12

IT WAS JUST AFTER DAWN and a bank of fog was rolling in off the river and creeping, damp and wet and dense, through the streets. This part of town still used gas, and the lamplighter was slowly making his way down the street, extinguishing them one by one as the sun rose. The remaining lights glowed through the smoggy haze, fuzzy globes of gold. Edward emerged from the station and followed the Tottenham Court Road down towards Euston. The area was full of car dealerships, new and used, and the one that Joseph had directed him to was halfway down the road.

He walked onto the forecourt. The floodlights were on, bleeding through the fog. Slogans and signs were hung from the lamp-posts: “over 100 for under £100,” they proclaimed, but the fabric banners were tiny compared to the huge mural that had been painted onto the wall at the end of the terrace. There appeared to be plenty of stock: family motors that ran well but were probably on the verge of a serious breakdown; Chryslers and Buicks that had been thrashed too hard by young men who had grown out of them; a handful of sports cars, brightly painted buzz-boxes with plenty of gadgets and chromium lamps and fittings, caned half to death by tearaways with indulgent parents.

He shivered in the damp cold and closed his overcoat more tightly around his body. He passed through the showroom to the back, and followed a painted, pointing hand towards a doorway labelled ‘office.’ He took a short flight of stairs and passed through another door, this one marked as ‘general office.’ A final door had ‘Mr. Ward’ stencilled across its frosted glass panel. Edward heard voices inside. He rapped his fist against the glass and was told to come in.

There was a man sitting behind a desk and another in a chair facing him. The first man was obviously the boss. The first thing Edward noticed was his beautiful suit, and next how well his face was shaved under the faint brush of powder, and then his forehead, where the pale hair receded, which glistened. The man was wide, there could be no doubt about that, but he didn’t look like the drones who flogged packets of nylons on the pavement outside Oxford Circus tube station. He was dressed in an understated way that said he knew the value of money but wasn’t interested in flaunting it.

“Sorry,” Edward said. “I didn’t realise I was interrupting.”

“Who are you?” the first man said.

“Violet Costello sent me. About a job?”

“Ah yes,” he said, nodding with sudden vigour. “I remember. Sit down. We’re nearly finished.” His voice became harsh as he turned to address the second man. “You’ve got to pull your socks up, man. I’m fed up to the eye teeth of you and the other blokes let people get away with it. You’ve got no brains and no ability. You don’t ever admit liability, never––do you understand? Giving money to the old fool who brought the Rover back, what were you thinking?”

“But you told me yourself that the guarantee––”

“Guarantee? Nuts! That’s just talk. You’re a salesman, Ford, you sell things. You leave the business to me. Guarantee? Stone the crows! Guarantee! Unless you can get that into your thick skull you can find yourself a new job. You and all the others. There are plenty of men willing and able to take your job. Take this fellow here.” He referred to a pad on the desk. “It’s Mr.––Mr.––Mr. Fabian, isn’t it?”

Edward nodded that it was.

“Mr. Fabian is only a bona fide war hero, decorated and everything. While you were running around Salisbury Plain finding excuses not to get sent to the front, Mr. Fabian was up to his neck in bloody Japs. Only got the Victoria bleeding Cross, didn’t he?”

Edward did not know how to respond to that.

“Do you have anything else to say?”

“No, Mr. Ward.”

“No indeed. Now––clear off.”

The man stood and, apologising again, shuffled out of the room.

Ruby Ward shook his head and stood up. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Half the lads I’ve got here couldn’t sell a car if their life depended on it, and the other half give money back when some old fool complains that the one they’ve bought isn’t running right. They’d have me out of business if I didn’t keep an eye on them.”

He extended a hand and Edward took it. He noticed that he pressed a knuckle into his palm. A freemason; Edward wondered if returning the pressure would mean favourable treatment.

He smiled brightly at him, revealing two rows of beautifully white teeth. “I’m Ruby Ward. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Now then––Violet was telling me you’re after a job. She says you’re a University man, and that you did well for yourself in the Far East. I can use a person like that. You worked in sales before?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Never mind. If you’re as clever as she says you are then you’ll pick it up.” He took his coat from the back of his chair and slipped it on. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll give you the tour.”

He went down to the garage, passing a battered old Austin-Seven that Ward said he had picked up for a song the previous afternoon. It had certainly seen better days. The motor was over the inspection pit and his man, Joe Buck, was underneath it, shining a light onto the chassis. Ward explained that Buck was his “fixer.” He had no formal qualifications as a mechanic but he was an artist when it came to taking beaten up motor cars and making them look halfway decent again. He could only do so much, and even someone with Ruby’s patter would struggle to flog a car like that on for more than twenty quid, but it didn’t matter because Ruby never bought them for more than a fiver.

“How is it?” Ruby shouted.

“It’s in a right mess, boss,” Buck called up out of the pit. “If it was a horse, I’d’ve shot it.”

“Lucky I pay you to mend ‘em, then. What are you going to do with it?”

Buck hauled himself out of the pit, scrubbing sweat off his forehead with the edge of his dirty sleeve. He looked at the Austin critically and sucked his teeth. “I’ll wind the clock a bit, take a few hundred miles off it. The engine ought to run well enough for another six months, maybe a year. The rest of it will be easy enough: the wing stay’s loose but I can anchor it with wire and insulating tape; there are rattles in the chassis, but some wet cardboard rolls will dampen them down; I’ll tie the battery box to the frame with string and change the oil. We had a delivery yesterday––very cheap. What it lacks in cleanliness it makes up for in heaviness. Perfect for what we need.”

“Good man.”

Ruby explained that he paid Buck forty-five shillings a week and a bonus of sixpence for every car he saved from the breaker’s yard. He took the cars as part-exchange, more of them than he knew what to do with. Some didn’t need that much work: a splash of paint, a squirt of oil, a new pair of tyres. The others he reserved for Buck.

They entered the main showroom. Five cars were carefully parked so that the spotlights overhead could sparkle down across their polished bodywork. Another row of similar cars was arranged on the forecourt, visible through the big plate glass windows. Prices had been written on the windshields and a sign overhead proclaimed GOOD CARS WANTED.

Ward poured two cups of tea from a pot on a small table and gave one to Edward. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I’ll give you a quid a week. Every car you sell is worth another quid to you on top of that. Simple, right?”

“Simple.”

“You’ll pick it up in an hour or two. If I were you I’d have a look around this morning, see how things get done. Watch the other lads, that’ll get you an idea of how they work. Once you’re happy with that, you might as well get stuck in. You’ll need to pull your weight, mind––Violet’s recommendation got you the job, but it won’t keep you in it if you can’t sell. Understand?”