Last Orders (8 page)

So Vincey comes home, in his new civvies, and parks himself on a stool in the Coach, drinks all round, and after loosening me up with a large scotch I should never have accepted, he says, cool as Christmas, ‘How’s Sally?’

You couldn’t tell from looking at him whether it was bare-faced cheek or whether there really was some dumb part of him that thought he could carry on again where he left off, that reckoned he’d done due penance, courtesy of the regular Army, and now here he was to ask for my daughter.

I suppose he pulled the same wool over Jacks eyes because you’d think by the way Jack behaves that Vince had had a change of heart, he’d gone and seen the error of his ways. You’d think Jack would have more sense than to believe that the only reason why Vince had bunked off for five years was so he could come back and ask to be forgiven and pick things up just as they were.

It takes the Army to put a finish on a man.

Good to have you back, lad. Take your time, rest up, have fun. Always a place for you in the old shop, you know that.

But he doesn’t rest up and have fun, he gets to work pretty damn fast. He puts a tidy slice of his saved-up soldier’s pay on one of Ray Johnson’s special recommendations, and Ray, as he’s been doing of late, comes good. Witness, one camper-van. Except that’s a touchy subject, we don’t talk about that, same as we don’t talk about how Raysy came good when Lenny Tate needed a special job done for his daughter.

And Vince don’t buy a camper-van, he buys a ’59 Jaguar, so you might think he’s letting the world know how he means to live. Takes the Army to turn out a true spiv. But he parks the Jag in Charlie Dixon’s old yard, courtesy of Ray. Charlie Dixon having passed on to the scrapyard in the sky. Then he gets himself a set of tools and a trolley-jack and spends most of his days tinkering with the engine and taking it apart and putting it together again, then he touches up the bodywork and sells it. Then he buys another car and does the same, and before the year’s out there are two cars standing there in Ray’s yard, apart from the camper, that is, and I say to Jack, ‘You can’t kid yourself any longer, it aint just the lad’s hobby. He might want nothing better than to lie under a car all day but he aint just doing it for the love of it. It don’t stop there.’

He says, ‘It’s Ray’s fault.’

I say, ‘Maybe. But Ray’s got troubles of his own, aint he?’

But Jack don’t give up easy. He makes one last bid to win Vince over. It’s about as half-baked and cock-eyed as they come and it takes the form of Mandy Black, from Blackburn.

The story goes she turned up at Smithfield early one morning in a meat lorry, a long way from home and so far as she was concerned the further the better, but tired and lost and hungry. So Jack and his mates get her a decent breakfast. But Jack goes one step further and offers her a roof over her head for the night. Anyone else would have pointed her back in the direction she came and saved himself some sniggers and some trouble, but not Jack. And you’d think Amy might’ve had a thing or two to say about it. You could say it was plain kindness or you could say he was just following the old family tradition the Dodds’ had of picking up strays. Anyhow, Mandy turns up in Bermondsey,
in Jack’s van, and my guess is that Jack wasn’t thinking of Vince at all at this stage. He was thinking of June for once. He was thinking of Amy. Poor berk.

Snag is that with Vince back home there aint no spare bed. But that’s no problem, Vincey says, he’ll see if he can’t kip down in Ray’s camper. It’s only for one night and he’s used to living in a bivvy, even if it is the middle of November. And he’ll be nearer to his precious cars. But one night turns into the best part of a week, she’s begging them not to let on about her and they haven’t got the heart to turf her out, and I reckon it was only when they were getting used to her being a sort of permanent lodger that Jack got it into his head that he could use her somehow as a bribe for Vince. Though why he should’ve thought that, I don’t know. Like he was expecting Vince to say, ‘Thanks, Jack, now I’ll start coming to Smithfield again. Seems like a good spot.’ As if Vince couldn’t make his own moves and that wasn’t just what he was doing. As if Mandy was Jack’s to dispose of anyway. Fact is that there’s Miss Lancashire Hotpot using Vince’s room, and there’s Vince using Ray’s camper, and sooner or later she goes down to the yard to thank him for his trouble and see what he gets up to all day long. And there’s the two of them and there’s the camper and Vincey’s got the key. So blow you, Jack.

