As they moved off Tom mentioned, "You know, Dad, you won't have to worry. A lot of people know what you did and there are grateful ones who have told me they will look after you."
"Aye! So grateful they went to the Police and told them the truth, hey? No child, I am not one for charity. If they felt they owed something, the time to pay was before I had to pay for it. Five years for receiving, I could accept that. Twenty five years because someone died in a stupid robbery, that was never my sentence. Yes, people will know I dobbed no one in, and yes, I will have respect, but I will not have charity. I taught you that, didn't I? A man makes his own way, or not at all."
"You taught me that, Dad. I will let people know you won't have charity. Tim does still run a shop, I know you asked me to check, but it is his grandson running it now, and he tells me it is not somewhere you would want to be. But you remember John Bloor? Of course you do, he said the shop floor can use you as they are always restoring some of the old bikes."
"Rich bastards can never be trusted, Tom. You know that. But fair pay doing something you love, that could be a good gig. It could be indeed. Now, I know you have offered me to stay with your family, but I can't help but feel I would be a burden and useless as tits on a bull there. I am happy to be put up till I find my feet, but I can't be staying there forever you know."
Tom smiled. He had heard the story, many times, of how his grandfather had topped himself out of the humiliation of a well-to-do son offering him free board and keep. "We won't be making a grand-dad out of you, Dad. I thought as much and while you are about there is a little job you might want to do to help a neighbor. I know he could surely use some help, after that we will see what turns up for you, ok?"
"That would be good then," Harry said, and so very glad his son did not humiliate him. He was a good boy, the best thing he ever did.
The Batch
A bachelor pad, you say? For a Spinster? Now there's a turn of words for you.. Well, yes I am good with tools, and am happy to help out for fair pay till I get myself a little sorted," Harry said to Tom's neighbour as they discussed things at the local. He was a decent sort of lad, for a rich man.
Turned out, he was one of his students from the Polytech and an old school mate of his son. Truth to tell, Eddy was one of the better ones. Really knew how to turn a spanner that lad and it had paid him well. The boy had gotten into F1 and made himself a small fortune designing wings for damn cars. "Wings for cars, it just makes me laugh. And they pay you for that, do they?" Harry laughed as he chugged down another Guinness.
"They do indeed Mr. Jenkins, and they pay me on top of this an even MORE exorbitant amount, just so I won't tell anyone else about it! They are all very secretive down on the downs, they are." Ed also laughed, happy to have his old lecturer with him, the one who showed him everything there was to know about how to make a machine work better.
"So you admit that you made your money through what is essentially blackmail then? I like that, I like that a lot!" And that old laugh bellowed out. A roar of mirth not heard in years in those parts echoed around the pub. Big, proud and loud, Harry was still a man's man, despite the frailty of his years. A few young riders were also there, that had come over to talk. Harry was a legend. He had helped Les Harris keep the Triumph alive in the dark days and knew every secret and every performance mod you could do with the old girls.
"And what is it that you be wanting from me, then?" Harry asked as the laughter faded. He felt good, much better than expected. A small crowd had been there to greet him. Many of the people that had been writing to him for years had come and they all wanted to buy him a drink, which suited him just fine. But after an hour or two of this it was time for business and in his estimation, this young Ed seemed to be an OK sort of lad to work for.
"At the back of my house, I am building a small granny flat. All approved, but done as a studio, if you know what I mean. Tom said you were handy with tools and good with building on the quiet. I also need someone I can trust because I can't be there. Business has me away all week, every week. It is not complicated, just a simple wooden hut, but I want it to have a craftsman's touch, not like what you get from those damn lazy new carpenters who only know how to use a nail gun. The thing is, I want to do it all cash, nothing the government needs to know about, and I figured you might be the man for this."
"I might be indeed. What sort of cash would we be looking at then?" Harry asked.
"Well, I been thinking all up, Twenty Grand. I supply all tools and materials, you just pop it up in your own time over the next two months."
"Things can become tricky, council can walk in and ask questions, things can go wrong. Two months can become three, can become four." Harry knew he was a little out of touch with tools and would not have minded the extra time.
"It has to be two months. Tom has organized some of the local lads to pitch in with trades, to speed it up if needs be. All approvals are in place, as per the plans for an out-building. I have all the materials needed and they are already set up in a shed on the property. So all that is needed is yourself, if you are up for it, that is." Ed glanced up at the barman, who brought over a couple more pints.
Harry was no fool. He knew Tom had set him up with this job, but twenty thousand pounds was a tidy sum. It bought him a decent caravan, and he was sure he could find some old friend with a farm where he could park it. Two months he said he would be staying and two months was the length of a job, there it was… this was no coincidence. "Fair trade is no man's loss," said Harry as he shook Ed's hand, cementing the deal. Tom really was the best thing he had ever done.
"And how then did you meet my young Tom, I would be asking," Harry added as they toasted the upcoming job and talked about what was needed. He wanted to know a little more of the background.
