Homeland (35 page)

‘The silver saloon?’

George stabbed his cigarette towards the only silver car in the place, tucked away in the back of the workshop.

‘But it needs a new gearbox.’

‘Not now it don’t.’

‘But it’s not ready to go—’

‘Everything’s ready to go at the right price, son. This punter, he’s coming to the showroom at three. Just polish up the bodywork and get it down there, will you? And should I
find myself unavoidably detained by the bleeding snowdrifts that pass for roads, then give him the patter, will you? Take him out for a gentle spin.’

‘It’s like an ice rink out there.’

‘Like I said – gentle.’

‘And if he wants to drive the car himself?’

‘Tell him it’s too dodgy. Nothing personal.’

‘What about the gearbox?’

George narrowed his eyes against the smoke. ‘I don’t quite follow, son.’

‘What happens if he twigs?’

‘Well, he’s not going to, is he?’

Billy must have let the doubt show in his face because George lifted a finger and said, ‘Listen, son, look at it this way. Is the gearbox seized? Is it without cogs? Is it without gears in
either the forward or reverse direction?’

Billy stayed silent.

‘That’s all I’m saying, ain’t I? This gearbox is doing the business. This gearbox is in working order.’

‘I’m not going to feed him a line.’

George threw out a hand like a showman appealing to a wider audience. ‘And who is asking you to? Is there anyone here in this room who is asking you to feed this geezer what you call a
line
?’ George looked around as if to garner his audience’s response, before jabbing two fingertips softly against Billy’s shoulder. ‘Let us not forget, my boy, that
we are in the business of selling motors. Let us not forget that business is presently diabolical owing to this bleeding awful climate and the rationing of petrol. Let us not forget that this
geezer wishes to part with his money in exchange for a vehicle of his choice. You’re with me this far?’ He turned up a palm, he cocked his head to one side, his eyebrows shot up.
‘Let us not forget that if we do not flog him this motor there is every chance that he will fall foul of one of the villains at the unforgiving end of Warren Street, those to whom value has
no meaning. And in buying from them, tell me this – is he going to end up with a superior motor? Is he going to end up with a gearbox that will serve him for the rest of time?’ With an
emphatic shake of his head, George laid a paternal hand on Billy’s shoulder. ‘Just tickle up the car, son. Get Dave to help out. He’s a king with the chrome. And if I’m
detained elsewhere, start the gentleman at two hundred and thirty, hold out for two twenty, and settle for two fifteen.’

‘And if he doesn’t go for it?’

George laughed indulgently. ‘Course he’ll go for it. You’ll make sure he does, won’t you? But if push comes to shove . . .’ His large face folded into an expression
of calculation. ‘Two ten. Absolute minimum. But hold out for more, Billy, my lad. My bones tell me he’s good for two twenty.’

‘Right-o.’

‘Now, son . . .’ George took another pull on his cigarette and let the smoke trickle over his lip and into his nostrils. ‘As of tomorrow we face a problem in the form of there
being no work for you.’

‘You told me.’

‘It’s this diabolical weather – no one’s trading.’

‘Like I said, I could take time off till things improve.’

‘Could be a long wait, the way the country’s going,’ he said gloomily. ‘But look, son, I’ve got something to tide you over the next couple of days. A spot of
delivery work. Romford, Dagenham, a few points north. You can use the SS2, give it a bit of a spin.’

‘Delivering what?’

‘Just light stuff. Fred’ll give you the gen. Won’t you, Fred?’

Fred’s head, bent low over the desk, lifted slowly and turned into quarter profile. His reptilian eye swivelled towards George’s face and drooped in agreement.

George flicked ash off his lapel. ‘Just drop off and collect. Dead simple.’

Billy said, ‘OK.’

‘Good lad.’ With a jaunty waggle of his cigarette, George tipped his hat forward and went out into the workshop.

Billy watched him cross the floor to talk to Dave, who was back working on the respray. ‘What am I meant to be delivering?’ he asked Fred.

Turning his melancholy face towards Billy, Fred held up a fat brown envelope. Billy didn’t ask what was in it.

