by Rosie Harris
She wasn’t hurt, but she was very frightened.
Aware that she was causing a hold-up and that it was a busy road junction, Margaret drove slowly to the next side road and then pulled in.
She was trembling so much that she couldn’t think what to do next. Shaking, she sat there with the engine running waiting expectantly for an irate driver to hammer on her window.
Instead, the car that had bumped her and which was still behind her pulled out and sped away down the road towards Maidenhead in a cloud of dust. As it roared past her the driver raised his fist in a threatening gesture but with a broad grin on his cheeky young face.
Astonished, yet at the same time relieved, she looked back at the road junction. Traffic was flowing smoothly; no one was taking any interest in the incident.
Nervously she pulled out into the road and drove on. It was less than a mile to the block of luxury flats where Jan lived so she decided to wait until she got there to check if there was any damage to the BMW.
She parked in one of the lined-off sections labelled ‘Visitors’ and switched off the engine. She was still trembling when she walked round to the back of the car to inspect for possible damage.
Apart from the merest smudge of red paint on the heavy black bumper there wasn’t a mark to be seen. She couldn’t believe it!
Although she’d had a seat belt on, the impact had been hard enough to throw her forward on to the steering wheel. It hadn’t hurt much at the time but now her ribs were quite painful. She was sure they were bruised.
She did a double check on the BMW, bending down to see if the exhaust pipe was all right, if the number plate and rear lights were damaged and breathed a sigh of relief to find they were all unscathed.
Everything seemed to be in perfect order. Fate had been kind to her. She could imagine Charles’s reaction if she had damaged Reginald’s car the very first time she took it out. He would probably have told her she shouldn’t have been driving it.
He was right, of course. It was far too big for her. She’d have to sell it, and buy something smaller. Not an Escort but something a bit more upmarket. She’d always fancied having a Mercedes coupe. She’d never mentioned it to anyone because she knew only too well what Reginald’s reaction would have been.
Still, she reminded herself, he wasn’t here now to stop her or to make cutting, sarcastic remarks. She could buy whatever sort of car she fancied. And she would!
In fact, she decided that would be the very first thing she would do. She’d get rid of Reginald’s BMW, and buy something she was happy with; a car she would enjoy driving.
It would be her first step towards independence. She wouldn’t consult Charles, or Steven, or even Alison. She’d do it all by herself.
‘Yes, your days are numbered,’ she muttered aloud as she locked the doors of the BMW and dropped the keys inside her handbag.
She hadn’t felt so excited, or confident, for ages. Not for years, in fact, she thought happily as she crossed the gravel drive to the entrance to the block of flats.
Eight
Utterly bemused by all the chatter, her senses dazzled by the splendour of the decor and furnishings, Margaret drove away from Jan Porter’s penthouse in a state of euphoria.
Instead of returning to her own house in Cookham she turned right along the river road to the A4 and then right again towards the centre of Maidenhead. On her left was a large garage with an array of pumps lining the forecourt and an enormous glass-sided showroom full of gleaming expensive cars, most of them so new that they didn’t even carry a registration number.
She pulled in, parked, locked up her car and went into the showroom.
There’s no harm in browsing and seeing what is on offer, she told herself.
Some of the price tags horrified her. Still, she mused, the BMW had an extremely low mileage so she ought to get a very good trade-in price for it.
She tried to avoid the slick young salesman wearing a light grey three-piece suit, pink shirt and garish pink and blue tie. His rubber-soled black shoes made no sound at all as he glided to her side.
Even before he spoke she knew he was studying her critically. Probably wondering if a woman on her own is a serious buyer or not, she thought wryly.
He coughed discreetly. ‘Good morning. Can I help you in any way?’
She shook her head firmly. ‘No thank you, At the moment I’m only looking.’
‘Feel free. They’re all unlocked if you want to sit in any of them.’
He wandered away. She watched him out of the corner of her eye. He appeared to be admiring his reflection in the plate glass windows, but she knew he was still watching her. She was sure that he was ready to pounce if she showed the slightest interest.
He’s only doing his job, she told herself. Come on, be decisive and show some confidence. Lead him on. Kid him into thinking you’re going to buy one. Let him get into his spiel. You don’t have to commit yourself to anything. As long as you don’t sign anything you can always walk away.
She thought back to the last time she had been there, when Reginald had ordered the BMW. He had been so high-handed with the salesman that she’d felt embarrassed. He’d been abrupt to the point of rudeness and practically told the man that he didn’t know his job. When the salesman told him that there was a six-week wait for the model he wanted he’d demanded to see the manager.
It had worked, of course. The manager knew Reginald personally. They’d belonged to the same golf club, and so he had bent over backwards to placate Reginald. He’d assured him that he would deal with the matter personally and ensure immediate delivery. It had still taken six weeks and when it had arrived the colour hadn’t been the one Reginald had specified.
Margaret sensed that the salesman was about to pounce again so she turned away quickly and focused her attention on the car nearest to her. Her breath caught in her throat, it was the car of her dreams; a Mercedes coupe!
