A Letter of Mary - Laurie R. King [70]
I was up on a ladder in Mrs Rogers's guest room, cursing the general intractability of inexpensive wallpaper, when I heard a car drive in, and shortly thereafter, without a knock, came the sound of heavy feet in the kitchen below. Murmured conversation followed, and I cursed further the unsuitability of my position for overhearing what was happening downstairs. In a few minutes, however, the feet came up the stairs and a head of thick black hair appeared in the door, then stared curiously at me and my work.
The owner of the hair, as you can imagine, interested me greatly. I gave him an abrupt greeting, typical of my character, and narrowly avoided dropping a length of paste-sodden paper on him. He commented on the quality of my work. I told him that she was getting what she paid for, that I never claimed to be a paperhanger.
"What are you, then?" he asked.
"Jack of all trades, master of none," I replied.
He reacted to this bit of originality with a sneer.
"I'd believe that you've mastered none, by the looks of these walls. What are you good at?"
"Ships. Machinery. Automobiles." This last was after I had seen the grease stains under his nails and the condition of his shoes and trousers.
"Hah. Probably can't even so much as change a tyre."
"I've changed a few," I said mildly, and deposited a globule of paste on his shoe.
"Well, you can do another if you like. There's a slow puncture in the car in the drive outside, and I'm in a hurry. You go take it off and see if you can find the hole."
I obediently laid down my brush and knife and took up the wrenches from the car's toolbox. It was not his automobile, of that I was certain. Too staid, too expensive, too well kept up. I would have given much to hear what was said during the next fifteen minutes, but short of climbing the wall— in broad daylight, without ivy or a convenient rope— and putting my ear to a window, I could not. I found the hole, patched it, and was putting the wheel back in place when he came out again.
"Here, don't tell me you've just started?"
"Oh no, it's all ready to go. Sir, if you'll hand me that pump, I'll finish it."
As the tyre filled with air, I admired "his" automobile.
"Is it yours, then?" I asked casually.
"Nah, it's borrowed."
"I thought it might be. I'd see you in something a touch flashier, somehow, and faster."
"Oh, this one's pretty fast."
"Don't look it," I announced sceptically, so he proceeded to tell me precisely how long it took him to drive from Bath, despite the hay wagons. I whistled appreciatively.
"You must've had to push it hard on the straight patches. A good friend, to let you treat his machine like that."
"Ah, he'll never know. Some of these old [censored] own these [censored] great hogs and never use them properly. Does a machine good to be stretched a bit."
"You ought to charge him extra for it," I jested, and he took the bait.
"Too right, add it to his bill."
Much laughter and joviality followed and an exchange of opinions regarding pistons, body frames, and the like. (Many blessings, incidentally, were called upon Old Will's grandson for his tutorials in automotive arcana.) He climbed into the luxurious transport that was not his own, and I stuck my head over the passenger side.
"Enjoy your drive back, Mr—"
"Rogers, Jason Rogers."
"Enjoy the road, Mr Rogers. I hear tell there's a very watchful constabulary round Swindon side, so if you're going through there, you better keep a light foot on it."
"Thanks for the warning, Basil. Give me a start, my man."
I obliged, and he slapped the car cruelly into gear and roared off down the way.
So, as you can see, Russell, I am off to Bath, on a somewhat slower but considerably safer means of transport, to look into the possibility of a motorcar-repair establishment run by a Mr Jason Rogers, grandson of Mrs Erica Rogers,