At a quarter to three Billy drove the silver saloon cautiously down the mews and across the Euston Road to the showroom. It was snowing again, an intense fall of small flakes,
and the sky had a twilight gloom. Billy felt sure the punter would fail to show. He passed the time smoking and wondering where to bed down for the next couple of nights, whether to beg some floor
space off Ernie or rent a cheap room in a travellers’ hotel in King’s Cross. What he refused to do was pay a week in advance for a poky back room in a lodging house run by a cow of a
landlady. The last one had demanded quiet at all times, no flushing of the toilet after eleven, and baths according to a timetable so rigid and inconvenient that all the lodgers forked out to go to
the public baths instead. And of course no female visitors; that went without saying.

At half past three a taxi emerged through the falling snow and pulled up behind the Jag. Billy climbed out and saw a shadowy figure paying off the driver. The man who approached Billy through
the uncertain light was thirtyish, with a round boyish face under a bowler. The office-gent impression was confirmed by a rolled umbrella and briefcase.

‘Wasn’t sure you’d show up in this,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Me neither.’

‘Bentley.’

In the instant before the man held out his hand Billy thought it was some sort of parlour game in which he was meant to say, ‘Jaguar.’

‘Greer.’

Bentley leant down to look at the car. ‘What a beauty.’ He passed a gloved hand over the roof and walked forward to gaze at the front. ‘Always wanted one of these. Actually, I
always wanted the 3.5-litre sports, but I knew I’d never be able to run to that.’ He gave a hearty laugh, and Billy had the impression he laughed at a great many things.

Billy said, ‘Want to jump in?’

As Bentley settled into the passenger seat, Billy added, ‘Won’t be able to go far.’

‘God, no. Don’t want to risk a prang before we’ve even started.’ The abrupt laugh seemed very loud in the confines of the car. At first Billy had thought army, but for
some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on he changed his mind to navy.

When the engine fired, Bentley said admiringly, ‘Nice and smooth.’

As they moved into Warren Street Billy managed to engage second gear with the minimum of barging and grinding. Fortunately the poor visibility ruled out any question of reaching third.

‘Blimey!’ exclaimed the voice at his side. ‘Not the sort of weather you expect in dear old England.’

‘It’s our punishment,’ said Billy, ‘for thinking life was going to get easier.’

He was aware of the other man glancing at him curiously. ‘I don’t think anyone was expecting miracles, were they?’

‘They were expecting to have enough coal. They were expecting a government that had some clue as to what it was doing.’

‘But this won’t last.’

‘Oh, I think it’s going to last a long, long time.’

A reproachful chuckle. ‘That’s a bit pessimistic, old chap.’

‘Is it? We’re on our own now, don’t forget. No more American aid. No more handouts. Just British cock-ups.’

‘Oh, well,’ came the relentlessly cheerful response. ‘At least we know where we are with a British cock-up.’

The snow swirled and dodged in the headlights. It seemed to be falling more thickly than ever. The streetlights blurred and faded, and Billy began to lose all sense of space and distance until
an illuminated shop-front loomed up, marking the junction with Tottenham Court Road. As he began to turn, he suddenly caught the scissor movement of a women’s stockinged legs scurrying
straight into the beam of the headlights. ‘Christ—’ He only just managed to stop in time.

‘Close shave,’ Bentley remarked calmly. ‘Why don’t you turn us around, old chap? And if I could just drive her back, we’ll call it a day.’

Billy kept close to the kerb while he looked for the next left turn. ‘Steady as you go,’ came the unruffled voice of command. ‘Parked vehicle dead ahead. All clear now. Left
turn coming up. No, as you were – it’s just an entrance.’

Once they were pointing towards Warren Street again, Billy stopped the car.

‘Well navigated,’ said his passenger as he climbed out.

‘Thanks, Captain.’

The loud laugh was swallowed up by the deadened air as they moved around opposite ends of the car and got back in.

‘Is it captain?’ asked Billy.

‘Nothing so exalted, I assure you.’

‘Commander, then?’

‘It’s plain mister, so far as I’m concerned. Can’t take these fellows who try and pull rank in civilian life. The war’s over, isn’t it?’

Billy watched his hand reach for the gear stick and jiggle it around in search of first gear.

‘Bit of a knack, eh?’ came the jolly voice.

‘You might need fewer revs.’

‘Right ho.’

With lower revs, much stabbing of the clutch and a crunch of the gears, the commander finally found first and they moved off.

‘What a beauty!’

