Rees’ Motorpark, out of town industrial estate, 8am.
They begin to arrive, hand their keys over the counter to Jed – I’m here to help – then sit down at plastic tables in a foyer overshadowed by a vast showroom where new electric Fords gather before them like a row of tanks.
‘Annual service,’ explains a skeletal old boy, leather jacketed. Former biker? Jed ponders. ‘Aye, down here on the paperwork, Mr Holland. Can I give you a token for the coffee machine?’ ‘Door latch,’ says the next in the queue, a woman in a trouser suit that is nearly as creased as her face. Jed nods politely.
At 8.30am the tv is turned on by one of the many Rees’ hands on the large site. The place works like clockwork. A crewcut man in a vis jacket, his back to the loud tv, flicking through his mobile, mutters to himself, ‘This is costing me money.’
Next to him is a fellow in his forties, green blazered and bereted, medals
dripping from his left lapel. He is riveted by the D Day eightieth anniversary from
Normandy on the screen, as though reliving an event he was at, or wishes he had
been at. His grandfather had participated and survived. From that heroic man came
your sozzled father. Them’s the contradictions. God bless you Tad-cu.
Contrasting with the mature bodies is a young woman, sneezing constantly, spray painting the air. Mucous gushes from her nose in yellow tumults, her breast feeling as inflamed as a robin’s. Another cold! You surely have the constitution of an economy price deckchair: collapse ever imminent. She touches her tummy, her first child snug within, thankfully safe.
‘You’ll be OK servicing the car?’ Sam had asked this morning. Then he’d kissed her, his lips light as breeze.
‘You’ll get my cold, Sam. Be off work for months, you will.’
‘Look forward to it!’ His brown eyes roast chestnuts on a fire. The warmth he has for her is undeniable.
‘Will we always be this happy?’
‘How long did the Roman empire last?’
‘Couple of years?’
‘Centuries, Karen.’
‘You won’t change, will you? After the baby is born?’
His answer had nearly made her late for Rees’. Mmm, well it was a nice way to wake up. She studied the congregation, some stoically patient, some bored. All killing time. Not her, she isn’t waiting, she is growing with, communing with, the little flower inside her, by the second, minute, hour.
By eleven the lucky ones are departing motor limbo. Cadaverous Mr Holland drives his car away, pretending he is young and still the owner of a Harley Davidson motorbike. The street feels tarmacking terrific, you are lifted by grace. For a service-free year you are wedded to the road: lust, love, light. Buried in your brain a sense you will have to do this in twelve months, another eternity morning, a penance for some past sin. Squash the thought, throttle down. The open road. You’re free!
Rees’ Motorpark, out of town industrial estate, 8am.
They begin to arrive, hand their keys over the counter to Jed – I’m here to help – then sit down at plastic tables in a foyer overshadowed by a vast showroom where new electric Fords gather before them like a row of tanks.
‘Annual service,’ explains a skeletal old boy, leather jacketed. Former biker? Jed ponders. ‘Aye, down here on the paperwork, Mr Holland. Can I give you a token for the coffee machine?’ ‘Door latch,’ says the next in the queue, a woman in a trouser suit that is nearly as creased as her face. Jed nods politely.
At 8.30am the tv is turned on by one of the many Rees’ hands on the large site. The place works like clockwork. A crewcut man in a vis jacket, his back to the loud tv, flicking through his mobile, mutters to himself, ‘This is costing me money.’
Next to him is a fellow in his forties, green blazered and bereted, medals
dripping from his left lapel. He is riveted by the D Day eightieth anniversary from
Normandy on the screen, as though reliving an event he was at, or wishes he had
been at. His grandfather had participated and survived. From that heroic man came
your sozzled father. Them’s the contradictions. God bless you Tad-cu.
Contrasting with the mature bodies is a young woman, sneezing constantly, spray painting the air. Mucous gushes from her nose in yellow tumults, her breast feeling as inflamed as a robin’s. Another cold! You surely have the constitution of an economy price deckchair: collapse ever imminent. She touches her tummy, her first child snug within, thankfully safe.
‘You’ll be OK servicing the car?’ Sam had asked this morning. Then he’d kissed her, his lips light as breeze.
‘You’ll get my cold, Sam. Be off work for months, you will.’
‘Look forward to it!’ His brown eyes roast chestnuts on a fire. The warmth he has for her is undeniable.
‘Will we always be this happy?’
‘How long did the Roman empire last?’
‘Couple of years?’
‘Centuries, Karen.’
‘You won’t change, will you? After the baby is born?’
His answer had nearly made her late for Rees’. Mmm, well it was a nice way to wake up. She studied the congregation, some stoically patient, some bored. All killing time. Not her, she isn’t waiting, she is growing with, communing with, the little flower inside her, by the second, minute, hour.
By eleven the lucky ones are departing motor limbo. Cadaverous Mr Holland drives his car away, pretending he is young and still the owner of a Harley Davidson motorbike. The street feels tarmacking terrific, you are lifted by grace. For a service-free year you are wedded to the road: lust, love, light. Buried in your brain a sense you will have to do this in twelve months, another eternity morning, a penance for some past sin. Squash the thought, throttle down. The open road. You’re free!
