Guilt at the Garage

by Simon Brett

  ‘I could, I suppose, but it’d be just as easy for you to ring them yourself.’

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind doing it, Bill …?’

  The garage owner was used to such appeals from the mature single ladies of Fethering. He pulled a mobile out of his overalls and said, ‘See what I can do.’ He got through and checked the name of the company.

  The person who answered clearly knew his caller well. A time to do the job was offered, but Bill said, ‘Oh come on, you can do better than that. It is for one of my special customers.’ A concession was clearly made. He ended the call and turned to Carole with triumph. ‘They’ll be here within the hour.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Bill.’

  ‘One thing, though …’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘Will it be OK with your insurance?’

  ‘I can assure you,’ said Carole with an edge of ice, ‘that my insurance is fully up to date.’

  ‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just that some insurance companies will only cover windscreen replacement when it’s carried out by a specific repair business … you know, one they have an exclusive deal with.’

  ‘My insurance covers everything,’ said Carole.

  It was agreed that she would go back to High Tor, take Gulliver for his delayed excursion on Fethering Beach, and then walk back to Shefford’s. By then, hopefully, the job would be done.

  She followed the agreed programme, walking through a part of Fethering she rarely visited. Though close to the Downside Estate, the area had been considerably gentrified. Property prices were high on the South Coast.

  When she got home and went into the kitchen, she was surprised to find a sheet of paper, which had been shoved in under the door to the garden. On it had been scrawled, ‘WATCH OUT. THE CAR WINDOW WAS JUST THE START.’

  TWO

  At times, Carole was very good at blanking things out. Like her divorce. With determination, she could spend whole weeks without remembering that she had once been married to David. And that morning, she managed to give Gulliver his freedom on Fethering Beach without considering the implications of the unwelcome gift in her kitchen.

  When they got back to High Tor, she found herself hoping, illogically, that the object would no longer be there. But, of course, it was, as unpleasant as a cat’s deposit of an eviscerated rodent. And she could no longer stem the flood of thoughts it prompted.

  The biggest shock was how that piece of paper changed what had happened to her car. Up until then, she had been affronted by a random attack from Bill Shefford’s computer-gaming, glue-sniffing youngsters. Now it had become personal. The perpetrator of the glass-smashing knew who she was, and he or she was planning a campaign of further harassment.

  Also, the personal invasion had now extended to her home. In the phrase beloved of gangster movies, the enemy ‘knew where she lived’. A gate at the back of her garden led to an alleyway behind the houses of the High Street. It was only locked by a bolt which could be easily reached from outside. Someone had opened the gate and crossed her back garden to stuff the missive under the door to her kitchen. Knowing that was not a nice feeling.

  Carole needed to be busy. She always needed to be busy, to keep unpleasant thoughts at bay. And her current thoughts were so unpleasant that she need more than ever to be busy. She checked her watch. Less than an hour had elapsed since she left Shefford’s. The windscreen repair man would hardly have arrived at the garage, let alone finished the job. It was the perfect opportunity to sort out the insurance.

  The documents were neatly filed in her upstairs study, which had been designed by the architect who built High Tor as a second spare bedroom. And it was occasionally used as such, on the rare occasions when her son Stephen, daughter-in-law Gaby and two adored granddaughters, Lily and Chloe, all came to Fethering at the same time. Then the adult visitors would stay in the twin-bedded spare room and the little girls would sleep on fold-out mattresses in the study.

  Everything in her workspace was neatly filed. It was a legacy from the time Carole had spent working at the Home Office. There, she had been constantly commended for her efficiency and in her Fethering retirement, though there was no one to witness it, she still prided herself on that efficiency.

  Her filing cabinet stood to one side of the table on which sat her laptop. The machine, whose purchase had been long resisted but was now an essential part of Carole’s life, had rarely had its portability put to the test. She treated it like a desktop computer. Inside her compartmentalized mind, doing things online was an activity to be pursued in her study, not in any other part of the house. And the laptop was certainly never used for entertainment, music or television streaming. Its exclusive purposes were the sending of emails and the occasional fact-checking foray into Wikipedia.

  Practical activities, like contacting insurance companies, also belonged in the study. The downstairs phone and the bedside one, on the same landline, were used for social purposes, which meant not very often (except for calls to the Fulham home of Stephen, Gaby and the granddaughters). Carole Seddon’s mobile was rarely used at all, and certainly not when she was inside High Tor. As she would say tartly, if asked about the subject, ‘I am not of the generation that needs to consult their screen every five minutes.’ Everything within Carole Seddon’s life had very strict rules.

  But she was soon going to have to bend or extend her rules in relation to the mobile. Gaby had recently set up a family WhatsApp group, on which Carole received treasured photos and videos of the grandchildren. Lily and Chloe would be coming to stay on their own for a weekend in March and Carole was very much looking forward to their visit. So much so that she had spent a whole weekend redecorating the spare room where they would stay. She had covered the old magnolia emulsion on the walls with a more girly pink, but not been so bold with the gloss on the door, window frames and skirting board. They had been repainted white as before. The project had been hard work because Carole was – no surprise – a very meticulous decorator. She sanded down the old paint on the wooden parts, filled in the crevices with Polyfilla, then used primer and gloss. For the skirting boards, this mean a lot of getting up and down off her knees. Her body felt the effects for a good few days. But she was very pleased with the result and couldn’t wait to see the little girls’ reaction.

