Cherry Orphan

Chapter 63

Chapter 63

Epilogue Part 2

"So how much money did you spend so far on this restoration?"

James glanced across the small car at his brother-in-law in the driver's seat. "That's none of your business, Ray. Besides you wouldn't know the difference."

Raymond laughed out loud. "Oh come on, Jimmy, I saw the shabby old thing several times before you started throwing money at it, remember?"

"Well that's not the way she looks now. And don't call me Jimmy." He paused to do the mental arithmetic. "Perhaps eight... eight and a half."

Raymond took the last exit off the Sunbury Cross roundabout and pointed his Vauxhall Corsa along Staines Road West towards Ashford. "Almost nine-thousand quid? You've spent nine grand on an American junkheap with left-hand-drive? They're either paying you too much over there at that drug rehabilitation center, or you've been taking the stuff yourself."

"Don't be so condescending about what I do. You know it's a relatively low-paying job. I like the work and the people. With what Kate makes we're comfortable. The car is my only indulgence. The money has been spread out over six years."

"Oh, condescending is it? There's a big word. Who went to a posh school, then? Good thing your parents left you that house and the pub. Kate said everything's paid up. Must be nice at your age—no money worries—savings in the bank. It takes me all my time to scrounge the rent on my flat and carry the hire-purchase on this shitbox."

James picked up on that. "What did you call it?"

"A shitbox! Now your monster Desoto; that's a real bird puller."

"Funny, you just brought back a small memory. Something I'd forgotten about. Sonia used to refer to her car in Los Angeles as a shitbox. I'll remind her next time we email."

Raymond weaved in and out of the heavy traffic, shifting gears. "That's your sexy American cousin you still talk to on the computer? Do you think she still looks like she did in your photos? How old is she now?" With scatterbrained Raymond he always shot off a volley of questions—never one at a time.

"Hmm... thirty nine."

"Bout same age as me. Ooohh, Jimmy boy, what I couldn't do with a dollybird like her in my back seat. Can you fuckin' imagine? I get a chubby just thinking about it."

James answered with silence. I don't have to imagine anything, you middle-aged moron.

Five minutes later James pointed to a commercial garage and petrol station on the next corner. They pulled into the forecourt and buzzed at the glazed side door. A swarthy bald man in overalls unlocked it from the inside. "Yes? Oh, it's you Mr. Nameth. Come in."

They went through to a miniscule office that made a rubbish tip seem tidy. The entire place smelled of glue leather and vinyl. "Now where did I put your keys? Oh, here we are. Come through to the workshop. I must say out of all the older foreign cars we have done, this one looks the best. We took the liberty of taking some photos for our advertising." The little man talked non-stop. He looked foreign himself, but the accent had long since faded.

James followed along with Raymond bringing up the rear, through a narrow corridor, then a storeroom filled with racks of fabric and carpet. The place seemed like Dr. Who's Tardis—way bigger on the inside than outside. Finally they came to the main work area.

"There you are, Mr. Nameth. Why don't you get in and put the roof down?"

Raymond's mouth gaped open. The car looked totally transformed. It gleamed from nose to tail in fresh gold paint and re-chromed bumpers. The ratty canvas top had been replaced with new beige material. Even the tires were brand new sporting wide white sidewalls.