The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike) Part 1496 by Angharad Copyright © 2011 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

At my insistence he took me out to see his car, there was a slight scratch on the front mudguard and perhaps a bit of a dent. “That’s still driveable.”

“Yeah, but Darnley will need to have to to fix it.”

“Drive it to work, get him to collect it and I’ll fetch you from work.”

“You don’t want me to drive your car, do you?”

“It’s not my car is it? It belongs to the bank.”

“Um, not quite.”

“Not quite? It either does or it doesn’t.”

“In which case it doesn’t.”

“So to whom does it belong?” I even managed to ask grammatically.

“Um, you, why?”

“Me?”

“Yes, it’s hardly a revelation is it? I mean it was your car which provided the insurance payout and with which I bought the new one. So it’s your car.”

“So why didn’t I get another Cayenne?”

“I thought you’d like the Jaguar.”

“I do, but I’d have thought they’d have just given us another Cayenne.”

“I thought you’d like the Jaguar.”

“Simon, you’ve said that once already.”

“So, maybe I mean it.”

“Or old people repeat themselves.”

“You bitch, I’m not old.”

“Well, stop repeating yourself then!”

“Cheeky cow, perhaps it was something important I was saying and making sure that little girly brain was taking it on board.”

“Is that a declaration of war, husband?”

“No, don’t be silly. Why would you ask that?”

“Because my small girly brain isn’t always synchronised with your large macho gob.”

“That would be obvious to a blind man.”

“But not to a sighted one.”

“Meaning?”

“Sometimes you can be such a prick.”

“Oh thank you very much.” He stormed off muttering and cursing as he went. I went back to my course and its preparation. At bedtime we negotiated a truce, though he was still spitting feathers.

After I go home from the school run, I called Mr Darnley. “Who would you say is the best person to check out a 1963 S type Jaguar?”

“Doug Wellington, why, who’s got one?”

“I have.”

“Mrs Cameron, he’d love to look at it, so would I, where can we see it?” I arranged to meet them at the house in Southsea in an hour’s time. I drove my modern Jag to open a garage to one that was older than I was.

They were both drooling over it, “You wouldn’t like to sell it would you?” asked Wellington.

“No, but I need to have it made roadworthy by tomorrow, if that’s possible.”

Wellington nodded, he noticed it was tax exempt so it only required an MOT test and service. The battery was flat, but using my car with jump leads, he managed to start it. The garage filled with smoke and I watched them both come out coughing and spluttering, I was sitting safely in my own car revving it for the extra charge from the battery.

Mr Wellington drove the veteran Jag away, followed by Darnley in an equally old Rover, which looked as mint as the old Jaguar. I wasn’t sure how I was going to play this. I could drive the old car and let Simon have this one, or let him drive the old one and take the risk that it’s irreparable if he prangs it. Actually, it’s probably more robust than the newer cars.

I drove home and still couldn’t make my mind up. I was clearing up after lunch when the phone rang. I answered it. It was Louisa Alcott.

“I can’t thank you enough for what you did for me.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Well, I can see now, I couldn’t yesterday.”

“Enjoy it then, read some of your Bible.”

“I’m not wasting time indoors when I could be out in the garden looking at my flowers or watching the sea. I can read during the evenings.”

“Look, I’m sorry Miss Alcott, but I have several things to do, not least collecting some of my kids from school.”

“They’re children, Lady Cameron, not the offspring of goats.”

“Okay, I have to collect my children, or some of them.”

“Very well, I don’t wish to sound contemptuous, but please don’t let these Americanisms infiltrate your speech–kids and chewing gum–and you as an aristocrat should know that better than most. You’re English, be proud of it.”

“Actually, I’m Scots, Miss Alcott, but I am proud of it.”

“But of course, with a name like Cameron, I hope I didn’t offend–but that’s your husband’s name–so are you Scottish too?”

“I was born in Dumfries, does that answer your question?”

“Yes, I suppose it does–pretty little town, where Robert Burns lived and died.”

“That’s the place.”

“Once again, you saved my life, Lady Cameron, thank you so much.”

“No, you did. I have to go.” I put the phone down. Then dialled the insurance company and arranged cover for the S type for Simon and me to drive it. I did consider Tom as well, but then thought he’s not into old cars–not after we got him to part with his old Land Rover.

I’d just put the phone down when it rang again and I was about to tell Miss Alcott to go away–for a long holiday–when I recognised the voice of Mr Wellington. “You car is ready, we had to replace the battery and did an oil change but she is in such good nick, if ever you want to sell her–give me first refusal.”

“I’m not planning on selling her, at the same time, I don’t know how much driving it will do.”

“Well, let me know, I’ll give you a good price.”

“If I do, I will let you know.”

“We’ll drop her round in about half an hour–I’ll send you an account in due course.”

I thanked him then went off to collect the girls. They were quite inquisitive about the old car parked in the driveway.

“We got visitors?” asked Trish.

“Don’t think so, why?”

“There’s a strange car there–didn’t you notice it?”

“No, I didn’t see any strange cars.”

“What’s that then?” she pointed and waved her finger at the elderly Jaguar.

“That’s my vintage Jaguar.”

“Vintage? Yours?” her eyes nearly pooped out on stalks, “How long have you had that?”

“Quite some time, why?”

“You had a Jaguar, that’s what it is, isn’t it–with the cat on the bonnet?”

“Yes, Mr Whitehead gave it to me.”

“Daddy will want to have go in it–so will Julie.”

“I might let Daddy have a go, but Julie will have to whistle.”

Trish laughed at my comment. She had a good look at the car, then said she preferred the new one. I suspected it was easier to drive, old cars don’t have synchromesh on some of the gears–so you have to double declutch and things. Simon might be more keen on doing that than I am.

I got Julie to collect him, which meant he was fuming when he entered the drive but completely forgot his anger when he saw the S type–especially when he realised it didn’t belong to a visitor. I was in for an interesting evening.