by Ali McNamara
The mechanic grins at me. ‘Ah, don’t mind me, I’m just havin’ a laugh. No, there’s not a problem, you just don’t look the type, that’s all.’
What is he going on about now? What type?
‘I’m not sure I follow… The type?’
‘Ignore me!’ he almost sings. ‘Me mam said me sense of humour would get me into trouble, and it does that – a lot.’
‘Look,’ I ask rapidly, beginning to tire of all his nonsense. ‘Is the van here or not?’
‘Oh, it’s here all right. But it’s round the back.’
‘So…’ I add deliberately, hoping to prompt him into action. ‘Can I see it?’
‘Of course you can, follow me!’ He sets off across the yard, so I do as he asks, trailing along after his skippy step. ‘Me name’s Malachi, by the way,’ he says, as I follow him around the back of the garage building into another yard. ‘I’d shake your hand, but as you can see’ – he waves his grubby hands at me – ‘I’m sure you don’t want engine oil all over yours.’
The yard at the back of Bob’s Bangers is much messier than the one at the front. Whereas all the vehicles at the front of the building are in a pristine and perfect saleable condition, the ones at the back are very definitely in the process of being repaired and restored. Some of them are barely recognisable as any type of vehicle – let alone a vintage one.
‘Parts,’ Malachi explains, seeing my face. ‘Sometimes Bob buys old vehicles and strips them down to use as parts for other cars.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘So, here she is,’ Malachi says, as we pass a large truck missing one of its front wheels. ‘Your new best friend!’
I look at what he’s gesturing to, but all I see is a rusty dirty old van. It too is missing tyres and several other parts of its ‘anatomy’, including a steering wheel, a windscreen, a door, one of its front lights and number plates. It’s in such a bad state that I can barely make out its colour under the dirt. I think it’s red, but it could just as easily be a murky brown or a dirty grey.
‘No… You – you must be mistaken,’ I say, gazing with horror at the junk heap in front of me. ‘I’m here to collect a vintage VW camper van and drive it home to London in a couple of days. This can’t be the right one.’ I look around. ‘Do you have others?’
Malachi laughs, then immediately corrects himself and attempts to look professional. ‘This is definitely your van, I can assure you. I checked Bob’s records when you rang the other day. But I very much doubt you’ll be driving it anywhere in a few days. Maybe a few months…’
I stare at the old camper van, and as I do its one remaining door swings open and then promptly half falls off as one of its rusty hinges fails to support it.
‘Ah, don’t you be doing that,’ Malachi says, rushing to support the door. He gently swings the door back to its shut position. ‘The lady won’t be taking you if you start those shenanigans.’
‘This can’t be the one,’ I say half to myself, half to Malachi. ‘Daisy wouldn’t have left me this old thing.’
‘Daisy?’ Malachi enquires. ‘Yes, that’s the name on the docket – Daisy Williams. I remember it now.’
‘But why would she have bought this?’ I ask, as Malachi hurriedly covers the vehicle’s wing mirror like he’s covering its ears. ‘It’s a heap of junk.’
‘Shush, or you’ll offend her,’ Malachi says, looking worried. ‘These old vehicles are very sensitive – especially camper vans. They’re the worst, very temperamental they can be.’
I look at him to gauge whether he’s joking with me again, but his expression suggests he’s being serious.
‘Sure…’ I agree, deciding the best way to deal with Malachi is to humour him.
‘The look on your face suggests to me you were expecting to drive this little beauty away with you today, is that right, Ana?’ Malachi asks.
‘How do you know my name?’ I stare at him in surprise.
‘You told me on the phone?’ Malachi replies in a Well, duh voice.
‘Oh yes, of course. Er, maybe not today. I’d arranged to have a little break down here for a few days and then I’d planned on driving it back home.’
‘I see…’ Malachi says thoughtfully. ‘But you weren’t expecting to find this poor soul.’ He pats the van as if he’s comforting it.
It’s me that needs comforting, I think, not a scrapyarder of a van. What was Daisy doing buying something that was clearly going to need as much work as this vehicle was?
‘Do you know when Bob is back?’ I ask, wondering if I can negotiate some sort of refund on this. Daisy clearly hadn’t known what she was buying, so perhaps I can get another van somewhere? One that’s actually roadworthy to begin with.
Malachi shakes his head. ‘He’s away indefinitely. He’s gone up north to look after his mam who’s not too well – it sounds pretty bad if you ask me. I’m covering for him.’
‘Ah, I see. That’s a shame.’
Malachi nods. ‘Isn’t it? So, do you still want the van? It’s obviously not what you were expecting?’
I look at the old camper van in front of me, and I’m about to say no, can I possibly get a refund, when I spot something in the window of the door Malachi had saved from falling a few minutes ago.
I walk over to it and take a closer look. It’s a small, but brightly coloured sticker that says I ♥ the 80s.
‘Is everything all right?’ Malachi asks, watching me with interest.
