By June Martin Templeton, though not strong, was out and about again. The steep staircase in the old house would have exhausted him, so rather than move into the downstairs bedroom, and take his bath in a tub, he had remained in Miss Moreland’s unit, with her walk-in shower. It separated him from his beloved Packard, but the car wasn’t going anywhere without him.
The flat had its fringe benefits, the minister had to admit. It was close to the hospital, where Doctor Parsons spent much of his time. Parsons popped into the unit most days to check on the minister, or to beat him at chess. Several members of the congregation were installed in the retirement units, so Martin was kept busy with visitors, and he never tired of showing off his unit.
Such extravagance. Modern laminated benchtops, tiled and carpeted floors, luxurious conditions. But the other units he visited were as his own, and many occupied by pensioners. They were the new rich in Maidenville.
Martin didn’t feel up to driving yet. Stella drove him around town, and occasionally out of town for funerals. She drove him to church, and afterwards, took him back to the house for lunch and a long visit with his Packard. He was up to tinkering with the spark plugs, and on his last visit, he had peered between the wheels at a new depression in the floor. He considered getting down on his knees to take a closer look, but he wasn’t quite up to that yet.
‘Something under there,’ he said. ‘You’ve moved it, Daughter?’
‘I said I’d start it up for you. It was going well before I left.’
‘The battery, no doubt.’ He cleaned the terminals, and again attempted to start the big motor, but the battery was dead. He thought to lift it out, to get Stella to take it over to Jennison’s and have it recharged, but it was a weight he could do without lifting. Perhaps later. Or perhaps the old car was due for a new battery. Maybe he’d get Jennison to bring a new one around. But in June the shed was cold and uninviting, and after fifteen minutes of tinkering there, he began to cough. He would have to put off playing mechanic until spring.
‘No good for a fine old vehicle to stand idle for this length of time. I’ll call Jennison around, let him get her going for me.’
‘Let other hands tinker with your beloved Packard, Father? What is the world coming to?’ Stella looked younger each day. She had put on a little of the weight lost while he was away, and looked better for it. And her outfits. He rarely saw her in the same shirt twice.
‘Is there no end to her abominable wardrobe, Daughter?’ he asked.
‘It appears not,’ she laughed.
‘And no end to your spending.’ He looked up at the new bathroom window, and he shook his head. ‘Perhaps I should consider selling the Packard. We may need it to pay some of your recent bills.’
‘We certainly will not sell it. Anyway, I’ve stopped spending for the moment, and when you move back, you will appreciate the upstairs bathroom. The shower recess is positively palatial.’
He had turned back to the car, and she looked where he was looking. From this angle she could see the cracked and sinking soil between the wheels of the car. She stooped, looked sideways and she saw the hump of the bike wheel again. Damn that wheel. There must be a root beneath it, pushing it up. She’d have to dig down, hacksaw it through. End it. Finally write ‘the end’, as she had written ‘THE END’ on her manuscript.
‘I think I’ll get you back to your nice warm flat, and if it will set your mind at rest, I’ll order a new battery from Jennison’s. Come now. It’s too cold out here for me, Father.’
But she didn’t order the battery from Jennison. She drove to Dorby and bought one, and she fitted it. The positive terminal was the larger of the two. As long as she put it back the same way as she took the old one out, it must be right.
And it was. The old motor purred, eager to go. She backed it out, but when she saw the sunken earth beneath it, and the protruding hump of bike wheel, she returned it to its place and ran for her telephone, ordering a truck-load of blue-metal screening from Steve Smith’s Gardening Supplies.
He arrived with his truck, late on the Saturday morning, dumping the load in her drive, directly in front of the garage. It locked the Packard in and the new car out, and although she shook her head adamantly when he offered to help move the pile, he stayed anyway, barrowing in the screenings, glancing around the shed.
‘Do you reckon we could push the old girl back?’
‘Leave it there, Steve. I’ll finish the spreading later.’
He was flinging the screening beneath the Packard’s wheels when he saw it. ‘What’s that?’ he said, on his knees, peering at the curve of the mutilated bike tyre.
The town clock struck its long and aching twelve. ‘Lord,’ she said. ‘Is that the time? Will you share a bite of lunch, Steve?’
‘You know me. I never say no to a free meal.’
‘Do you like baked beans? I seem to have a craving for them these days. Baked beans on toast?’
‘Sounds good.’