The room also acted as reception for people bringing their cars in for service. A rather threadbare sofa and a couple of plastic chairs were available for those waiting. There was an antiquated machine which delivered tea and coffee into plastic cups. Having tried its product once, Carole had not repeated the experiment. It was very watery stuff. (Though she had for a long time resisted the current faddishness about the infinite variations with Italian names, even Carole had become pickier about the kind of coffee she drank.)
Though most garages had become minimarkets, Shefford’s had not gone down that route. The only items for sale were car-related – plastic containers of oil, light bulbs, wiper blades, cleaning products, de-icers, air fresheners. On the walls were curling posters of other motoring products and a large calendar, provided courtesy of the local Chinese restaurant. Over everything was a patina of dust. It was a while since Carole had been in Shefford’s, and she’d forgotten how run-down the whole place was.
The reception area was empty, but through a glass partition could be seen a back office where a woman with unlikely magenta hair was working away in front of a deep monitor whose beige plastic was soiled by oily fingerprints. Beside her keyboard stood a tall desktop computer from another generation. There was access from the room to the fuel payment kiosk. Magenta hair was in charge of that. The other door between the two offices was ajar and the woman looked up at Carole’s entrance.
‘Can I help?’ Her voice was harsh, nasal and loud.
‘Yes. Good morning.’ Following Fethering convention, though she knew perfectly well who the woman was, Carole didn’t use her name. Frankie had done the books and performed various other secretarial duties for Shefford’s for as long as anyone could remember. She was older than Carole, so probably round the sixty mark, and unmarried. The fierce red hair was just the latest manifestation of Frankie’s urge to draw attention to herself. Changing hairstyles, piercings and tattoos had featured much over the years, and her wardrobe defiantly avoided any two garments that might actually go together. She was a frequent – and loud – visitor to the Crown and Anchor, in the company of a sequence of unsuitable men. She ought to have been a rather sad figure, but somehow contrived not to be.
‘Is Bill about?’ Carole continued.
‘He was here a moment ago. Probably out in the workshop.’
‘Would he mind if I …?’
‘No, go on through.’ Frankie gestured to the door at the back of the reception area.
The workshop was a corrugated-iron-roofed extension which had been there almost as long as the garage. Over the years, the minimum of patching and repair work had been carried out when required, but nothing that would qualify under the title of ‘refurbishment’. Carole found the shabbiness rather comforting; for her it exuded an air of unfussy competence. She certainly preferred it to the gleaming and impersonal efficiency of the workshop from which she had collected the new Renault in Brighton.
Hanging from the walls were a variety of tools and equipment, most of whose functions she could only guess at. There were racks of new tyres and electrical appliances. The space was flooded with light; its double doors had been wheeled back, letting in the thin February sunshine. Cars awaiting service, along with a battered recovery truck bearing a peeling ‘Shefford’s’ logo on the side, were parked rather randomly outside against a wire-netting fence.
The workshop had space for two cars to be worked on at a time. On one side a fairly new BMW 1 Series hatchback was raised some six feet above the ground on a still-shiny four-post hydraulic lift; on the other, at ground level, stood a green Morris Traveller. (Carole, whose only interest in a car was: a) that it was a Renault, and b) that it would get her from A to B, could not of course have identified the models with such precision. She would have categorized them as ‘one of those flashy German things’ and ‘an old car with wood on it, like a shooting brake’.)
Apart from the vehicles, the workshop appeared to be empty. Reckoning Bill must be working outside and calling his name, Carole moved towards the doors.
She was surprised to hear, apparently from beneath the ground, his voice asking, ‘Can I help you?’
This strangeness was quickly explained, as the garage owner appeared, carrying a torch from the inspection pit beneath the Morris Traveller. He was stocky, pushing seventy, and still had the freckled complexion of someone with red hair. The hair itself, though, was now white and sparse, combed over in inadequate cover.
‘Ah. Mrs Seddon. Good morning.’
‘Good morning, Bill.’ This had been the unspoken protocol since their first meeting. On his instruction, she called him ‘Bill’, but to him she was always ‘Mrs Seddon’.
‘What can I do you for?’ he asked. It was almost like a catchphrase for Bill Shefford.
‘My Renault has been vandalized,’ Carole replied dramatically. ‘Someone has smashed in the back window.’
‘Oh dear. That’s bad luck. Where did it happen?’
‘On the parade, right here in Fethering!’ She still couldn’t get over the shock of it.
‘Youngsters, I bet,’ said Bill wryly. ‘Parents don’t instil any discipline into them these days, just let them get on with playing all these computer games and sniffing glue.’
Carole gave an enigmatic smile rather than a full endorsement of his view. She didn’t want to sound too much like a Daily Mail reader. She treasured the superiority of taking The Times.
‘Anyway,’ she asked peremptorily, ‘could you sort it out as soon as possible?’
He did that indrawn-breath thing so beloved of doubting workmen. ‘Replacing glass is a specialist job, Mrs Seddon. Lots of firms out there who do it.’
‘Well, could you organize one of them to come and do my Renault?’
‘I could, I suppose, but it’d be just as easy for you to ring them yourself.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind doing it, Bill …?’
The garage owner was used to such appeals from the mature single ladies of Fethering. He pulled a mobile out of his overalls and said, ‘See what I can do.’ He got through and checked the name of the company.
The person who answered clearly knew his caller well. A time to do the job was offered, but Bill said, ‘Oh come on, you can do better than that. It is for one of my special customers.’ A concession was clearly made. He ended the call and turned to Carole with triumph. ‘They’ll be here within the hour.’
‘Thank you so much, Bill.’
‘One thing, though …’
‘Mm?’
‘Will it be OK with your insurance?’
‘I can assure you,’ said Carole with an edge of ice, ‘that my insurance is fully up to date.’
‘I didn’t mean that. It’s just that some insurance companies will only cover windscreen replacement when it’s carried out by a specific repair business … you know, one they have an exclusive deal with.’
‘My insurance covers everything,’ said Carole.
It was agreed that she would go back to High Tor, take Gulliver for his delayed excursion on Fethering Beach, and then walk back to Shefford’s. By then, hopefully, the job would be done.
She followed the agreed programme, walking through a part of Fethering she rarely visited. Though close to the Downside Estate, the area had been considerably gentrified. Property prices were high on the South Coast.
When she got home and went into the kitchen, she was surprised to find a sheet of paper, which had been shoved in under the door to the garden. On it had been scrawled, ‘WATCH OUT. THE CAR WINDOW WAS JUST THE START.’