I nod. ‘Yes, everything is fine.’ I think for a moment and then turn to him. ‘I’m assuming that since you’re working here while Bob is away you know how to do up old vehicles?’
‘I do indeed.’
‘Would you be able to do up this one?’
Malachi studies the camper van again. ‘That depends.’
‘On?’
‘On what exactly you want doing to it, and how much you want to spend.’
I look at the van again. This was what Daisy had wanted… though heaven knows why?
If something is worth doing, Ana – I hear one of her favourite sayings echo in my ears – it’s worth doing well.
‘I want everything doing,’ I suddenly announce. ‘When this van leaves St Felix, I want it to look and run like a brand new vehicle.’
Malachi looks impressed. ‘Nice one.’
‘And, I’d like it doing as soon as you possibly can.’
Malachi nods. ‘Not a problem at all. I can do it up all right. As it happens I’m a bit of an expert on VW camper vans – they’re a specialist subject of mine. But it will cost you.’
‘That’s not a problem,’ I say, swallowing hard. Spending the sort of money I expected this renovation would cost wasn’t going to be easy, but Daisy had left me quite a large sum to cover the van’s restoration. At the time I’d thought it far too much, but now, seeing this – I had to stop calling it a ‘heap of junk’ – this project, I wondered if it was going to be enough?
‘Are you absolutely sure about this?’ Malachi asks, as if he’s reading my mind. ‘It’s quite an undertaking?’
I wince at his choice of words. Then I glance at the sticker again.
Daisy was always right, and if this was her final wish for me then I had no choice but to go through with it.
‘Yes,’ I say with more confidence than I actually feel. ‘I’m one hundred per cent sure.’
Four
To my best friend, Ana, I leave the VW camper van that sadly I will now never get the chance to drive and enjoy. Ana, you know how much I always wanted to own one of these wonderful vehicles and what plans I had to enjoy spending time in it, and now I would like you to have those special times for me. Make sure you enjoy the camper van, enjoy the town of St Felix and everything I know you will find there, and above all, enjoy life!
As I walk back down towards the town, I think about what’s just happened. Even though I wasn’t too keen on this project, I was lucky to have stumbled upon Malachi. He might be a bit odd but he certainly seemed t
o know what he was talking about when it came to restoring an old van. After I’d agreed to go through with the restoration, he’d immediately started spouting all sorts of terminology at me that I didn’t understand – something about bay windows versus split screens, and T1s and T2s. I’d just been pleased he’d agreed to do it. Apparently Bob hadn’t left him all that much work to do while he was away because he’d had to leave so suddenly, and Malachi seemed ecstatic to have a project such as this one to get his teeth into.
Annoyingly, though, he’d been unable to give me any immediate prices or a timescale for the restoration. He said he needed to work it all out, but we’d agreed to meet in the pub later tonight to discuss everything, when he said he hoped to be able to give me more of an idea what was needed.
The weather isn’t quite as bright now as it had been when I’d left the pub this morning; there are grey clouds beginning to cover the blue sky and I can feel a cool wind starting to blow in off the sea. But I like it – it feels fresh and breezy – so I decide to take a walk along the coastal path. I had ages until I had to meet Malachi later, so why not spend it blowing away a few cobwebs.
I walk for about an hour, dividing my time between enjoying the spectacular views along St Felix’s coastline and worrying again about my decision to spend a lot of money doing up an old camper van.
After a while I sense there might be rain in the now quite dark clouds that are fast approaching across the sea, so I head back into the town in case shelter is rapidly required.
I pause at one of the shops as I enter the top of Harbour Street and glance at the pretty postcards that are displayed in a rack outside, but it isn’t the sunny photos of St Felix that catch my eye, just how many of the postcards contain artists’ impressions of camper vans.
None of the jolly, colourful vehicles look much like the one I left back at the garage though. These vans shine and gleam as the sun beams down upon them – they look happy and jubilant to be at the seaside, not wretched and miserable like mine. Malachi really would need to be some sort of wizard to work enough magic on it to make it look anything like these glorious specimens.
I sigh, and wonder again if I’ve done the right thing.
It had been the sticker that had changed everything. One sticker – probably stuck in haste to the van window by the previous owner – had made me change my mind. I’d been on the verge of giving up on the whole idea before I saw it.
I didn’t really believe in these things, but I had to admit it did seem like a sign.
After Daisy and I had bonded at the start of the millennium as two slightly unusual teenagers, we had continued to love everything eighties throughout our friendship. In recent years the eighties had come back into fashion again, and this had made it much easier for us to continue our passion. One of the best things had been the many bands that had re-formed for come-back tours, and one of the last outings we’d had together was going to see Spandau Ballet in concert at Wembley Arena. Daisy had loved every minute of that night even if it had exhausted her for days afterwards.
Leaving the postcards, I walk further down the street and pause again outside the window of the bakery that last night had been empty but now was filled, as I had rightly predicted, with delicious-looking cakes, breads and Cornish pasties. Like the fish and chip shop last night, there is a queue winding its way out of the door on to the cobbles outside.