"We go way back, Mr. Jenkins, all the way back to school. All the lads knew you and we were all jealous of Tom, getting to meet Barry Sheene, Tommy Robb, all the racers, all the people that mattered. In fact, it was because of Barry Sheene that I got into racing myself. You probably don't recall the bike you built for him?" Ed asked.
" I remember every work of art I ever created," Harry snorted back. "I did his a year or two after Tommy Robb's Bultaco. His father brought it to me and I made it go faster. That's what I do. I didn't expect him to trot off to the Japs like he did and while I can't argue that he didn't do well for himself, it was the Jap bikes that brought British motorcycling to its grave."
"True," said Ed. "But years ago Barry Sheene called around to Tom's house looking for you and he found us both working on a BSA. He took one look at our greasy hands and said he knew he had come to the right place. He was looking for you, or more to the point, looking for a Norton. Well, I knew the bike so I took him there. He took a liking to me and when he found out that all I wanted to do was work on racing bikes, he got me a job.
"That got me started in the business, so indirectly you are the one responsible for me earning the very good living I do, Mr. Jenkins.”
Harry just nodded. He got the picture now, both lads wanted to help him, but not with charity. That suited him fine, a leg up that helped both of them. "When would you be wanting to start then?" he asked.
They agreed to a time and while Ed left the general hours of work up to Harry, he pointed out that the weekends had to be free, as he didn't want to come home and hear work on site. Again, this suited Harry, as he fully intended to be living at the pub most Saturdays and Sundays.
The rest of the night passed by as Harry regaled eager ears with stories of bikes, bike riders and famous teams from British motorcycling history. "Of course, I stopped building when the Japanese invasion took over," he said to the avid listeners, "and that was when the Polytech took me in to teach others about the art of building and repairing the great British motorcycle."
He staggered home, happy, content in a way he had not been for twenty-five years, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
The Build
The first week wa
s straightforward. Being close to the Alt River, pylons were needed to stabilize the concrete pad and one of the local lads with a tractor had a post-hole borer. A carton of beer and he was ready to pour. Being old school, he just used cardboard tubes filled with ‘reo, and packed the hole around it with copper shavings and lime mixed into blue metal. He had his own mix for the concrete and boiled up the limestone himself on site to get the correct type of slake. In this way he made the special water proof concrete his grandfather had taught him to create.
His poor father, a life down the mines, a life ground down with illness and poverty. On his Mum's side it was different, Grandfather was a mechanic and without the coal dust in his lungs, he lived to his 80's. He stayed with the family for ten years till he passed. That old man taught him everything. He had been a mechanic in a shop at Brooklands, and knew all the cars, the motors and, more importantly, the people you needed to know. While his father was down drinking at the local, grandfather helped him to pull things apart, explaining what every little thing did, and then how to make it do things better.
Specing a cam, making a valve, shaping a port: It all came from Grandad. He was given the priceless info from the earliest days of racing. And now Harry just had it in his blood. If it could go faster, he found a way to make it happen. But the modern stuff was all electronics. The old ways were a museum piece, unless you owned old school, then suddenly you were in demand because you had the knowledge you just could not find on YouTube. Accordingly, he had sent a letter to Triumph, as Tom had suggested. They got back inside a day offering him a job as and when it suited him. Things were looking up.
A little respect, it went such a long way. Nothing too much to ask for, just a little respect for those who knew what they were doing, and did it.
Time for a break, as the weekend was on him. He had the slab set, and the bottom rails were all bolted into place. Everything was ready to start framing the two story cottage. Yes, he had plans, but really, he knew what to do. In his day, when you opened a shop, you didn't rent it. You bought or leased the land and built the damn thing as you wanted it. And his shed was always overfull with business, and always needing extensions.
This little house to knock up was a cakewalk and, presuming the plumber and electrician would be on time, he would be comfortably inside his two month time limit. Frames up next week, flooring in. Wiring and plumbing week three to five, no plastering as it was all solid wood. He liked that, real wood. Kitchen and bathroom week four, week five and six on finishing, week seven to tidy it all up. Then cash in hand, he had the kick-start he needed. In the meantime, the local had extended him a tab, the son was feeding him, and his small stipend from the government was plenty for him to see a movie or have a day out as he wished.
He was starting to get his fitness back as well. He had a few aches and pain, and a little shortage of breath, but this is to be expected at seventy years. He knew what he needed to fix that, and made a call to the lad who took over his little business after he went into Dartmoor. Bobby Wright was the lad and while the lad was saying he would fix him up, he mentioned there was a 'do' with some of the past teachers at the old school the next Saturday. So, at weeks end and Harry put on a mothballed suit and made his way into town, going back to his old teaching post, the Liverpool Poly, now John Moores.
A few of the old staff were about, mostly retired, with some ashamed he was there, and avoiding him. But who cares about those stiff cardboard cuts outs? The real people made him feel welcome as they chatted about old times. A few of his students turned up as well, to talk about what happened with their lives, and where they went after school. He asked about some of the places he remembered, but there was not a lot of it left. His old shop was gone, new buildings were everywhere. Liverpool was nothing like what he remembered.
Between 1992 and today it seemed that everything had moved on, but as he faded into reminiscing, Bobby turned up. "Mr. Jenkins! So good to see you could make it, let's get ourselves a cuppa." And off to the refectory they went.