Joke of it all is that Mandy didn’t know how lucky she was, or else she was cleverer than anyone thought, an eye for the long shot. Because, though no one knew it, Vincey was already on his way to being Dodds Motors and later Dodds Auto Showroom. Garage, I call it. And though it always seemed to me a touch-and-go operation and not what you’d hold up as a shining example of a fine career for a man, it worked for him, it’s brought in more dosh than
Dodds and Son ever did.
Look at that suit.
It’s kept her in frocks and hairdos and holidays in the sun. Sometimes I wish my Sally had got back together again with Big Boy, sod him, I do. Because she couldn’t have done much worse than what she did, and I remember them trips to Margate Joan and I never went on, I do.

He says, ‘How’s Sally?’

I say, ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

He says, ‘I would like to know, Lenny. Have another one.’ Face don’t crack.

I say, ‘She got married, didn’t she?’

I think, The pillock’s got a nerve, I’ll give him that, the tosser’s got a way about him. It takes the Army. He aint got such an ugly mug on him either, more’s the pity, he’s filled out fine. I can see why they’d let him walk all over them, what with the little-orphan act as a standby. I suppose he’ll’ve had a few in the last five years, camp trollops, bints. And why should he be sitting there, standing drinks, like he’s the conquering hero, when all he’s done is have the honour of being one of the last troops to clear out of Aden, and learnt how to use a spanner and a grease gun? It was different for Jack, Ray and me. Bleeding desert.

I say, She got married, didn’t she? But I don’t say she’s not living with her husband, seeing as her husband’s living in Pentonville Prison. Because he’ll’ve heard that anyway. Four counts of larceny and one of assault. What the country needs is to bring back military service, eh Vincey?

And I don’t say how she’s making ends meet. Odd jobs for cash. Taking in lodgers. It’s do as you like now. Ask Raysy.

I don’t say she aint got no kids. Still, that’s one less load on her mind, aint it?

He says, ‘I heard. I heard she got married.’ Not a flicker. ‘So how’s the fruit-and-veg trade, Lenny?’

But a good motor aint just a good motor.

A good motor is a comfort and companion and an asset to a man, as well as getting him from A to B. I can’t speak for women. Mandy drives like it’s nothing special, like a car is a handbag. But a good motor deserves respect, treat it right and it treats you right. And if needs be you can take it apart and see how it works. It aint no mystery.

People curse ’em. They say, curse of our time. But I say, aint it amazing? Aint it amazing there’s this thing that exists so everyone can jump in and travel where they please? Can’t imagine a world without motors. There’s nothing finer, if you ask me, there’s nothing that shows better that you’re alive and humming and living in this present day and age than when you squeeze the juice and burn up road and there are the signs and the lights and the white lines all so it can happen and everything’s moving, going. Where are we? Gravesend, 3 miles. We’re coming up to Gravesend. Or when you’re cruising through town on a hot day with your shades on and your arm dangling out the window and a ciggy dangling from the end of your arm and some skirt to clock on the pavement.
Ridin’ along in my automobeeel
…

And I always say it aint the motor by itself, it’s the combination of man and motor, it’s the intercombustion. A motor aint nothing without a man to tweak its buttons. And sometimes a man aint nothing without a motor, I see that. Motorvation, I call it. Fit the car to the customer, that’s what I say. I aint just a car dealer, I’m a car
tailor.
I’m an ace mechanic too, as it happens, I know engines like you
know your wife’s fanny, but I’ve moved on from them days. A good motor’s like a good suit.

He said, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dodds, I’m very sorry to hear it.’

Oily twat.

I said, ‘Business as usual, Mr Hussein. Want to run it round the block?’

So we got in the Merc.

He said, ‘When’s the funeral?’

I said, ‘Thursday. Engine’s good as new. Paintwork and trim’s all custom.’

He said, ‘A sad blow, Mr Dodds, the worst, losing a father.’

I said, ‘Front suspension needs a peek, I’ll see to that. Shift’s smooth as cream, aint it?’

He thinks, Jack’s dead so I’m an easy touch.

I said, ‘Usual guarantees.’

We went along Jamaica Road, doubling back at the Rotherhithe roundabout.

He said, ‘Let me think about it.’

Which means he might not buy. Which means he’s getting tired of Kath. Which means I aint got no hold and I don’t get no extra.

And I’m already a grand under.

We came back down Abbey Street and parked by the kerb and we sat there for a bit. But you always let the punter think about it.

I said, ‘I’ve had lots of inquiries, Mr H, but – you know me – your first pickings.’

He said, ‘Say – till Friday. Kathy’ll go to the funeral of course.’

I said, ‘You asking or telling?’

Puts a dampener on it, does it, if your doxy has to wear a long face? Has to traipse off and pay respects.

