The Rectory

by Ivan B

  I was still trying to get my head around two restorations with the last costing £8000 - £8000 for this?

  “How come it was so expensive to restore?”

  Norman made a face as if to say it was cheap.

  “Had to get some body panels from American specialists, basically it was a rust bucket with a solid engine, gearbox and rear-axle.”

  I remembered the huge garage.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Norman’s eyes took on a melancholic look.

  “His wife and family were killed in a plane accident in 1985. Apparently she parked the car, with the soft-top down, on the drive when she left. She was due to fly to Paris in a private plane, drop the children off with her sister and return, but they never made it across the channel. Legend has it that he couldn’t bear to touch the car and left it sitting on the drive; then last year he rings up and gives us the restoration job.”

  He swallowed hard.

  “His instructions said that he wanted it finished before he died as he didn’t want to have to explain to his wife that he’d let it rot.”

  I surveyed the car again, he murmured.

  “We’ll deliver if you like.”

  I nodded, still overwhelmed by the thought that someone would spend £8000 on restoring a car because he thought his dead wife would be mad if he didn’t.

  Norman left me for a few minutes to get some paperwork and I had a look around. Under the covers were a classic car fiend’s dreams; Jaguar E-Type, Ford Capri, Austin Cambridge, Jowett Javlin, Humber Super Snipe, Amrstrong-Siddley Sapphire, Standard 8, Austin 16, Morgan Sports and so on. I wandered back into the main showroom and studied the Jensen, which to my chagrin had a ‘reserved’ sticker on it. Then I raise my eyes to look at a car in the corner and it looked back at me with it’s small headlights and mini bull-bar front bumper that just seemed to smile. It was not what I was looking for, but I drifted over to study it all the same. I leant down and looked at the leather seats and minimal dashboard. It’s crazy, totally crazy, but I felt an affinity with the machine and I’m sure that it felt a propinquity with me. Norman must have crept up behind me for he whispered enticingly in my ear.

  “It’s for sale if you want it. Chap asked us to do some restoration and bits and pieces and then went bankrupt so we kept the car as part-payment for work done.”

  I ran my finger round the beautifully folded soft-top.

  “Is it original?”

  “Yes and no, the basic car is, but we took the roof off and turned it into an open-top; it’s not quite a Barchetta, but we reckon it’s quite good.”

  I ran my hand over the stainless steel roll-over-hoop behind the pair of beautifully crafted leather clad bucket seat and Norman continued his seductive murmur.

  “We’ve put lightweight steel tube strengthening behind the front and rear bumpers, within the door seals, across the floor and around the seat belt mounting points to compensate for the loss of the roof; given it those bucket style leather seats and it has a slightly tweaked 594cc engine to cope with the extra weight and to give it the same performance.”

  He opened the door and I slipped into the driver’s seat. He pointed to a pair of knobs.

  “There’s no ash-tray as we’ve put the radio controls there; good news is that it has a radio/MP3/CD player and a fully approved alarm, bad news is only half of the boot space is left.”

  I moved the driver’s seat into the correct position for me and played with the pedals, but in reality I was already besotted.

  “Top speed?”

  “It will get to 80 eventually.”

  I studied the dashboard, there was only a speedometer.

  “Fuel gauge?”

  “No, just a warning light that says when you’ve got about four litres left – that’s probably enough for 35 miles.”

  I knew that I was already bonding with the vehicle.

  “Any other mods?”

  I could almost see him racking his memory.

  “Basic car was a Fiat 500F, but the bumpers and front motif are from a 500L and we replaced the metal fuel tank with a safer type, you know the plastic bag within a deformable plastic container.”

  I sat in the seat letting the little machine enfold me in it’s contentment. Norman fingered the cheque he held in his hands, he almost whispered, “how about you give me £4500 and I keep the cheque?”

  I responded swiftly.

  “£2500 and the cheque.”

  “Cheque and £3000.”

  “Done.”

  So I left Norman’s classic cars in a battle-grey Fiat 500 open-top that I had decided to call Fiatimo, feeling like a king and trying to remember to double de-clutch when changing gear as the little beastie had no synchromesh.

  When I pulled onto the drive I had to negotiate around a smart Mercedes van with D & Y Cranstone Electrical and Burglar Alarm specialists plastered down the side. Yolande and an older man were piling up what looked like bricks, both were wearing absurdly large leather gloves. She looked up and smiled, “Cute.”

  I grinned inanely.

  “The original compact car, wheel at each corner and plenty of mpg.”

  Her father tossed her a brick and she deftly caught it and added it to the pile; I drove off and left her to it.

  I spent an enjoyable afternoon reading through the car’s handbook, tuning the radio into every station I could think of and generally crawling all over the car. I could do this with complete enjoyment as isolated in the garage there were no prying eyes or curious neighbours to disturb my meditations. By the time I got back to the flat it was nearly seven o’clock and my stomach reminded me that I hadn’t eaten since my sandwich on the way home. I had not yet bothered to fill the flat’s tiny freezer so I had no food to fall back on. I commended myself for my foresight and phoned the local pizza take-away. I’d spotted the take-away on my way home in a small parade of shops about a mile away from the rectory. It held all the shops that you’d expect of a local shopping centre; newsagent, early to late general store, fish ‘n’ chip/Chinese, ladies hairdressers, bakers and the pizza shop. I ordered a small pizza and tossed salad and started on the black box file. Twenty minutes later I heard the buzz of a moped and my pizza arrived, I went downstairs to collect it and the young boy smiled and cocked a thumb.