Talking Sense
In between their small talk, Harry started recalling little Bobby a bit better. Memory wasn't what it used to be, but he did recall that he was a useless mechanic, even though he loved his bikes. But the thing he DID remember was the courtesy of the boy. Bobby had always made sure to write him a note on birthdays and Christmas.
Again, respect.
Bobby was, of course, the local drug dealer, and the real reason Harry had come to town. The boy had pretty much taken over the trade from him when he went up the river and there, in a small brown bag that he handed over with a wink, was his welcome home gift. Inside were a few Mandy's, some ecstasy and what looked like first grade heads. Well, this will make the coming week move along rather nicely, thought Harry.
His son Tom was a clean skin and had nothing to do with drugs. But Harry had zero interest in being straight and found he worked much better bent. And make no mistakes, he was going to be hard at it in the coming weeks, and a little distraction from the pain of effort was always a good thing. What's more, Bobby made it clear that the little bag of stuff was a gift, which made the days event even more pleasurable.
But charity serves no man. Harry would need to balance the books. "You are a good lad, Bobby. How's the BSA single pot going? You got that sidecar sorted?"
"You know I don't have a mechanical bone in my body, Mr. Jenkins."
Ah, so here's his regular supply sorted then. "No problems, Bobby. Fair exchange is no man's loss, bring it down to me when I get settled and we will sort it out for you."
"You are at Tom's right now, aren't you?" Bobby asks.
"Yes, but I will be buying a caravan soon and will set up on someone's farm. It looks like I have a job restoring old Triumphs. I presume I can set up a shop and do the work on my own terms, because living in Hinckley would not suit. I will let you know."
"You thinking of getting back into business," Bobby said off the cuff as he drank his tea.
"No. At least, not back into your business lad. I am not rushing to go back in. Things seem to be working out for me right now and I want to be able to see my son and grandkids. I don't have a whole lot of time left, but I want to live it on my terms and not at some guards beck and call. So I'll be keeping things legal."
Bobby missed the hidden message completely, but Harry did not want to lecture. The lad was still young and life will beat him down in its own time. In the meantime, he will be sorted for weed and reds in exchange for a little modification and improvements on the odd bike that turns up. Again, a far trade that gives each other a little respect.
"You married, Bobby?"
"Was, didn't work out."
"Kids?"
"Yeah, two. A boy and a girl, eight and nine. Nice kids."
"Take them out much?"
"I get them every second weekend, but the ex is trying hard to cut me out of the picture. She is threatening to tell the Roz that I am dealing and keeps talking about when I am convicted, and how social services will chop me out. She is a cow and it's not a pretty picture."
Harry knew the story, stupid man beaten down by unhappy wife. "You know, I am really glad I made sure I looked after my son, Tom. You would know him. I mean, I was not much of a father, but I made certain he had a house and that his mum had enough money to feed them both. It made a very big difference as to the reception I got when I visited."
"She always wants money. No matter how much I give, she just wants more," he grunted in response.
Harry wanted to reach out and beat some sense into the boy. He could see what would happen next, blind Freddy could. He would lose the kids, he would have the coppers looking at him, and his whole life would become one great fook-up, all because he was too tight with a dollar to see sense. "Have you thought of counseling?"
Bobby looked almost shocked. "Damn, you are the last person I would have thought suggesting that! You were the original wild man, Mr. Jenkins. People didn't just respect you, they lived in fear of you. I m
ean, some of the beat downs of the bikers who tried to shake you, man, that is the stuff of legend."
Harry looked at Bobby for some time. It was true, he stared down and beat up entire bike clubs in his day. It was the only way to earn their respect and, after that, they all paid their bills. He was not a Harley fan, but he could make them go faster and they all knew it. But what did that 'respect' earn him? Nothing in the present day. "Bobby, what earns MY respect is someone being good for their word and looking after their family. It doesn't matter what you think, or how well you get on with the ex-missus, you just have to put it behind you. It is the kids that matter. You brought them into this world, you have to look after them.
"Now I can go chat to Suzy, she knows me, and trusts me. But if I go there, I want your firm commitment that you will buy them a flat, and give them money each month, a set figure she can rely on. If I can say this, I promise you, the troubles you are having will all go away." He paused, and looked at the lad. He wasn't a bad boy, he was just young, and young kids at forty something years of age are young because they are stupid.
"Damn, buy them a flat!" Bobby protested.
"Bobby, how much are you making from trade every year?"
"About one-twenty grand I guess. Doing well."
"If I bought a business, would the cost of one years trading seem fair?"
"Of course it would, that’s a good deal."
"Then what you are telling me is that you are risking your business because you have pissed off your Ex. Now you are saying that it is not worth a hundred and twenty grand to have peace of mind and to be able to continue trading AND have a damn family that loves you. That's just poor business sense, lad."
Bobby was shocked, When Harry put this way, it seemed so obvious. "Well, when you put it in terms of business, I can see the logic of it."
Witch Hunters and Other Stories (2018-2019) Page 18