‘I’m not supposed to open my presents until tomorrow,’ Tamsin said.
‘That’s all right. Take it in and put it under the tree.’
Tamsin looked at it a little doubtfully. How was she even going to pick it up?
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’ll carry it for you.’
She looked over her shoulder at the door. Pattie must have been as precise to her as she was to Randall in her rehearsal of the arrangements. ‘I’ll just set it on the porch for now,’ he said, and she nodded. That would do.
He leant it in the end against the doorframe while he rang the bell then pulled his daughter to him for one last hug. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he whispered.
The screen door did not open until he was safely in his car once more. A hand ushered Tamsin inside and then a second later the girl came out again, pointing at the package and behind her a man Randall had never seen, dressed in white-T and sweatpants and moccasin slippers. He tucked the box under his arm and turned to look down the path straight at Randall, raising his hand in a no-hard-feelings way, before letting the door swing to again.
The previous day Randall had joined some of the DMC New York staff for drinks in the Waldorf Astoria, on the other side of Park Avenue from two-eighty. Haddad was there and Marion Gibson, the English woman who for the past while had been in overall charge of what she liked to refer to as the ‘front of office’ operations. It was the first time Randall had been in their company without DeLorean being there. He had left town earlier that afternoon. ‘Cristina and I are taking the kids to the ranch for the holidays,’ he explained to Randall. (The face of Jim Hoffman floated across Randall’s mind’s eye. He blinked it away. If that’s what went with a ranch they were welcome to it.) ‘If next year goes the way I’m expecting it will it might be the last chance we get to be all together for a while.’
Haddad was one of those guys, whatever the subject, he knew more than anyone else around the table. If he hadn’t seen it or done it himself he had learned it from the Kennedys. He interrogated Randall about Belfast, about the factory, about Warren House. Seemed there was no end to his curiosity, or his antipathy. He had something against Roy Nesseth, something even greater than he had against Maur Dubin, whose ‘excesses’ — to say nothing of his access — were in danger of making DeLorean a laughing stock among CEOs: apricot carpet, indeed!
Disliking Roy of course was not unusual, although in Haddad’s case Randall got the impression that he believed Roy was standing in the way of his elevation to a position of greater (and rightful) authority. I mean, he, Haddad, had worked for the Kennedys, the United Nations Peace Corps. What had Roy ever done except hustle people into spending more than they had intended on their new cars and accepting less than they had hoped for on their old ones? (There had been another complaint, from Wichita, an elderly couple had signed a blank lease form on the understanding that the terms they had agreed in the lot would be written in. They weren’t. They said. Roy said he would see them in court sooner than pay them the $9000 they were claiming he had overcharged.)
‘Who would you rather have going in with you to a meeting with the British government?’ Haddad said.
It was a long couple of hours.
Truth be told, he had spent happier Christmases. Not even much in the way of snow to help create the mood. All in all they had had a pretty easy time of it the past couple of winters. Every cab driver he had while he was in town said the same thing: they were due a really bad one some year soon.
In Belfast too — it was no surprise on his return to learn — it had been mild for the time of year.
He had not been back at work more than a few hours, the bulk of them spent with Don Lander in Lander’s office, a sort of 280 Park Avenue debrief, when the devil he had so far avoided talking of (talking of how he had been talked of), Nesseth, rang.
‘Clear the third week of January,’ he said, loud enough that Randall could hear him without Lander removing the receiver from his ear.
‘And a very good morning to you too, Roy,’ said Lander. ‘Third week of January… Can I ask what for?’
‘That’s when we are unveiling the first Dunmurry-made DMC-12.’
‘I would hope it would be ready by then.’
‘No, it will be. John is coming that week.’
Lander had covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Did you know about this?’ he hissed. Randall shook his head.
‘Don, are you listening?’ Roy asked.
Lander took his hand away. ‘I’m listening all right.’
‘We’re just making final arrangements with press on this side. I’ll get back to you with an exact date.’
‘I await that with interest.’
‘Oh, and tell Randall to book into a hotel for that week. Or better still leave the booking open-ended.’
‘He’s standing right here,’ Lander said. ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’
‘That’s fine,’ Randall called towards the phone and Roy hung up.
A half-hour later, by which time Randall was back in his own office, DeLorean himself rang.
‘I’m sorry about Roy,’ he said, a little wearily. ‘Carole told me she was in his office when he was speaking to Don. I didn’t know he was going to take it upon himself to call. We had only finished talking and I was going straight into another meeting…’
‘No apology needed. Like Don said, I just hope we are going to be ready by then.’
‘I have every confidence in you all. And thank you, by the way, for agreeing to move out for a while. It’s probably time anyway we tried to find somewhere more permanent for you.’
Randall’s shoulders slumped. ‘I thought maybe once production started I wouldn’t be needed here any more.’
‘Oh, sure, when I say permanent I’m talking about the end of this coming year.’ Twelve months of Randall’s life — of Tamsin’s — accounted for just like that. ‘It’s just I’m thinking I’m going to be spending a lot more time at Warren House myself from now on.’
*
There was a big meeting called in the body-press shop the first day back after New Year. Managers and union reps shoulder to shoulder at the front. Anto, at the near end of the line to where Liz stood, had had a haircut over the holiday. Short back and sides, possibly DIY. Randall — next to Don Lander — was almost dead centre. It was odd. She knew now his forename was Edmund but she did not think she had once called him by it, nor could she imagine the circumstances in which she ever would.
Liz hadn’t seen him since the Sunday before Christmas. He looked, she thought, a little jaded. Who knew what he had been up to over there.
(She had Saturday Night Fever in her head. The trailer. Robert hadn’t liked the look of it when they caught it before Jaws 2, and there was no way, once she had seen the age of the ones in queues outside it, she would have gone on her own.)
Lander started by wishing them all a happy and prosperous 1981. He told them how much he appreciated their patience all these months — their patience and their application. It was no easy thing to keep putting in the effort when there was so little that you could point to and say, ‘See? I did that.’ He wanted to ask them though to apply themselves with renewed vigour. These next few weeks were going to be the most important yet. All this equipment they saw around them would have to be tested and retested. All the routines they had rehearsed would have to be rehearsed a few times more. On 21 January the doors at the end of the shop next door would open and a DMC-12 would be driven out. He didn’t think it was too much of an exaggeration to say that the eyes of the world would be on it, and them.