  “You almost lost this to the lady in the house.”

  I turned to look at the house and noted that the upstairs lights were on. I duly paid him and he rode off leaving a trail of disturbed gravel behind him. The small pizza turned out to be about 25cm in diameter and to large for one person, the salad on the other hand was limp and pathetic. I looked out of my flat window and called up Yolande on her mobile phone and asked if she wanted to share a pizza, she was at my door in under two minutes.

  Twenty minutes, one pizza, half a salad and two cans of beer later I filled the kettle intending to make some coffee. Yolande folded the pizza box into four and stuffed it in the bin. I remember pointing to the rectory.

  “You’re working late.”

  “Want to get the heaters working before the promised cold snap arrives.”

  I plugged in the kettle, straightened up, banged the side of my head on the edge of a cupboard and my world fell off the edge, my conscious world that is.

  I came round staring into the craggy face of a grey-haired man with a green shirt. The side of my head throbbed wildly and I tried to move my head to ease the pain, blackness enfolded me and thankfully the pain disappeared.

  The second time I came around I was staring into the face of a young blonde with pastel blue eyes and a green shirt. She was worth focusing on and I strove to stay conscious. I heard a disembodied man’s voice asking me if I knew where I was. I tried to reply that I was staring into the face of an angel, but the effort was too much and I closed my eyes.

  The third time I came round I managed to stay conscious and it was Yolande’s face that came into view first. I wondered where my angel had gone and managed to croak “angel?” befo
re a soft Cornish voice asked me if I knew where I was. I mentally examined my fuzzy brain.

  “In my flat.”

  “What day is it?”

  “Tuesday.”

  I groggily thought that I had a one in seven chance of being right.

  “Can you remember what happened?”

  I wished the interrogation would stop and that they would go away,

  “I plugged in the kettle.”

  I went to sit up and dropped off the edge of the world for a second time.

  Chapter 6

  The Best Laid Plans...

  I finally came round and stayed conscious in the A & E department of the local hospital. My head felt like a used football and the side of my head felt both prickly and on fire. Not wanting to move my head I swivelled my eyes to find that I was in a curtained off cubicle and sitting beside me, reading an old Hello magazine, was Yolande. She glance up and locked eyes;

  “So you’re awake again.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly nine.”

  “How long have I been here?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Ambulance arrived about eight, got here about eight-thirty and the doctor on duty examined you and then got a nurse to sew you up – he said it would save on the anaesthetic.”

  I thought about making a quip about the caring NHS, but decided that it would sound ungrateful. Yolande turned a page. “The doctor seemed to know you.”

  “I’ve been here before.”

  “He did mutter that you didn’t seem able to stay away.”

  I licked my dry lips;

  “Any water?”

  “Sorry, he said nil by mouth till he saw you again, said he’s coming back about ten.”

  I was prevented by answering by the appearance of a male nurse who approached the trolley and towered over me.

  “So we’re awake now are we Mr Holmes?”

  I didn’t bother to answer and he smiled that professional ‘We’re looking after you now smile’ that I’m sure nurses are taught as part of their basic training.

  “Can you tell me what day it is?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “And your mother’s maiden name?”

  “Evans.”

  “And the last time you visited us?”

  “August last year when I sat on a rake.”

  I watched him walk over to the wall and study an x-ray of a head.

  “Is that mine?”

  “Yes, you can tell by the thick skull.”

  Yolande looked at me and raised an eyebrow, I managed a feeble grin. He came back, checked my pulse, examined my eyes and left. Yolande gave me a curious look.

  “Bit abrupt isn’t he?”

  “We went to school together, I knocked him out with a cricket ball.”

  “Shouldn’t he have ducked if he was batting?”

  “He was the umpire, I tripped on the run up and thumped him on the head, I didn’t even let go of the ball.”

  She burst into a fit of giggles, it somehow didn’t fit in with her normal demeanour. I tried a little movement of my head and instantly regretted it as there were steam hammers waiting to pounce. I tried a smile on Yolande.

  “Thanks for staying, you didn’t have to.”

  She shrugged.

  “Beats pulling out old wiring.”

  There was no answer to that and I closed my eyes, Yolande tapped my arm.

  “None of that, the doctor said that you had to stay awake once you came round.”

  I groaned, I just wanted to sleep. She put her magazine to one side.

  “Just how often have you been here?”

  I tried to formulate a mental list.

  “Ran into a barbed wire fence when I was two, broke an arm by falling off a slide at four, drank floor cleaner when five, hit by a milk float when seven, fell of bike when eight and so on.”

  She gave a wicked smile.