She stood transfixed. She had always loved the elegant lines of the Mercedes coupe but this one was a dream. It was a pale metallic green; a delicate shade that reminded her of the newly uncurled leaves in spring on the willow tree that grew in her garden.
‘Why don’t you sit in it so that you get the feel of it?’ urged the salesman in persuasive tones.
The serpent tempting Eve, thought Margaret. Like Eve, she obeyed.
Ensnared in the car’s luxurious interior, instinctively her hands gripped the wheel. She was overcome by desire. This was the car for her. She’d never wanted anything as much as this in her whole life.
‘Would you like to take it out on the road for a test drive, madam?’
Margaret shook her head. She didn’t need to do that because she knew it would drive perfectly.
‘It’s automatic. Have you driven an automatic car before?’ He looked out on to the forecourt as he spoke, trying to decide which of the several cars parked there might be hers.
‘You will soon get used to it. You will find it is far easier than driving with a manual gearbox. Much less tiring when you are in traffic.’
Margaret nodded without speaking. She was acutely aware that he was assuming she was going to buy it. Could she? Dare she?
‘It really is your sort of car,’ he murmured, quietly.
He sounded so serious that she looked up at him, startled. As their gaze locked and she saw genuine interest in the dark eyes fixed on her, she was aware of him as a person, not a mere robot programmed in the mode of salesman.
She relaxed. ‘It is a car I’ve always dreamed of owning,’ she admitted.
He nodded understandingly. ‘What do you have at the moment?’
She indicated towards the forecourt. ‘The silver grey BMW out there.’
‘Really?’ His interest heightened and thin lips formed into a silent whistle.
‘It was bought from here so what sort of trade-in price would you give me if I should decide to replace it with this one, I mean?’
‘Well—’ he looked thoughtful, le
tting out his breath in a long, sibilant hiss, and puffing out his cheeks slightly – ‘I’d have to check the BMW over before I could say.’
‘Here.’ She held out the car keys. ‘Why don’t you do that and let me know.’
‘Right!’ His dark eyes brightened. He was the robot salesman once again with pound signs of his commission dangling like carrots in front of his eyes.
While he was gone, Margaret sat in the Mercedes again. Her hands wandered tentatively over the dashboard, moving the controls, testing out the lights. She had never felt so comfortable in any car as she did in this one. She felt so much in control that she wanted to drive it out of the showroom there and then. And why not?
While the salesman was checking out the trade-in allowance he could make on the BMW she did some quick calculations.
Before he’d retired, Reginald had made her a generous allowance to cover the cost of running her own car, buying clothes, taking days out, and paying all her other personal needs. She’d expected him to cut it back after he’d sold her car, but he had gone on transferring the same amount into her bank account as previously even though she had mentioned that she didn’t really need as much.
In the years that followed she had bought very few new clothes, and since whenever she went out anywhere it was always with Reginald, he had always paid, so she’d spent very little of her allowance. So, from time to time she’d transferred most of it from her current account into a high interest savings account.
It had earned a good return and become a sizeable nest egg. She hoped it was going to be enough to pay the difference between the trade-in allowance on the BMW and the cost of the Mercedes.
To her great relief, it was. Even so she hesitated, not sure whether she ought to take such a step without consulting Charles first of all.
The salesman, fearing he was about to lose the deal, grudgingly lowered the price by a further two hundred pounds. Unable to resist such a bargain, Margaret agreed to buy the Mercedes.
Oozing success, he guided her to the office at the far end of the showroom to complete the paperwork.
I must be meant to have that car, she thought excitedly as she settled herself in the chair he pulled out for her and faced him across the polished desktop.
‘You do own the BMW?’
‘Of course!’ She fished around in her shoulder bag and brought out the relevant documents, and laid them on the table. Normally she never carried papers of that sort with her yet some instinct had dictated that she should pick them up before she’d left the house.
Eagerly he reached out for the documents.
He frowned as he studied them. ‘The BMW is registered in your husband’s name …’
‘I know that!’
‘Then we will need his signature.’
‘That’s impossible!’
The dark eyes challenged Margaret. ‘You mean he doesn’t want to sell?’
‘He’s dead. His funeral was last week!’ Her laugh sounded a little hysterical.
‘I see!’ He ran a finger around his collar. ‘Give me a moment …’
A feeling of despair began to creep through Margaret’s veins. Nothing had changed. Even now Reginald was still managing to stop her getting her own way.
Her heart pounded and the colour rushed to her cheeks as the salesman returned accompanied by the manager. They recognized each other simultaneously.
‘Mrs Wright.’ His hand went out. ‘I was so sorry to hear about Reginald’s death last week. Very sad.’ He held her hand in both his own in a gesture he intended to be comforting. ‘Now, about his car.’
‘I want to trade it in for a Mercedes coupe. The light green one that you have in your showroom.’
‘Ah, I see. The BMW is too big for you, is it? They can be quite a handful. A man’s car, really.’
‘I’ve always wanted a Mercedes coupe.’
‘Yes, yes. A lovely car.’ He ran a hand over his thinning grey hair. ‘Just one small point, though. The BMW is in your husband’s name.’
‘I know that … but its mine now.’
