Chapter 5: William Howarth

Ashford, evening: Wednesday, September 17th

‘There’s one more to look at before you knock off.’ Patrick Howarth threw a set of keys across to his nephew, who was drying his hands on a piece of towelling. ‘Mini on the forecourt. Wouldn’t start. Jack’s just towed it in.’

Bloody Jack – shouldn’t even be in the garage, William Booth thought. His cousin was on leave, for God’s sake why hadn’t he just stayed away, met up with his Army pals, stopped at home? Anything but bugger about in the garage, bloody messing everything up.

‘I’ve finished for the day,’ he protested, pulling at the front of his overall until the press-studs popped open. ‘I told you this morning. I said I had to get done early; I’m meeting our Richard off the train.’

‘You’re done when I say so.’

‘I’ve finished all the jobs that were on the list.’ William felt the stirrings of anger. He pushed the legs of his overalls down with his feet and stepped out of them. He knew what Patrick was playing at; he didn’t like Uncle Peter just because he was German. But William didn’t understand why Patrick had carried that dislike forward to his nephew and niece.

‘Won’t do him any harm to wait a few minutes.’ Patrick scowled, then grinned. ‘Don’t think you’ll grumble when you see the driver. Tasty bit of stuff.’

William hated the way his uncle eyed-up all the women customers – as though they’d fancy him, with his belly hanging over his trousers and his careful comb-over. ‘I’ll have a look at the car. But if it’s a big job it’ll have to wait ’til morning.’

‘It bloody won’t.’

It bloody will, William thought. He turned away from Patrick. In all the five years he’d worked at his uncle’s garage he’d kept his temper. But one of these days the man would be sorry. Jobs were two-a-penny and garages were crying out for good mechanics. And William knew that he was good at his job. ‘I said I’ll have a look.’

His uncle was right, though. The girl standing by the red Mini with the Union Jack roof was really pretty. Not as lovely as his Susan, but pretty. Her black hair streamed over a white short-sleeved crocheted top. A pink jacket, casually wrapped around her shoulders, matched the shortest skirt William had ever seen. How the hell does she get in and out of that car without showing all she’s got, he thought.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What happened, then?’ He dipped his head towards the car.

‘It just sort of stuttered and then stopped. I’m sorry,’ she added, ‘I heard you say you were finishing. But I’m desperate. I promised my … my stepfather I wouldn’t be late tonight. My mother’s in hospital … she’s … in hospital,’ she repeated. ‘I’m supposed to be visiting her.’

‘No problem. Let’s have a look.’ He sat in the driver’s seat with one leg out of the car and turned the key. Seconds later he was cursing Jack. No petrol. The dozy bugger must have known what was wrong with the blasted vehicle. He was evidently out to make a bit of extra cash before he went off to Northern Ireland. William felt a twinge of guilt for the irritation. He and Jack had never got on but according to what was in the news it was a bad situation he was being sent into.

The self-reproach rapidly disappeared; Jack was all for going over there. Apparently it was what he’d signed up for – to ‘sort out the bastards’, he’d heard Jack say on more than one occasion. ‘Wilson has the right idea, sending in the Army.’

There was no point in arguing with him. He’d always been arrogant. Just like his dad.

And it wasn’t this girl’s fault that William felt so aggravated. Taking a deep breath, he said, ‘You’ve run out of petrol.’

‘Oh.’ The girl blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I haven’t been driving long and my … stepfather usually takes it to the garage for me.’ She moved from one foot to the other, wobbling on her knee-high silver boots.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll soon have you back on the road.’ He took the handbrake off and, pushing the car nearer the pumps, unscrewed the petrol cap.

Even though he was watching the gauge he could sense the girl’s tension. ‘It’s full now,’ he said, putting the nozzle back into place. ‘That’s three pounds ten.’

‘Keep the change.’ She pushed four one-pound notes in his hand.

‘No, I didn’t do anything.’ He jerked his head towards the garage. ‘I suppose they’ve already charged you for towing in?’

‘Yes. But it was my own fault. Please, take it.’ She moved quickly, folding herself into the car and closing the door. ‘Thanks again.’

William sucked on his lower lip, watching her pull out too fast into the traffic. He frowned, then shrugged.

Putting the money in the till in the corner of the garage he took out a ten-shilling note. He’d earned it. And it was better in his pocket than his greedy uncle’s.

‘I’ve gone.’ He tossed the words over his shoulder towards Patrick, shoving his arms into his leather jacket and then jamming his crash helmet on.

Jack was standing astride the Triumph Trophy.

‘Get off,’ William snapped.

‘Make me.’ Jack grinned.

‘You wouldn’t want me to do that.’ William folded his arms. ‘Now get off my fucking bike.’

Slowly, still sniggering, his cousin swung his leg over the seat of the bike, deliberately kicking it.

Gritting his teeth, William caught hold of the handlebars to stop it falling. He lifted the stand with his foot and rocked the bike on its wheels before opening the throttle and kick starting the engine.

With a bit of luck he might just get to the station before the train arrived.