  "God, you're so boring!” she objected, as he turned the music off. “Just because you're sober."

  "No,” he tried to calmly reply. “You're boring because you're drunk."

  "You're just annoyed because Jake kept looking at me."

  Which was true, though Chris wasn't about to admit it. “Mary, he ruined our night. God's sake, we didn't come all this way to spend it with some third-rate car crook."

  "Because we have to be ‘grown-up,’ ‘mature,’ and so bloody ‘responsible’ all our lives?"

  "Listen, Mary, going out for a spin and a few drinks is one thing, but if you don't mind, I'd rather it didn't result in an appearance on next month's Crimewatch."

  They drove the rest of the way in silence, the mood ruined, the creation of any “racy” memories as unlikely as the chances that they'd ever own a car like the BMW for real.

  * * * *

  Four days later, as he finished loading the dishwasher after supper, he heard the agitated cry. “Chris!” came Mary's urgent voice from the lounge. “Get in here, now!"

  He raced in expecting to be confronted by some sort of hideous domestic accident, only to find his ashen-faced wife pointing at the television screen. “What's going ...?"

  "Just watch!"

  It was an early-evening local news item. A reporter stood by an elderly, smiling woman holding a pair of small, brown, white-trimmed jugs in each hand.

  Jugs—the word tripped something off in his mind.

  "And this was entirely unexpected?” the reporter asked the beaming woman.

  "Absolutely,” she proudly replied, as the camera zoomed in on the two antiques. “I was working in the back of the shop, rooting through all the old boxes of stuff people had dropped off on Saturday, and there they were. Two Wedgwood jugs. Well, when I got home, I got my neighbour to look them up on his Internet, and that was when we discovered their true value."

  "Which is?” the reporter asked.

  "Anywhere between five and ten thousand pounds. They're very rare indeed. Crimson-dipped Jasperware."

  Chris slowly sat down. “Oh my God,” he said, pointing at the screen. “Your mother. The jugs. The friend—Woody. Your trip to the charity shops on Saturday..."

  Mary quickly hushed him, eyes still fixed to the screen.

  The reporter asked what was likely to happen to the jugs.

  "Obviously, we couldn't sell them in the shop,” the charity-shop worker continued. “So we've decided to auction them this Friday. That way we'll get a proper price for them."

  "And what would you like to say to the kind donor if he or she is watching?"

  She turned to the camera, her benevolent smile almost mocking Chris and Mary. “Thank you, whoever you are, for this astonishing donation to the charity."

  The report ended, cutting to the local weather, as Mary gently put her head in her hands and moaned.

  * * * *

  Three long, agonising, argument-fuelled hours later, they had a plan, if “plan” could ever be a word for it. To Chris, it was a ludicrous gamble, a dreadful betrayal of his old friend's trust, a shameful, illegal exercise. To Mary, smarting at the loss of her mother's priceless antiques, it was the only option.

  They were going to sell the car to Jake.

  "Then,” Mary had said, “we'll use the money to buy the jugs at the auction. Get them back. Don't you see? They'll go up in value, be worth far more in the future. It's the only way we can raise that sort of money before Friday."

  "It's illegal,” Chris insiste
d. “A crime. There's got to be another way."

  But no matter how they thought about the problem, nothing else came. They tried ringing the television station to trace the smiling charity-shop worker, only to be politely told they were the seventy-seventh call that evening claiming to be the rightful owner of the jugs who'd donated them by mistake, and no further calls on the subject were being taken. Crime, it seemed, was endemic, and in a world in which petty criminals and chancers proliferated, perhaps now was their moment to join the law-breaking throng.

  "Go now,” Mary urged, giving Chris the BMW keys. “Go to the pub and tell Jake you want to sell."

  "Mary, he's a crook."

  "He's also our only real chance,” she reminded him.

  * * * *

  Jake knew a desperate man when he saw one, and his years in the dodgy motor trade made him know full well how to play one. After all, he'd only met the cocksure BMW owner and his drunken wife the previous Sunday night, and already the bloke was gagging to sell the motor.

  Easy pickings...

  He took Chris to a discreet corner of the pub and told him to come to his barn on Friday morning, giving him some nonsense about it taking time to get twenty grand's cash together, watching Chris's perspiration begin to break out, knowing at that precise moment just how hungry for the money he was.

  Too easy, really...

  Jake wrote down an address of a nearby farm on the back of a beer mat and told Chris to be there on Friday morning at nine. Then, trying to hide his smirk, he ambled back to his laughing pals at the bar.

  * * * *

  Chris and Mary got to the farmyard as just after nine, already tense, hearts pounding. It had occurred to Chris as he drove the BMW over, Mary following behind in the saloon, that the whole deal could be some hideous setup. What if it was “Jake” that was really the undercover police officer, luring them both to inevitable arrest?

  His bad feelings about the whole thing didn't go away when Jake's large, lumpen, boiler-suited body appeared from a barn, urgently waving at Chris to drive the car inside. A myriad of rusting machinery, arc-welding equipment, and car parts lay scattered around on the cold concrete floor. He parked, stepped from the BMW.