‘Yes, well, we will have to sort the details out first. We have to establish ownership, that sort of thing. Mere formality,’ he hurried on as she was about to speak. ‘It should only take a few days.’
‘A few days!’ She bit down on her lower lip in exasperation. ‘I wanted to complete the transaction now and drive home in my new car.’
She saw the two men exchange glances. She was making a mess of this. She sounded like a spoilt child not a confident adult.
‘I don’t think that is going to be possible. We do have to establish that the BMW has been left to you and that might take a little while. It probably means waiting until after the will has been dealt with and—’
‘You mean probate? That could take months!’
‘Perhaps I should ring your son Charles, Mrs Wright. We know each other quite well. He might be able to advise me on how to proceed.’
Margaret stiffened. ‘It has nothing to do with him whatsoever.’
‘Very well …’ He hesitated. He was as reluctant as the salesman to see the deal collapse through what was, after all, a mere technicality.
In an attempt to placate Margaret he said, ‘Look, what I could do is hold on to the BMW and if you paid the difference between the amount I think we can allow you on it and we could let you take the Mercedes and we’ll sort out the details at our leisure.’
‘Great! That sounds fine to me.’
‘I would still require confirmation from Charles, or whoever is dealing with your husband’s affairs, about the legal ownership of the BMW, Mrs Wright,’ he added uneasily.
‘Oh! Well, if you must contact him, you must, I suppose.’ She shrugged resignedly.
‘Good!’ He rubbed his thin hands together. ‘I’ll go into that side of things then while you go ahead and arrange the changeover of insurance cover. When you’ve done that, and your cheque has been cleared, I’ll be happy to complete the transaction.’
‘Surely even that is going to take several days?’
‘I’m afraid you’re right.’ He gave an ingratiating smile. ‘Meanwhile,’ he picked up a red SOLD sticker, and handed it to the salesman, ‘we’ll take great care of your Mercedes, and make quite sure no one else snaps it up.’
Margaret didn’t answer.
Listening to him was like hearing a replay of Reginald’s platitudes when she became worked up about something. With a few words he had managed to eradicate her feeling of happiness and excitement.
Ask Charles, indeed! She knew what Charles would say. ‘Of course the BMW is too big for her. What she needs is a nice little second-hand Metro, or bottom-of-the-range Ford. Nothing too powerful. She never goes anywhere. Simply potters around locally or to the shops.’
Well, that was where he was wrong. She wasn’t going to content herself with pottering around locally. Not any more. There was a whole big world out there just waiting to be explored. She slammed the BMW into gear, reversed out of the garage forecourt and headed for the multi-storey car park in the centre of Maidenhead.
If she couldn’t have a new car then she’d go ahead and have a holiday. There were several travel agencies in the shopping precinct; one of them must have something available that would suit her needs. She didn’t mind where it was just as long as she could go right away.
‘If you are travelling on your own then maybe it would probably be best if you took a package deal,’ advised the travel clerk.
‘You mean go with a party and have a guide taking care of us?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh, no!’ Margaret shook her head emphatically. ‘I want to go on holiday on my own, not with a crowd of people I’ve never met before and don’t know.’
‘It’s not very wise … not these days … not for an …’ The girl bit her lip, and pulled herself up quickly. ‘We don’t recommend women to travel on their own.’
‘I see.’ Margaret straightened up wearily. ‘Perhaps I’d be
tter think it over then.’
Feeling utterly depressed, and disillusioned, Margaret made her way to the nearest cafe. Over a cup of black coffee she pondered the situation. Possibly the girl was right. With her limited knowledge of foreign languages it might be difficult to make herself understood if she travelled to a country where they didn’t speak English. Even so, she ought to be able to manage Malta or Gibraltar, or even Cyprus.
Steven and Sandra had gone there for their honeymoon and they’d said that most Cypriots spoke English, in the main holiday resorts, at any rate.
That’s where she’d go; Cyprus!
Revived by the coffee, her spirits once more soaring, Margaret once again went to make a booking. She deliberately chose a different travel agency. She didn’t want to meet up with the same well-meaning girl in case she came up with some other warning.
This time she was in luck. The clerk said they could book her in for Cyprus right away at a top-class hotel in Limassol. The flight would be from Gatwick the next day.
Margaret’s heart thudded in excited anticipation as he began to fill in the necessary paperwork.
‘Could I see your passport?’
‘Passport?’ Margaret stared at the blonde in her tailored navy and white uniform.
‘You haven’t brought it with you? Well, if you’d like to let me have some other form of identification, so that we can verify your cheque …’
‘I will need my passport though … when I get to the airport, I mean?’
‘Of course you will. Does that present some sort of a problem?’
Margaret looked vague. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘You do have a passport?’
‘Yes, yes … of course.’
As she spoke, Margaret tried desperately to think where it might be. Reginald had always insisted on looking after all those sorts of important documents; birth certificates, wedding certificate, deeds for the house, income tax forms and every other kind of form that came into the house. Her passport would probably be with those, and they were locked away in the bureau in his study. She didn’t even have a key. He probably kept one at the office, and the other on his key ring and Charles had taken possession of that.