  By the time they came, she was determined to be a proficient contributor to the family WhatsAppery, so that she could send photos and videos of her granddaughters’ activities back to Fulham. As a result, Carole had started very tentatively teaching herself how, for the first time, to use the camera facility of her phone.

  She quickly discovered that the mobile she had was far from state-of-the-art. The cameras on newer phones were much more sophisticated. They had more pixels, whatever they might be. So, Carole didn’t get rid of her old phone but she did buy a new one, which would take better photos and videos. She had ordered it online but did not want to let it be seen in public until her mastery of it was complete. In fact, so far, she hadn’t taken it out of the box.

  But she wasn’t going to use either mobile that morning. From the landline in her study she rang the claims line of her insurance company. Once she had gone through the process of identifying herself and giving her policy number, she announced, ‘I have been the victim of vandals who have smashed in the back window of my car.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that,’ said the Northern female voice at the other end of the line. The sympathy was automatic, impersonal. ‘Have you reported the incident to the police?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to. We’ll need a Crime Number before we can process your claim.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Carole must have sounded deflated, because the girl said, ‘It’s a very simple process.’

  ‘I’m sure it is.’

  ‘You don’t dial nine-nine-nine, though. You dial one-oh-one.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ said Carole testily. Although she didn’t. The person she was
talking to had no idea her caller had ever worked for the Home Office, but Carole still never liked to admit ignorance on police matters.

  ‘Get back to us when you’ve got the Crime Number and then we can proceed and put you in touch with one of our authorized windscreen repair services.’

  ‘But I’ve already arranged to have the glass repaired. I can’t leave my car open to anyone who wants to help themselves to the contents.’

  ‘Are you saying that you keep valuables in your car? Because if you do, we would recommend that you remove them as soon as possible.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The point is that the glass is already being repaired.’

  ‘May I ask the name of the company that is effecting that repair?’

  Carole supplied the name that Bill Shefford had given her.

  ‘Can you just hold for a minute, Mrs Seddon?’ There was a long silence, but not, mercifully, long enough to be filled by music. Then the girl came back on the line. ‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Seddon. I’m afraid that is not one of the companies authorized by us.’

  ‘So, what are you saying?’

  ‘I am saying that, if you get your glass repaired by that company, your insurance with us will not cover the expense.’

  Carole could think of a lot of responses to that, many involving expressions like ‘cartel’, ‘restrictive trade practices’ and ‘mutual back-scratching’. But she did not give any of them voice. She simply rang off, seething with fury.

  Most of that fury, of course, was addressed to herself. She knew what she should do. The windscreen repairer summoned to Shefford’s probably hadn’t even started on the job yet. She should ring Bill and put him off. Then she should dial 101 and get a Crime Number. She should also tell the police in that call about the unpleasant message still lying on her kitchen floor. She had, after all, been deliberately targeted by a criminal.

  But, because she was Carole Seddon, she did none of these things. Because all of them would have drawn public attention to her shortcomings. She should have known about the limitations of her car insurance. Or at least she should have checked its provisions before she authorized the repair. And someone who had spent most of her career at the Home Office should have known the right thing to do was to report the crime.

  But all Carole could think was that, if she allowed the repair at Shefford’s Garage to continue, very few people would ever know about her Renault having suffered the indignity of being vandalized. Bill Shefford, yes, but no one else at the garage. The repairman would know nothing about the circumstances of the breakage. Inevitably, a few locals taking early morning walks past Fethering Parade would have recognized her car. But only a few. Hopefully, her prompt action would have staunched the noxious flow of village gossip at source.

  The next thing she did, Carole knew was wrong by any standards. She picked up the piece of paper on the kitchen floor, got out a box of matches and burnt it in the sink. She washed the ashes down the plughole. She shuddered slightly as the last black flakes disappeared.

  Her fear of doing something wrong was not as strong as her fear of drawing attention to herself.

  Carole Seddon was very good at blanking things out.

  She continued with her morning as if the call to the insurance company had never happened. Gulliver stayed at High Tor beside the Aga, trying on the reproachful look of a dog who hadn’t just been for a nice gambol on Fethering Beach. The reproach was mixed with resignation. Long experience had taught Gulliver that he very rarely got more than his scheduled morning and evening walks. But it was worth trying, hope once again triumphing over experience.

  The only difference when she got back to Shefford’s was that the Renault had been moved. Presumably, that meant the repair work had started and was being done round the back of the building. Inside the reception area, there was no one around, not even Frankie in her glass box. Carole moved towards the workshop door, which was ajar. She was about to go through when she was stopped by the sound of a voice raised in anger.

  ‘But, for God’s sake, you’ve got to make a decision soon!’

