I Thought I Told You...

The car was possibly a write off but that wasn’t the worst of it.

Mick had flown at Jess, and she’d given as good as she got. But that wasn’t it either.

Hassle from the insurers, finding another car. Time, time, time. Money, money, money. It wasn’t those, either, though certainly he did not relish the fractious nitty-gritty.

The once-in-a-lifetime chance of getting out of the mess they were in: that was it. That’s why it mattered so very much.

Mattered that the 16-year-old Ford Focus had rolled backwards down the road, picking up speed until it came to a sudden halt, embedded in a tree.

Mattered that Jess had left the car on the slope without double-checking that the faulty handbrake was really on.

Mattered that now he couldn’t get into to the boot-space to check…

They’d had the car for more than ten years, and it was far from new when they got it.

‘Of course it is bloody-well insured, but that’s not the point is it’, he flew at her.

‘What is then?’ Jess spat back, on the defensive because when push came to shove, it was her who left it on the sloping road. ‘You should have warned me that the handbrake was dodgy.’

‘I thought I told you’, he said, hands on hips. Actually, he only thought he had. Wasn’t totally sure now, but… ‘Anyway why didn’t you leave it in our space, on the flat?’

‘I’m going out again, aren’t I – at least I was…’

They glared at each other.

‘I know what’s going to happen now. They’ll offer us a pittance for it. It’s a perfectly good car – at least it was…’

‘You can get another’

‘Not as good as that, I’ve looked after it.’

‘Is that why the handbrake was dicky?’ she threw back at him.

They were getting nowhere but he couldn’t tell her what was really bothering him. He’d been the one to hear the crash, ran out down the road to see their car.

He’d snatched the keys from where she’d left them and gone out to retrieve the vehicle.  It was only about 40 metres down the road on the opposite side, against the tree on the edge of the pavement outside Mrs Richards’ house. The irony of the location should have struck him.

A small boy, possibly even Mrs Richards’ grandson, was looking at the car in that way people do when they are attracted to someone’s misfortune. Mick glared at him, opened the driver’s door and got in. He started the car, put it in gear and gingerly let out the clutch. There was a tearing, grating sound as he moved away from the tree and he stopped and turned off the engine. He had to fiddle with the handbrake, wiggling the button slightly so that the lever now stayed in position. I must have warned her, he thought to himself. Why wouldn’t I?

The rear bumper, only partly attached, was dragging on the ground. The tailgate was creased and crumpled, one of the rear lights was smashed, remains of the plastic lens in pieces on the ground. The boy was still watching. Was that a smirk?

Mick walked back to his house to find something to tie up the dragging end of the bumper.  Minutes later he was back with a length of cable. He looped it around the sagging bumper and tied it to the stub of the rear window wiper, which was now at something of an angle thanks to the damage. Then he drove the car the short distance up the road and onto their parking space.

Once off the road he tried to open the tailgate. The dent had pushed the lock out of alignment and it wouldn’t budge. A screwdriver jammed in the gap made no difference, nor a lump of wood held against the lock and hit with a hammer.

Now inside of the car, he tried to remove the rear shelf, crushed between the tailgate and the back of the rear seats. He had to get into the boot. This could be the worst of it. It could, it really could.

There were several more minutes of frantic activity before he forced one end of the parcel shelf down into the void, enough to see inside.

The ornate china pheasants appeared to be in pieces despite the bubble wrap which could have protected them.

He stamped his feet, swore and almost started crying. Two fine Chinese Rose Peasants dating back to the Qianlong period. Richard D’Arcy had told him that if they were what he thought they could be from the photo, they would offer him in the region of £75,000, depending on their condition. Now they were valueless shards.

They had been so prominent in Mrs Richards’ front window which he passed every day. Many, many times. Eventually he’d sneaked a photo of them with his phone and had done some searching on Google.

She hadn’t any intention of selling them to the near neighbour she hardly knew who called out of the blue. But Mick had worn her down. ‘I’m sure you could use a bit more money, couldn’t you? How about two-hundred-and-fifty-quid?’

His offer had only come after he’d sent a better photo of the pheasants to the antique dealer and been told the staggering amount they might fetch. He’d spent hours day-dreaming about how such a sum could transform their lives. No more rent. Their own home. Enough for a proper holiday. A better car. He’d even rehearsed the story of ‘a lucky accumulator bet’ he’d tell Jess to explain how he came by such a huge sum. She’d not have liked the truth: would have wanted to give the money to Mrs Richards. Now his dreams were, like the antiques, shattered.

He fetched a black bin bag and reached over the back seat and down into the boot to pick up the broken pieces. Funny, they were quite light and didn’t clink like fine china. He examined a piece. More like plaster than pottery. He picked up his phone and rang Richard D’Arcy.

‘There are quite a few plaster copies about. Some of them quite good. That’s partly why we needed to see them. Value? Well, we wouldn’t be interested in a copy. You might get a hundred at local auction if you were lucky. I thought I told you.’