My Cousin Gail

[neerathemall]

My grandfather was an engineer. A very proud engineer. He took a dim view of others messing with things of which they had only limited knowledge. 'Every man to his trade and the cows will be well kept,' he used to say.

My grandfather lived in an era when you moved from apprentice to journeyman to master. All within the same trade. I don't think he would have approved of my journey. I read English during my first year at university. Then I spent a year reading urban geography, and a further three years reading economics. And then, with my university days behind me, I set up a business buying, restoring, and on-selling classic motorcars. (I left looking after the cows to my cousin Tom.)

My friend Amelia (who is a bit of a greenie) worries about what will happen to me post fossil fuel, 'when the latter-day Mr Toads can no longer terrorize the countryside with their poison-belching twelve-cylinder monsters'.

'That day is still a long way off,' I tell her. 'It is now almost one hundred years since anyone built a coal-fired steam locomotive. And yet, in every corner of this fair land, there are still steam locomotives being lovingly rebuilt, maintained, and driven.'

It is in search of a relatively modest twelve-cylinder monster, a red Ferrari Testarossa, that I am towing my low loader down the M4 to Newport, Wales. In our email exchanges, the current owner has informed me that the car is 'in excellent condition'. It turns out to be rather tired. But that's OK. Providing we can reach a sensible understanding on the price, I can return it to rude good health and turn a profit.

I like to think that my years studying economics were not wasted. If nothing else, they taught me that favourable outcomes are often the result of timing. Precisely the same action, taken a little earlier or a little later, can often produce very different outcomes.

The Ferrari's owner gives me his bottom line. 'That's it,' he tells me. 'That's as low as I'm prepared to go.'

I nod. 'The thing about Testarossas,' I tell him, 'is that they are popular. There were lots of them built. About ten thousand, I believe. And there are still lots of them around. So, someone wanting to buy a Testarossa has a fair bit of choice.' I walk around the car. Slowly. I'm not in any hurry. I open the driver's door and close it again, noting the slightly-out-of-alignment clunk.

'If I pay too much,' I tell him, 'I can't afford to spend what I probably should do on restoration. And so the car immediately becomes just another Testarossa. And there aren't too many collectors out there looking for "just another Testarossa".'

There are some kids playing just along the street. I put the car out of my mind and listen to the kids for a couple of minutes.

'I suppose I could come down a little bit,' the fellow says. 'You know ... just a little bit.'

'Have you thought about getting it restored yourself?' I ask. 'Get it into tip top condition, and then put it on the market.'

'I don't really have the time,' the chap says.

I nod again. 'No. Even with everything lined up, it's not a quick process. And if you're trying to do it yourself ... in your spare time ...'

I walk around the car again. Slowly. When I reach the right rear wheel, I pause and check the tread depth on the 280/45 VR Michelin tyre. The owner waits for me to say something. But I don't. I continue my circumnavigation.

'Good name, Testarossa,' I say. 'The Americans go for butch names. Mustang. And Stingray. And Viper. But the Italians go for Testarossa. Redhead. Sex on wheels. Especially if you like redheads.'

'OK, why don't you make me an offer,' the chap says.

I walk slowly around the car for a third time. 'OK,' I say. 'Here's what I can go to. But not a penny more.' And I hit him with a number.

He doesn't look happy. But he nods. 'OK,' he says.

We shake hands and I load the car onto my trailer.

Since Newport is only ten or so miles from Cardiff - and it is getting close to lunchtime - I phone my aunt, Bethan, to see if she feels like a visitor. Happily, she does. Fortunately she lives on the outskirts of Cardiff, so I am able to find a space to park my rig.

'What brings you to Wales?' she asks as I follow her into her kitchen.

'A redhead.'

She turns, half smiles and half frowns.

'An Italian redhead,' I say. 'A Ferrari Testarossa. A chap in Newport decided to take the money and run.'

Aunt Bethan is my late mother's younger sister. They were 'the girls' in a family with four brothers.

'Did Gail phone you?' Beth asks.

'No. Was she going to?' Gail is my cousin. My younger cousin. Quite a bit younger. I think I was probably about 15 by the time that Gail was born.

'She has to go up to London for some course or other. She was going to phone you. See if you wanted to catch up for a drink or something.'

'I'd love to. When is she coming?'

'She's getting the train this afternoon.'

'She can come back with me. Does she have somewhere to stay.'

'I think she's planning to sleep on the couch at an old college friend's place.'

'No need for that,' I say. 'There's spare bed at my place.'

'I said that she should phone you,' Beth says. 'But she said she didn't want to be a bother.'

'No bother,' I tell Beth.

And then Gail arrives. 'Oh, hello,' she says. 'I was going to phone you.'

'Yes. Beth just said. She says that you need to come up to London. I'm going back this afternoon. You can come with me if you like. I also have a spare bed.'

'Oh ... well ... I ...'

'More comfortable that dossing down on someone's couch,' I say.

Gail has always been a bit of a looker. And she seems to be getting better as she gets older.

'Well ... umm ... if you're sure,' she says.

'Positive.'

In the time that it has taken me to drive from Newport to Cardiff, and find a parking space, Beth has whipped up a batch of cheese scones. They are delicious. Doughy yet light. Tangy. Cheesy. With just a hint of cayenne. Yes, delicious.

With the right car, the journey from Cardiff to London is probably just a smidgen over two hours. But, towing the low loader with the Ferrari on board, it will probably take us two and a half hours. Maybe a little more.

'So ... tell me about the course,' I say to Gail. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that she is frowning slightly.

'It's, umm, basically about how to sell property,' she says.

'Property? You mean houses? I thought that was what you already did.'

She nods. 'Yes. I do. But this is not just ordinary houses. Not your everyday terrace houses. Not neo-Georgian new builds. This is big houses. Smart houses. You know ... twelve bedrooms and stabling for half a dozen horses.'

'Ah. A-lister houses. Football stars. Captains of industry.'