  She recognized the tones of Billy, Bill Shefford’s son and – everyone in Fethering assumed – his father’s partner in the business.

  ‘I don’t want to be hasty,’ responded Bill, clearly not enjoying the confrontation.

  Carole moved to sit on one of the plastic chairs, the optimum eavesdropping position.

  ‘We can’t just let things drift on,’ Billy persisted.

  ‘They’ve been “drifting on” – as you put it – quite satisfactorily for nearly forty years.’

  ‘Yes, but times have changed, Dad. You don’t seem to realize how much times have changed.’

  ‘Just give me time to think about it, Billy.’

  ‘You’ve had bloody years to think about it, and you’ve still got no nearer a decision!’

  ‘Don’t shout. The windscreen repair guy will hear you.’

  ‘I don’t care who hears me! You know when Mum was alive, she kept saying that you should make changes. She’s been gone seven years and what’s happened? Bugger all.’

  ‘Hm. Valerie always did spoil you.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything? I’m talking about saving this business.’

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ Bill Shefford insisted feebly.

  ‘Oh yeah? After you’ve consulted her, no doubt?’

  ‘Obviously, I won’t make decisions on something as major as this without consultation.’

  ‘“Consultation”? The person you should be consulting is not her. It’s me, your bloody business partner!’

  There was a silence after this outburst. Then a new voice joined the discussion. Frankie’s. ‘And what’s this about her doing a book-keeping course?’

  ‘The education system wasn’t so good where she grew up. She’s got a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ Frankie’s voice was larded with cynicism. ‘Sure you’re not lining her up to take over my job?’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that, Frankie. You know I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? You’d do anything she tells you to.’ The cynicism in Billy’s voice was laced with pain. ‘And why didn’t you tell me she was doing a car-maintenance evening class as well as the book-keeping? Thinking she’ll be able to replace me too, are you?’

  ‘Billy, son, you know it’s not like that. I do have some concept of loyalty.’

  Carole looked up at the sound of the garage’s front door opening. A short, rather beautiful woman of Asian origin entered, just as Billy said, ‘And what kind of loyalty did you show to Mum’s memory by marrying her?’

  ‘Ah,’ said the new arrival, in very slightly accented English. ‘They are talking about me.’

  THREE

  Jude, Carole’s neighbour, was, as the French say, a woman who fitted her skin. And with the passage of the years, there was no lack of skin to fit. The precise definition of her contours was vague, because her dress style always involved a lot of floaty garments and light scarves. In the same way, the contours of the furniture in her sitting room were softened by a plethora of rugs and throws. Jude’s blonde hair was always piled up on top, secured in a gravity-defying structure of grips and pins. There was a natural warmth about her which, for men, invariably translated into sexual magnetism.

  Jude was a healer whose sitting room in Woodside Cottage was her treatment space. She worked to her own timetable. Though she would be there for anyone in a crisis, she generally didn’t book in any appointments before ten in the morning. She liked the waking-up process to be gentle, and faced the world more happily after a cup of tea in bed.

  But receiving a phone call at nine thirty that morning seemed quite acceptable. It was not from someone she recognized, a man who identified himself simply as ‘Jeremiah’. (Given her own reluctance to use any of her surnames, Jude could hardly blame him for that.)

  ‘Good morning. My name is Jeremiah, and I am a healer.’

  ‘Ah. Good morning
, Jeremiah.’

  He had a deep, confident voice which she was sure could sound very empathetic in a therapy situation. ‘I’ve recently returned to this country after practising in the States and Australia for some years. Well, since I’ve been working in this area, everywhere I go I’m told that the go-to local healer is someone called Jude in Fethering.’

  Unsure whether this was just flannel, Jude said nothing, so Jeremiah went on, ‘Anyway, a) I’d like to meet you, and b) I have an idea for a project on which I would be interested to get your views.’

  Jude was wary of ‘projects’, particularly when put forward by other people in the therapeutic world. Too often, they involved some collaborative venture and, though Jude was very open to other people, she knew that her healing was only effective when she did it on her own. The concentration of energy she asked of herself was never so easy to summon up when there was a person other than her client present. But it would have been churlish to refuse to meet Jeremiah. Over the years, she had made a lot of friends through the business of healing and complementary medicine. Jude was a great believer in learning from other people.

  So, she invited Jeremiah to join her for coffee at Woodside Cottage. He was going to be away for most of the next week but they fixed a date after that.

  ‘As you know, I don’t like gossip,’ Carole lied.

  ‘No?’ said Jude. ‘The only gossip you don’t like is the kind someone else heard before you did.’

  Carole didn’t think this childish (if accurate) barb was worthy of response, so she just listened as her neighbour went on, ‘I’m surprised you haven’t heard, though. It’s been round Fethering for months. The woman you met at the garage is called Malee. She’s Bill Shefford’s second wife. They married … I don’t know, eight months ago … might even be a year now.’

  ‘And where does she come from?’

  ‘Thailand.’

  ‘Good heavens. A “Thai Bride”?’ Carole breathed the words with appropriate tabloid awe.

  ‘If you want to call it that, I suppose she is, yes.’