Car

Clipping the spent bluebells, wondering whether it might be time to push in some short stakes to tie up the carnations and delphiniums before they begin to flop, a car pulled into the narrow lane near the house. Reversing slightly too fast, awkward because of the high brick wall running along the opposite side of the lane. She sensed a feeling of panic from the driver and his passenger. They weren't looking at her; they were watching each side of the car and the passenger looked keenly over his shoulder. As he did so, a small silver car came into sight. Both men got out on either side of the pale blue Volvo. The passenger looked anxiously, angrily, at the silver car which remained slightly behind the Volvo, its engine running and making no attempt to pass or to park.

The driver of the Volvo was doing something on the side of the car. He kept his head down and had a furtive air about him. Glancing around, he roughly pushed the wing mirror in. The other three cars parked on that section all had their wing mirrors pushed in. The man appeared to be doing the same, not with a gesture of care for his car, but simply to do whatever everyone else had done. On that narrow section of the lane, the council's rubbish trucks frequently clipped wing mirrors or even scraped the sides of cars tightly parked there.

The small silver car let out a splutter and revved loudly. Galvanised by the sudden sound, the passenger of the pale blue Volvo grabbed the door of the silver car and, with difficulty because he was a big bloke, clambered into the back seat, roughly shoving the front seat back into place as he lowered himself to almost window level. The other man quickly, surprisingly quickly as he too was a hefty size, slid into the front seat, slammed the door and nodded curtly to the driver.

They accelerated too loudly and too quickly for the narrow lane, then with a crunching of gears, reversed rapidly,. With a high-pitched engine groan and a spin of the wheels, they shot off as fast as the small silver car could carry its cargo of three very large, irate men.

Her heart quickened. Looking around she realised that no-one else had witnessed the events with the cars, nor had anyone seen the men. No-one had seen her quietly gardening and watching. She felt menaced even though they had not even glanced at her. There was no reason for her to feel insecure yet she felt that she'd seen something that those men would rather hadn't been seen. 

There was nothing odd about strangers parking in the lane. It's walking distance to the station, so occasionally, if the lane wasn't already full of neighbours' cars or local workers, then commuters sometimes parked there. In summer, people frequently parked and left their cars for a week or weeks, or sometimes months if they'd gone on holiday. Just a short walk with their luggage to the nearby station with a direct train to the airport. Free parking. So that sometimes did happen. But this car felt different.

There were tulips to dead-head, daffodil leaves to tidy, lawn edges to be clipped. Her husband loved the harmonious effect of the colours and shapes and scents she carefully nurtured in their garden. He had never gave a thought to how much it must cost. All those expensive specimens. All the mulches and supports.

After lunch she went into town to drop off some library books, then collected some eggs from a nearby friend, Jane. She gazed as always at the super-model, spindle-legged, long-eye lashed elegance of Jane's alpacas, watched the happy chickens pecking in their splendid coop, had a cup of tea and a chat. She said nothing about the men with the Volvo. Jane's garden was bursting with the vibrant colours of freshly blooming azaleas, frothy pink rhododendrons and the wedding-veil delicacy of blossoming apple trees.

Crossing the grassy area outside her house two days later, she smilingly waved at a passer-by walking their frisky dog. The pale blue, duck-egg hued Volvo was still there. Should she? She dialled and spoke briefly into her phone.

Her husband was away on business. She prepared a light supper of cheese omelette with some fresh leaves of recently sown lettuce, she heard a large vehicle. It was a flat-bed truck, gaudy with chains and lifting mechanisms, some crusted with deep-ochre rust against incongruously shiny steel brackets. Within a few minutes, she listened to a scraping, scratching; the Volvo's wheels were no longer on the road. It was hauled into the air, swung unceremoniously then lowered surprisingly quietly onto the flat-bed. Seconds later, secured with long bands of taut cloth and rope, the truck's engine idled before quietly departing with its cargo of duck-egg blue Volvo.

She ate her omelette whilst reading. listened for a while to the radio and went to bed.

Two afternoons later it was gloriously sunny. She put on a sunhat, strolled through her garden and out to the west of the town. Beyond the limits, where the town became a sprawl of farm buildings, fields and estate houses, just past the allotments, she hesitated at the door of a portacabin. Behind it she could see piles of cars. Heaped on top of each other, cars that had been in terrible accidents, cars that were just too old to bother to repair, cars that had been burnt out. Piles of car doors, assortments of bumpers, jumbled up with exhaust pipes and brake callipers. Roof linings, seat-belts, steering wheels, hubcaps, indicator stalks, oil sumps. A gleam of duck-egg blue. You could get almost any part for any car, no questions asked. The man in the portacabin leaned on his desk with a smile. That was a nice motor, he said to her, handing over two hundred pounds. She stuffed the crumpled notes into her pocket without bothering to count it. They knew one another well. She trusted him. He trusted her.

A nice little earner. Kept the streets tidy too. She strolled to the garden centre, patting her bulging pocket whilst thinking of varieties of roses that would fit in a new gap in the back hedging. Her husband gave no thought to how much it cost.