  “And sat on a rake last year?”

  “How was I to know that it was hidden in the long grass?”

  “And before that?”

  Did I have to tell her my whole miserable record?

  “Shut my fingers in a car door – I didn’t close the door mind, a mad cyclist rode into it. Otherwise I had a two year break after I put my foot down an open drain.”

  She picked up her magazine.

  “So basically you’re a disaster area.”

  I was trying to think of a smart retort when Dr Kinross entered the cubicle. He surveyed my notes.

  “Someone let you out did they?”

  “What’s the damage?”

  “No lasting damage courtesy of a thick skull and prompt medical attention by your girl-friend, otherwise you might have bled to death. I’ll keep you in overnight just to monitor for concussion, but my sympathies are with the wall cupboard.”

  “How many stitches?”

  “Sixteen.”

  “Sixteen!”

  “You hit the corner of the work-top on the way down, that did the real damage.”

  He turned to Yolande.

  “If things go according to plan you can pick him up at eleven tomorrow, he’s booked in for a brain scan at nine, not that I think we’ll find much.”

  She gather her things and the doctor pulled back the curtain for her.

  “But if your going out with this mobile mishap I’d take an advanced first-aid course and start negotiating for a car-park season ticket now.”

  She gave the merest flicker of a smile.

  “Have you considered that he might have Munchausen's syndrome.”

  He burst out laughing, “Don’t insult Baron Munchausen.”

  She left and he turned to me.

  “When you get out of here she needs a big bunch of flowers, if she hadn’t pressed a towel to your head until the medics arrived you’d be pushing up daisies by now, you were leaking like a stuck pig when you arrived downstairs.”

  I made a mental note of that before I passed out.

  At eleven the following morning, after a delightful tour up the inside of a CAT scanner, I left with Yolande. The doctors had given me the all-clear, but I felt like I had the hangover of hangovers vying for space in my brain with the migraine of migraines. As I plodded towards the car-park I had a dreadful premonition.

  “You didn’t come in your van did you?”

  “Only transport I’ve got.”

  Great! A ride in a clapped out diesel van was all I needed. By the time we got back to my flat I would have traded the whole rectory for a Buddhist monastery or any place of tranquility and peace. She saw me into my flat and then held out her hand.

  “Key please - I’m under strict instructions to monitor you every hour.”

  Somehow giving a girl your door-key should be a symbolic event of trust and promised passion not a matter of doctor’s orders, but I was in no state to argue, I just wanted my bed – alone and in peace.

  Yolande dutifully checked me every hour, least I assume she did as I was only awake half the time. Whether it was the sleep or the multitude of analgesic tablets or my body’s healing powers – they’d had plenty of practice – by six o’clock I was largely compos mentis and hungry. Yolande appeared five minutes later with a pair of giant baked potatoes filled with chicken and mushroom. I gingerly sat up and she passed one to me. “How you feeling?”

  “I now know how a nail feels after it’s been knocked into a piece of wood.”

  “Double vision?”

  “No.”

  This seemed to satisfy her and we ate in silence; I was glad about that for even the crunching sounds in my mouth sounded like Bonfire night in an empty bathroom.

  When we’d finished she passed me a glass of apple juice with the dry comment that coffee was too dangerous to make. I didn’t laugh, it was a funny comment, but laughter was too painful to contemplate. I surveyed the end wall.

  “Who cleared up the blood?”

  “I came back and did it last night, I used your keys.”


  “Thanks but you didn’t have to.”

  She shrugged.

  “You gave yourself a hell of a bang, I wasn’t looking but I actually felt the thump as you hit your head on the way down.”

  I carefully moved back to rest against the wall.

  “Doctor said I owed you a big thank-you.”

  She shrugged, smiled impishly and chuckled all in one go.

  “Send the flowers later.”

  “I will.”

  She gave me an intense look.

  “If I leave you I can trust to find you alive and well in the morning?”

  “Promise.”

  She got up to leave and placed a pile of envelopes on my bed, “Your mail – it’s being delivered to the house, and you had two callers, the local vicar and a wooden flooring specialist. I sent to vicar away and let the specialist measure up, he says he’ll be back on Friday – OK?”

  “Thanks.”

  She left and I laid down to sleep badly dreaming of bleeding to death in a pig-sty while the pigs played poker.

  By Friday morning I was almost back to normal, back to normal that is as long as I didn’t move my head too fast as it still felt tender both inside and outside. I took a walk into the garden and immediately felt the difference in the weather for it was appreciably colder. I walked up to the house. Yolande’s van was outside and so was that of the carpenter, perhaps things were looking up. I entered the house to find a blazing row in progress. They were standing by a window and from the body language I could tell that it was a stand-off. Yolande tapped the window frame and stated firmly.

  “One switch per sliding window is no good, there’s got to be one on each side of both sliding windows and at different heights.”

  He put his hand on his hips, “And I’m saying that they can’t go on the side of the windows because of the sashes. In a perfect world the sash rolls away as the window rises, but we don’t have a perfect world and they sometimes stick and then whip – they’d take the head clean off your precious switch.”