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Sophie was stunned when Peter left her. It was the suddenness of his going more than anything, no phone call at work, no post-it note on the TV screen, just the beat-up guitar, his lamentable excuse for lingering by the phone, a sad memorial to a relationship that had ceased to sparkle. Perhaps he saw the St. Christopher she gave him as a coded message. The rot set in around the time their neighbour introduced them to his DIY wine. In the old washhouse that separated inner city, low category council flats, Jim could create a potent but palatable concoction from the most unlikely of raw materials. Tasting sessions often developed into nightlong parties. Life had been exciting for a while until squabbles from hangovers and lack of sleep became par for the course. Peter gave up busking and Sophie struggled to get to her hospital on time, their mutual respect dwindling as quickly as their bank balance. "You'll love this one Soph, elderberries from the park." Jim placed a bottle on the sideboard. "You OK, sweetheart?" "I think so, but what's that obnoxious
smell?" "Seems closer than that…the washhouse?" "Naw, I'm decorating in there." "Any word of Peter? I've asked around the pubs." "Nothing." "Well, he left his key… I'd best come home for lunch for a while, just in case." "Why bother? He was just using you, love." Scanning the cooking guidelines on her meal-for-one, Sophie tensed as Jim's hand rested on her shoulder. She brushed it off, gently. "No, he's been unlucky, that's all. He'll be back" "I'm sorry Sophie, but you're so wrong." When she went home for lunch next day, a sleek red Porsche drove into her normal parking space. She hadn't realised how many cars used the area around the flats in the daytime, only a handful of residents being car owners. Then again the Che Guevara Estate was only two stations from the City on the underground. She stepped out of her old Datsun to confront the stranger. "Excuse me, do you live here?" she asked. "Who's asking?" The man's voice was flippant, teasing almost, as he tightened his necktie. "Who's asking! This isn't a public car park and I have to be back on duty by two. Bugger off!" "Wow! Feisty women really turn me on." As he moved closer, it was the cynical smile as much as the cliché that made her blood boil. "Isn't it illegal to drive a car in that dilapidated condition?" he added, pulling expensive-looking sunglasses from his shirt pocket as he pointed to her car. The full-blooded slap that sent him reeling surprised Sophie as much as her tormentor. "Move it, you ponced-up pillock, or I call the police," she said, fighting off tears of frustration. He used a wing mirror to pull himself up, shaking his head as he blinked his eyes. "You just do that and I'll have you charged with assault, you mad bitch." But the smug grin gradually returned and he walked away towards the subway, rubbing his face. Sophie bit her lip, kneeling to retrieve the envelope that had fallen from his pocket. The confrontation was one of many in the weeks that followed. Visits to council officials and letters to her MP resulted in strong metal barriers being fitted at the entrances and each car-owning tenant being given a key. But when, within days, they were vandalised and thrown aside, the council lost interest in the matter. On the day she got a ticket for leaving her car out on the road, Sophie again challenged the Porsche driver as he was about to leave. "This should be yours, you arrogant sod," she screamed, pushing the crunched-up penalty notice into his face, "don't you have any conscience?" Subsequent acid attacks on the paintwork of some of the offending vehicles led to police interviewing residents, but no arrests were made. Sophie disapproved of such wanton damage, although it did ease the parking problem for a while. Nevertheless, the city slicker's opinion of her jalopy proved well founded and when it failed it's MOT inspection Jim said he would find her a newer model at a reasonable price. That evening, hearing scraping noises as she approached the washhouse, she called out his name and as the door opened, the familiar pungent smell assaulted her nostrils, taking her breath away. "I spilled some acid," he explained, "and I had to dig the floor up. It...it was becoming a…death trap. "Acid?" She thought about the
traffic warden's car, the latest victim of vandalism. She found Jim's favourite subjects, cars and wine, pretty boring, yet as her concern for Peter turned to resentment, she warmed to his caring personality. "I have a nice little car for you. I'll bring it round tomorrow." He smiled a lot these days; it suited him. "And my breakdown truck. You'll see, I have plans for your old car too." "Hang on Jim, how much..." He placed his finger on her lips. "Shush! Seeing you relaxed and happy again is reward enough. But we could kill two birds... Do you still have the envelope with that geezer's address?" His eyes suddenly lost their twinkle and his smile faded. Next day Jim spent an hour getting rid of the Datsun's engine and chassis numbers, registration plates and all other identifying marks. He even removed the wheels. Early the following morning Sophie made up a picnic lunch and within an hour they were in the breakdown truck close to an ostentatious suburban house, waiting for a particular car to emerge from the driveway. When it did and they'd ascertained that no one else was at home, they dumped Sophie's old car ceremoniously by the front door. Jim's choice of a replacement car was pure luxury in comparison. All the misgivings were gone now; she had moved on… and she had her parking space back. She half expected retaliation and felt she'd welcome it as a form of closure. What Jim lacked in looks he made up for in attentiveness and she was enjoying being pampered by her new lover. When the Porsche appeared a week later, Sophie braced herself for a confrontation that never happened. The driver was nowhere to be seen. On her return in the early evening the car was still there. Jim had been spending more and more time
in his little wine factory and Sophie disturbed him as he was
putting the finishing touches to the new concrete floor. An old
bathtub had been installed and the walls were freshly painted.
"I know," he muttered casually, "some people never learn." A fortnight later, its glossy bodywork now soft-focused by a thick coating of dust and gummy eucalyptus seeds, the once sporty car had been reduced to a metal shell supported by bricks. Che Guevara bandits took no prisoners after dark. Sophie's feeling of euphoria persisted. To her delight she discovered that Jim surpassed even Peter's ability to surprise. When she walked into the washhouse one day she found him dancing naked in the bathtub on a batch of cheap grapes bought from the East Lane market. He leaned over to kiss her then handed her a glass of her favourite burdock and dandelion. As she undressed to join him she thought how funny he looked, adorned only in designer mirror shades, a shiny St. Christopher medallion adding to the absurdity of his masquerade.
© 2008 Eddie Bruce
Eddie Bruce lives with his wife Muriel in Waltham Abbey, Essex, U.K. Most of his plot-led tales are based on fact, with anecdotes culled from an unusually varied career as distillers clerk, whisky blender, coal miner, builder's labourer, brewer's drayman, London bus driver, trucker, mobile librarian - and a few he can't remember. He was born and brought up on the Malt Whisky Trail of Speyside, before moving on to Fife, Glasgow, Luton, Sough, London, Jersey and North Sutherland as the "spirit" moved him. Along the way he met some interesting characters and has endeavoured to portray a few of these in his stories. Many of his stories are autobiographical in nature. As a recovering alcoholic he wrote them in an effort to recall the past, hoping that by doing so he might better understand where it all went wrong - or at least find a clue to his real (sober) identity. |
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