He said, ‘Asking.’

I said, ‘It’s up to her.’ Which means it’s up to him. ‘It’s a beautiful motor, Mr H. And it’s you all over. I don’t even know if I’ll go myself.’

He looks at me all confused. He thinks, Jack’s dead so I’m a pushover.

I said, ‘You mean Kath aint ever told you? She aint ever said?’

It’s the best thing that’s ever been invented. If it hadn’t been invented we’d’ve had to invent it. And it aint just a seat on wheels. It’s a workmate. It’s a mate. It won’t ask no questions, it won’t tell no lies. It’s somewhere you can be and be who you are. If you aint got no place to call your own, you’re okay in a motor.

Vic settles down in the front, now he’s not holding the box, trying out the seat position with the control on the door panel.

‘You quite comfy there, Vic?’ Lenny says.

‘Fine,’ Vic says.

‘All seats power-adjustable,’ Vince says. ‘Upholstery’s custom.’

‘But Vic aint no customer,’ Lenny says.

‘Don’t be so sure,’ Vic says. ‘How much you asking, Vince?’ And Vince turns his head sudden, falling for it, before Vic chuckles and winks. Straight face has Vic.

I’d say Vic’s looking the best of us all, by a long chalk. I’d say if you took Lenny, Vic and me, any one’d give Vic a five-year advantage. It’s a fair bet he’ll be the last of us to go. Excluding Vince, that is, and he aint no spring chicken. And the first of us to go, the next of us to go, will be—

‘Just testing,’ Vic says.

Neat, straight, toned-up sort of a face, and I reckon he’s a once-a-fortnight haircut man. Maybe it’s working with stiffs, keeps a man in the pink, by contrast. Maybe it’s all them preservatives. Or maybe it’s having been in the Navy. Fresh air and briny. It was me, Jack and Lenny got the dust and the flies.

But it’s not just the way he looks, it’s the way he is. Like no one’s going to catch Vic Tucker out. Like no one’s arguing that he should be sitting there in the front seat, box or no box, as if he’s the leader of this little expedition. Steady as she goes, Vincey. Aye aye, skipper. I reckon that must
come from the job too. It puts things in perspective, keeps a man on an even keel. And of course it wouldn’t do in his line of business to be short on dignity.

Dignity, that’s the word, dignity.

Vic Tucker, at your disposal.

He sinks back in the seat and half shuts his eyes.

Lenny says, ‘You aint said yet, Raysy.’

‘Said what?’

‘If you think Sue’d show up. To see you off.’

I say, ‘It’s immaterial, aint it? It’s immaterial.’

‘Even so.’ Lenny’s talking softly, like he thinks Vic might be nodding off. ‘You’ve got to have someone.’

He means: not having Carol. Or anyone.

I say, ‘Australia’s a long way.’

‘Aint as far as from here to the next world.’

I look at Lenny.

‘What next world?’ Vince says.

‘Manner of speaking, Big Boy,’ Lenny says.

Vince says, ‘It’s further than Sydenham though.’

Because that’s where Carol lives now, where she moved in. Barry Stokes, Household and Electrical.

Lenny says, ‘Suppose,’ like he hasn’t heard Vincey.

Vince says, ‘We could pop in on the way back, eh Raysy? On the South Circular.’

Vince is perking up, like he’s remembering he’s the nipper of the party.

Lenny says, ‘Suppose. Suppose you had some special request, suppose you had some special daft request like Jack here. Who’s going to do it?’

‘I aint going to have no daft request.’

‘Who knows?’

I think: Amy aint here.

‘Well,’ I say, looking at Lenny, ‘there’s you.’

Lenny looks at me. His face is all squashy. Must be working with fruit and veg. You can tell it’s the answer he wanted to hear, but then he shakes his head, gently, smiling. ‘You want to think twice about that? Or you planning on something quick?’

Vince says, ‘Don’t worry, Raysy, I’ll be around. What do you want – Merc or Rolls?’

Mr Tact.

Lenny says, ‘Eyes on the road, or none of us’ll be around.’

Vince says, ‘And where do you want to be chucked?’

Vic coughs and stirs in his seat, he aint kipped off. He says, ‘You can go there now, can’t you, Raysy? Go to Australia, see Sue. See those grandchildren you’re supposed to have. What’s stopping you? You’re a free man.’

He turns round and looks at me. Like he’s got me out of one corner just to steer me into another.

‘Small matter of the fare, Vic,’ I say.