1958 – Late evening in autumnal, rural Cheshire long before the days of onyx coffee tables, the footballers’ hairdressers and the Bentley Supersports of their clients. Outside on the forecourt the proprietor cranked the old petrol pump back to zero after depositing a few shillings-worth of ‘regular’ into the Standard 10 and returned to the warmth of the little office, flicking a switch on the wall as he did so. Outside, the glass globes on top of the pumps lit up, casting a feeble light over the wet tarmac but illuminating the names of the various oil companies whose products were on sale. “Get the kettle on, Kevin. It’s perishing out there”
Kevin, the greasy apprentice mechanic, rose reluctantly and started shovelling tea-leaves into a battered teapot. Soon afterwards the whoosh of the Ascot heater signalled ‘brew up’ “There you go, Boss.” Two steaming, oily-fingerprinted mugs plonked down on the table, the requisite milk and three sugars added to each.
“Ta. So what have you been up to today?”
“Much of the same. MOT for Mr. Lucas. Brakes for Mrs Davies and this afternoon I was supposed to be doing a 40,000 service on the Reverend’s Hillman .”
“Supposed to! What happened? The Reverend is one of our best customers.”
“Yeah, I know, Boss, but this bloke came in with a badly dented front wing and a broken headlight. Never seen him before – just passing through, I suppose, but he was most insistent that it had to be repaired pronto. Left his keys and ten quid and said he would come back later. I thought the Reverend wouldn’t mind waiting until tomorrow.”
The proprietor sat up suddenly in the one of the sagging armchairs that substituted for comfort in the office, rigid, sweat starting on his brow which had nothing to do with the hot tea nor the collar, tie and brown overall coat that passed for uniform for shopkeepers and proprietors on those days.
“What was he like? Tall bloke? Well dressed? Bit of a Gent?”
“Yeah!. Sounds like him. So what?”
“Driving an Alvis coupé?”
“Yeah, it’s in the workshop. Welded the wing myself and did the paint job too. Looks tasty.”
“Oh God!”
“What?”
“Look, Kevin, it was about fifteen years ago soon after the Reverend arrived here he fell for Maisie, the butcher’s daughter. Lovely girl she was. Devoted to her family and very devout too. It would have been a marriage made in Heaven and they would have been wedded until then this chap turned up and turned her head – for a while and then it turned nasty with him treating her like a football. She spurned his advances of course. Feeling denied he ran her down in his car, an Alvis, on the back lane and then drove himself into the resevoir. He was never found, nor was the car what with all that hydro-electric and such, but he left a note saying he would haunt the Reverend for eternity. Maybe he survived. Quick, go and get the keys.
“Boss, the keys have gone. So has the car……….
OZ
Boadicea's Chariot 
Short but sweet ! 🙂
Nice one, OZ! 🙂
Nicely done, OZ. Clever! 🙂