I went back to my Beetle, looked at it sadly and laid a hand on the front, nearside wing. I didn’t say ‘be thou whole’ or anything like that, but I was definitely hoping for a bit of divine intervention. But then I thought I’d raise the stakes a little. I said to myself, “Okay, if this Volkswagen now starts then there is a God. If it doesn’t there isn’t.”
I got into the car, turned the ignition key, and it started first time. Only just, and the engine wheezed and coughed a little at first, but start it most certainly did. I was genuinely and appropriately amazed.
Now, the mechanically minded among you may say that I had simply flooded the engine, and the time it took me to do a circuit of the vandalised phone boxes was time enough for the excess petrol to evaporate. I’m happy to accept that this is absolutely the case. You’ll be glad to know that I don’t really believe I can repair cars by going around and laying my hands on them. And, of course, this incident wasn’t enough to absolutely convince me of the existence of God. However, I have to admit that it was all a little bit peculiar.
It sometimes occurs to me that I should have raised the stakes higher still and asked God to prove himself by ending war, or pain or global pollution. Something tells me that proof might not have been so readily forthcoming. But that’s okay. I have always known that God moves in mysterious ways, and it seems only common sense to me that if there is a God, then he must surely be a Volkswagen enthusiast.
Eight. A Book of Common Volkswagens
Barry collects Enlightenment from the grass verge where Charles Lederer abandoned it, and begins a long, slow, melancholy drive back to the caravan site in Filey. The car is still drivable despite the thrashing Charles Lederer gave it, although it is no longer the car it once was.
The man who did all the damage sits beside Barry as he drives. For a long time he has nothing at all to say for himself, but that’s all right with Barry who has plenty to occupy his mind. One of the things he thinks about is that he’ll have to get in touch with Fat Les again in order to get Enlightenment repaired, and his last meeting with Les was hardly cordial. But he spends far more time thinking about Marilyn. A part of him feels he should be out there searching for her, trying to find the villains who have kidnapped her, trying to free her. That certainly ought to make her feel good about him, and yet he knows this is a quest he will not be making. Basically he’s had enough of flogging round the country in a Volkswagen, not knowing where to look or what to look for. He found Charles Lederer when he stopped looking for him, and perhaps it will be possible to find Marilyn by not looking for her at all. It’s a long shot, but it’s all he’s capable of right now. Besides, what’s the point of searching for someone who doesn’t love you, who’s in love with some rich swine who collects Volkswagens.
They are nearly home before Charles Lederer finally speaks. “I’ve been a fool,” he says.
“Yes,” Barry agrees.
“I thought you were my problem. I thought that if I destroyed you, I would be destroying all my problems.”
“Is that what psychiatrists mean when they talk about transference?” Barry asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe it was just displacement activity.”
“And no doubt you felt the same way about Volkswagens.”
“What do you mean?”
“You felt that if you couldn’t destroy me, you’d destroy a few Volkswagens instead.”
“I never destroyed any Volkswagens,” Charles Lederer says, sounding puzzled.
“Ah,” says Barry, “now I think you’re demonstrating what the psychiatrists call denial.”
“I feel so lost,” Charles Lederer says. “I can’t see what’s at the end of the road.”
Barry peers through the windscreen and although visibility is less than perfect, he can still see the road ahead quite clearly.
“Huh?” he says.
Charles Lederer continues, “I can see only the scrap dealer, the breaker’s yard, the crusher.”
“Not necessarily,” says Barry, and he remembers something the Ferrous Kid told him. “Quite a lot of recycling goes on. There’s a big demand for secondhand parts. A lot of metal gets melted down and used again. It’s a bit like reincarnation I suppose.”
“Is it really?” says Charles Lederer, and then he resumes his silence.
♦
At last they arrive at the caravan site. Barry has mixed feelings about this return. Certainly it’s good to be home and not to have to spend any more days and nights on the road, yet he is not returning on the terms he would have wished. He would have liked to be the returning hero, bringing home Marilyn, his true love. That was not to be, and frankly he can’t ever see Marilyn wanting to live with him in a caravan when she has the chance to live in Carlton Bax’s gentleman’s residence. So instead of bringing home his true love, he’s bringing home his true love’s father. He feels humbled.
He also feels there’s going to be a little difficulty in accommodating Charles Lederer. They can hardly share one caravan, if for no other reason than, as Barry has found out in the course of this return trip, the old man has a disturbingly ripe odour about him. Perhaps that ought to be irrelevant to an aspirant to wisdom such as Barry, and certainly he knows he can’t leave a fellow traveller stranded on the sliproad of life, but he thinks life will be much easier if he can get the old boy set up in a one man tent, preferably on the far side of the site.
The old place looks familiar enough, and yet Barry senses immediately that there’s something different about it. There’s something in the air. There’s a feeling of hussle about it, an animation among the holidaymakers, a hint of anxiety.
The moment Enlightenment appears outside Barry’s caravan, a tiny, familiar figure comes running. It is the Ferrous Kid and he’s extremely excited. He’s glad enough to see Barry, but that isn’t the major cause of his excitement. Barry gives him a cheerful wave but after his long drive he thinks he isn’t quite ready to cope with the kid’s boundless and exhausting energy. However, he needn’t have worried.
“I took your advice,” the kid says happily. “I don’t joyride any more.”
“Oh good,” says Barry.
“Not even responsibly.”
“I’m very glad.”
“Who’s the old guy in the car?”
“Don’t ask,” says Barry.
The kid shrugs then says, “Anyway, you got back just in time.”
“In time for what?”
“There’s a big meeting going on at the site owner’s house. Everyone’s going.”
Barry says he can’t be bothered to go to any meeting with the site owner. How could it possibly be of relevance to him? But the kid is insistent and he grabs Barry by the elbow and hurries him along. As he goes Barry looks back at Charles Lederer, still seated in Enlightenment, and he hopes he’ll not get into trouble before he gets back.
As he walks along with the kid, he sees that people from all over the caravan site are heading in the same direction, and by the time they get to the house they’re part of a crowd. It isn’t a vast crowd, perhaps only a hundred or so strong, but the people look hostile and angry and Barry asks the kid what this is all about. The kid assures him it will be obvious soon enough.
Sam Probert, the site owner, lives in a pleasant but modest stone-clad house only a few hundred yards from the caravan site. There is a white fence and a carefully laid out and tended front garden with a decorative miniature windmill and an ornamental pond. The crowd, however, has no respect for the niceties of garden design. They clamber over the fence and trample all over the lawn and flowerbeds. The arrival of such a mob would bring most proud house owners running to their front door demanding to know what they think they’re doing, but this particular house owner knows exactly what they’re doing. They ring his doorbell and hammer on the glass of the bay window, but Sam Probert declines to appear.