My Cousin Gail

[neerathemall]

'Not well. I think they may find me a bit crotchety today.' And she finally forces a smile. 'They may find me as mean towards them as they are towards me.'

That's when I, too, smile. 'I look forward to hearing all about it this evening,' I say.

I spend the first part of my morning searching various websites for new stock - or at least for new old stock. We've been selling quite a few cars lately. We need to fill a few gaps in the inventory.

I know from experience that few people ever post their lowest price. But I'm still surprised by what some people are asking. Among the new listings, I spot a BMW 635CSi. The 'sharknose' 635 is a nice car. But unless it has been well cared for, it can be expensive to restore. I fire off an email and, half an hour later, I get a reply. It turns out that the car is only just down in Wimbledon. The owner offers to bring it up for me to look at. 'Sometime around mid-afternoon?' he suggests.

I fire back a reply: 'Look forward to it.'

Aside from the BMW, I see that there is a 1960 MGA 1600 Mark II being offered for far too much money. I bookmark the site. If it's still there in another week or so - and I suspect that it will be - I might open negotiations.

Lawrence, the chap with the BMW 635, turns up just before three. We have a bit of a chat, and then I get him to drive the car into the workshop where I put it up on the hoist and take a look at the underside with an inspection lamp. 'These are nice cars, but they're a bit famous for their rust,' I say.

Lawrence smiles. Somewhat sheepishly. I get the impression that I'm not telling him anything that he doesn't already know.

'Repaired, it will be better than new,' I tell him. 'But there's a fair bit of cost before we get to that stage.'

Franco studies the logbook and then gives the motor the once over. 'It's going to need a partial rebuild,' Franco says. 'Nothing too major. But a lot of small things. Quite a few parts are coming to the end of their life.'

Lawrence nods. Once again, I get the feeling that Franco is not telling him anything he doesn't already know.

'It will need a complete respray,' I say. 'The driver's seat needs reupholstering. And it'll need new rubber all round. But it can definitely be rescued.' I offer him a little over half what he has it advertised for and watch as his face slumps.

'You couldn't do a little more?' he says.

'They're not cheap cars to restore,' I tell him. 'It is an elegant car. And, restored, it will be a joy to drive. I can go another seven-fifty,' I say. 'But that's the absolute tops.'

'A thousand?'

I shake my head. 'Seven-fifty.'

'OK,' he says, eventually. 'I've probably had my money's worth out of it.' And we shake hands.

Satisfied with my afternoon's work, I head home early. Gail is already there. And she has a half-empty wine glass in front of her.

'I stopped off at the off licence,' she says.

'Oh? Are we celebrating? And, if so, what are we celebrating?'

'The first day of the rest of my life,' she says. 'I walked out.'

'Oh? And how did that go down?' I ask.

'Not well,' Gail says. 'Bullies don't like it when you tell them that they're bullies.' And she almost smiles.

I nod. She does have a point.

'Actually, I think this wine is off,' she says.

I pick up her glass and hold it to my nose. Gail is not wrong. An unpleasant waft of musty wet wool assaults my nostrils. 'I think this bottle may have been sitting in the sun somewhere,' I say. 'Why don't we wander down to the pub? It sounds like you have had enough disappointment for one day.'

The Feathers has been recently 'rediscovered'. Which is both good and bad. It is good that, for the time being at least, it is now safe from joining the growing list of former pubs. But it is not so good (from my point of view) that, on a Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, it tends to be packed to gunwales. We find ourselves an empty square metre of floorspace and, leaving Gail to 'guard our territory', I push my way up to the bar to get some drinks.

'So,' I say, when I return, 'what pushed you over the edge?'

Gail frowns. 'I think it was just more of the same,' she says eventually. 'More bullying. More nastiness. More me, me, me - and fuck you.'

'Not exactly your style,' I say.

'I hope not.' And then she says: 'I think I need to find something else to do. I don't think I'm cut out for selling houses. Certainly not to the rich and famous. I'm not sure that I'm cut out for selling anything.'

'You're not tempted to have another shot at the law?' I say.

Gail shakes her head. 'All the interesting stuff happens in the big firms, and they're also full of bullies. How did you end up with your job?' she asks.