The snow eased off a little, the visibility crept forward a foot or two, but the commander continued to drive with great caution. At one point he tried second gear. Only after double declutching
two or three times at varying revs and wiggling the gear stick into the furthest reaches of the gearbox did he finally admit defeat. ‘Come back to that another time,’ he said
brightly.

Billy recalled Dave’s suggestion, to say that the best gearboxes were like the best woman, always a bit on the lively side, but couldn’t bring himself to voice such rubbish
aloud.

They drew up in front of the showroom and the commander let out a sigh of relief. ‘Back in one piece!’ He fished some cigarettes from an inner pocket and offered one to Billy.
‘Tell me,’ he said as they lit up, ‘what do you make of her?’

‘Pardon?’

‘The car. What do you reckon?’

‘I’m just the mechanic.’

‘That’s what I mean. You know better than anyone.’

‘I couldn’t say what it’s worth. I have to go by what the guv’nor tells me.’

‘But the engine?’

‘The engine,’ Billy repeated so there’d be no misunderstanding, ‘is in pretty good shape.’

The last glimmer of what passed for daylight had been sucked away by the swirling darkness, and the only light came from a streetlamp which cast a pale diffused rectangle over the lower half of
the commander’s face.

‘The gearbox seems a bit hit and miss.’

‘It takes some getting used to.’

‘But it’s all right?’

Even as Billy prepared to answer, several conflicting thoughts went through his mind. That if George had only let him fit another gearbox then all this could have been avoided. That a fool and
his money were soon parted, and it was no concern of his if the commander got a bad bargain. That his only duty was to himself and his next wage packet. That George should have come and done his
own dirty work.

‘It’s serviceable.’

‘So it’s worth the price then? Two hundred and thirty?’

‘That’s what the guv’nor says.’

‘What about you?’

But Billy wasn’t ready to play that game. ‘I told you – I couldn’t say.’

The commander chewed on his lip. ‘Look, do you think your boss would accept two hundred and fifteen? Even then I’d be scraping the barrel. The briefcase is just for show, you see.
Haven’t actually landed a job yet.’ He gave a rueful laugh. ‘Always hoping.’

Billy tried to read the other man’s face through the gloom. If the commander was spinning him a line then he was making a good job of it.

‘The thing is, I always promised myself a Jag, all through the war. Promised I’d treat myself as soon as I got out. You’ve got to have something to look forward to,
haven’t you? Otherwise you’d go barmy.’

He seemed to expect a response, so Billy said, ‘All I thought about was women.’

‘Ah, there was that too. But the chances always seemed rather remote. Not much leave, you know. And, well – not much luck. Can’t say things have been that much brighter since I
got back. At least with a car there’s no fear of being turned down, if you know what I mean.’

Billy gave a short laugh. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I know what you mean.’

The commander blew out his lips. ‘Blimey, it’s perishing. If the pubs were open I’d suggest a brandy. How about a cup of something hot instead? Is there a café
nearby?’

‘Not far.’

Billy led the way to George’s favourite caff on the Tottenham Court Road, a place frequented by car dealers from both ends of Warren Street. They found a free table near the counter, close
to the hiss and crackle of the frier.

In the light the commander seemed at first glance absurdly young – with his smooth skin, round pink cheeks and unruly hair he might have arrived fresh from the school sports field –
but the eyes with their sallow whites and pink rims and web of fine lines told another story.

‘You wouldn’t have any real coffee, would you?’ the commander asked the waitress, who glared at him as if he were mad.

When the tea arrived the commander produced a flask from an inner pocket. Uncapping it in one seamless movement, he tilted it questioningly towards Billy’s cup. ‘A stomach
warmer?’

‘Why not?’

‘Better with coffee of course. But beggars, and all that.’ He poured a liberal measure into Billy’s cup, leaving only a dribble for himself.

‘You’ve left yourself short.’

‘Had a liquid lunch.’ He gave a conspiratorial chuckle. ‘Cheers.’ He lifted his cup.

‘Cheers.’ Tea and brandy made a strange brew, but Billy wasn’t complaining.

The commander remarked, ‘Kept me going, brandy, through the war.’

‘I thought it was rum in the navy.’

‘Or gin. But my grandfather left me three cases of Napoleon brandy and it seemed a pity not to polish it off while I still had the chance. Brandy’s a miracle worker when it’s
brass monkeys. Really hits the spot.’