I hesitate.
‘It’s worth the wait,’ a friendly American voice says.
I turn to see a flamboyantly dressed young woman smiling at me. She’s clutching a white paper bag in her hands.
‘We try not to buy cake every day,’ she explains. ‘It’s not good for the figure,’ she pats her stomach. ‘But my boss is heavily pregnant and she gets these weird cravings for Cornish pasties!’
I smile at her.
‘The boys’ baking is delicious – I thoroughly recommend it. Got to dash!’ she says, waving her bag in the air. ‘We’re almost as busy as they are today. The town is jam-packed right now.’
I watch her as she walks a few doors down and heads into the florist, then without further hesitation I join the queue at The Blue Canary, which I’m pleased to see has lessened slightly.
‘I’ll have a wholemeal bap with tuna and cucumber please,’ I tell the jolly-looking man behind the glass counter, when finally I reach the front of the queue. I’m secretly pleased with myself that I’ve been able to resist the scrumptious cakes and pastries that cover the shelves and display cabinets inside the shop.
Instead of agreeing with my request the man cocks his head to one side and looks at me suspiciously. ‘Are you sure about that?’ he asks.
‘Yes…’
‘Sure it’s not a Belgian bun you’re hankering after?’
It was actually, but I’d been trying to give up sugar lately. Well, at least cut down…
‘How do you know that?’ I admit.
‘Call it an occupational hazard!’ He chuckles at his joke. ‘I can match the cake to the person ninety-nine per cent of the time.’
‘What about the other one per cent?’ I ask, playing along.
‘They’re good liars!’ he winks.
‘I guess I’d better order a Belgian bun then!’
‘Good choice!’ he grins. ‘Declan will be bringing some fresh buns out at any minute – you can’t get better than that, can you? Are you okay to wait for a second while I just serve this gentleman, who by the look of him’ – he glances at the old man, who seems to be a holiday-maker judging by his shorts and sandals – ‘wants a traditional Cornish pasty. Am I right, sir?’
The guess is obviously correct, because the man is as surprised as I had been.
I look around the shop while I wait for my bun, and I notice a sign behind the desk that reads: Welcome to the Blue Canary Bakery where your hosts Ant and Dec will be pleased to serve you today.
While I’m smiling at the sign, a smaller man wearing kitchen overalls appears from the back of the shop carrying a tray of freshly baked wares. ‘Another tray of custard tarts on their way in a few minutes, Ant,’ he announces, putting the tray down. ‘Anything else we’re running low on?’
‘Chocolate tarts and mincemeat lattice, love,’ Ant says, without having to look. ‘We usually only have a run on mincemeat in December,’ he tells me, expertly bagging up my Belgian bun, ‘but people are buying everything at the moment! Dec can barely keep up.’
‘Then I’ll pay you for this and get out of your way,’ I tell him. The shop was getting very full now, and I was keen to escape out of the door again. I hand him the right money.
‘Make sure you come back!’ Ant says, passing me the bag. ‘You’re here for a while, yes?’
‘A few days,’ I say non-committally.
Ant looks at me knowingly. ‘Hmm… we’ll see. Now enjoy your bun and we’ll see you soon, my lovely!’ He turns away to deal with his next customer.
I take my bun, buy a takeaway coffee from a stall by the harbour, then find a bench to sit down on and enjoy them.
Like yesterday the town is busy again today, and even though the sun has chosen to hide itself behind a bank of dark grey cloud, with its pretty bunting fluttering gaily in the breeze and the fishing boats bobbing about the rapidly filling harbour, St Felix still manages to remain bright and cheerful.
‘Clarice!’ I hear a voice call, when I’ve just finished my bun and am enjoying my coffee. ‘Clarice, you come back here!’ The voice manages to penetrate through the cries of seagulls and holiday-makers’ chatter.
I look around to see a small dog running along the harbour with its red lead trailing behind it along the ground. It races along in front of where I sit, so I quickly put my foot out and step on the lead, pulling the dog to an immediate halt.
Then I reach down and pick up the lead, and encourage the dog over to me. She comes willingly, allowing me to stroke her and acting as if there’s nothing wrong with her behaviour at all.
‘Thank you!’ I hear the voice
pant, as a pair of shiny red Doc Marten boots arrive next to me. ‘Thank you so much. Noah would have killed me if I’d lost her.’
I look up past the boots to see a young woman. She’s wearing black tights and black shorts with a white T-shirt that has Choose Life emblazoned upon it in black letters. Her dark hair is cropped short, and she has a nose piercing to match the several she has in each ear.
‘We’ve actually met before,’ I tell her, ruffling Clarice’s head. ‘Last night. Is Noah her owner? Youngish chap, glasses?’
‘Hmm.’ She screws up her face. ‘I wouldn’t call him young, but he does wear glasses. About your age, I guess.’