The Long Game

The last Friday evening of February was always a time of uneasy joy for Cillian O’Dwyer.  It occasioned moments of reflection, recognition and anticipation.  Time had finally dulled the wretchedness of his childhood and his thoughts usually turned more to recognising how well his life has turned out after such an unpromising beginning.  His recall was almost photographic, picturing how on this day 25 years earlier he had been 10 years’ old, huddled down on the front porch of the run-down Hanson St rental property, keeping out of a surprisingly cold wind, wondering how much longer his parents would be at The Tramway Hotel … and what state they would be in when they returned.  He knew he would be in trouble and there would certainly be a belting for not having their tea ready for putting on the stove.  

That day had been a bit of a ‘perfect storm’.  He’d got his usual caning from Brother Paulinus for his scholastic inadequacies in class, there had been the normal cruel teasing from Tom Frost and his mates, and the rejection by all the other kids when it came to the picking of the games’ teams.  Those were just the ordinary woes he faced every day.  What made it worse on this occasion was having his caning-numbed fingers drop the house key through the decking slats and out of reach.  Cillian knew this would probably spell trouble for both his mother and himself.  

Eion O’Dwyer was a ‘salt of the earth, luuverly man’ when not ‘betaken of the drink’ but sadly a bitter, brutal, irrational bully after a few jugs of Red Band.  Cillian’s mother Aileen was a tiny sparrow-like woman for whom life had not been kind.  Alcohol, cigarettes and repeated thrashings had ravaged her once good looks and dulled her cognitive abilities.  She said little, did little, her eyes never focusing.  No longer was there ever talk of going home to Ireland.  For her and the boy that her once-loved husband called ‘the runt’, each day was one of abject misery – no tenderness, no joy … just trepidation and uncertainty.  The booze numbed her and isolated her from reality.  It was now the only thing she and her once beloved Eion shared.

“Hello son, I wonder if you’d be able to give me a hand for a few minutes?”
Cillian looked up in surprise to see the tall figure of Mr. Edwards from across the road.  He knew his name because there had been mail for them left by mistake in the O’Dwyers’ letterbox once.
“If I can … I am not very strong.”
“You’ll be ok.  I just want you to sit in my new car and steer while I pull it up into the workshop.”

Going up onto the road Cillian was confronted not by a new car but a battered old wreck which looked like it should be going the ‘knackers’ yard’ that his dad was always talking about.  
 “Wow, Mr. Edwards, what are you going to do with that?  Is it junk?”
“No my boy, today is the first day of my retirement and I have treated myself to this wonderful piece of motoring history. I’m going to restore it to as-new condition and if you like, you can help me after school and in the evenings sometimes.  I often need someone to hold things … and you can learn all about old cars”
“Is it an Austin without a top?  It’s quite round, a bit ugly.”

Mr. Edwards chuckled and replied, “No, Austins are for the masses, this car is for gentlemen.  She will be one of the rarest cars on the road in New Zealand when we finish it.  It is a 1947 Healey Westland Roadster.  They only made 64 of them between 1946 and 1950.  This one was made for a Maharajah in India.  It has taken me 4 years of negotiation to get it here.  Marjorie and I are so excited.  When we go out in this she’ll look like a princess … or whatever they call a Maharajah’s wife”

Cillian wasn’t 100% sure what a Maharajah was but smiled anyway.  He was then instructed to sit in the car and make sure it didn’t veer into the workshop door jamb while Mr. Edwards laboriously ratcheted it slowly up the little rise into the cavernous space under their house using what he called a ‘chain come-along’. Although the steering wheel was huge and hard to turn, Cillian achieved what was required and for the first time he could remember he felt proud of something he had done and blushed a bit when Mr. Edwards said “Well-done lad!”  

Once the Westland was positioned they went upstairs where Mrs. Edwards had a nice afternoon tea prepared.  Marjorie Edwards was a motherly soul who had never been able to conceive.  There was warmness about her that initially Cillian found confusing but soon came to enjoy and reciprocate in the months and years that followed.

And so began a period of time that retrospectively Cillian called The Transitioning.  He was still bullied at school by Tom Frost and his odious mates Andy Smith and Dennis Coles, but the Catholic Education system started being integrated with the State system and no longer were the Marist Brothers allowed to cane indiscriminately or with impunity.  His after-school times and evenings were now wonderful.  Although to start with his efforts in helping with the restoration of the car were little more than watching and occasionally handing Mr. Edwards a tool … with time he started to develop an aptitude for the work and a good insight into what was needing to be done.  Slowly he and Mr. Edwards became a team.  He loved it when ahead of time he could see what tool would be needed for the task in hand and have it ready to pass to his wonderful mentor.  They’d laugh together as Mr. Edwards would act like a surgeon in a TV soap opera and whilst lying on his back under the car would call for “3/16th Whitworth!” putting his hand out accordingly … “needle-nose pliers nurse, and degreasing solution … alligator clip, and make it snappy!”  All the while the old HMV valve radio on the shelf above the workbench would be gently playing in the background tuned to either the Concert Programme or National Radio.

Together they wrestled the 2.4 litre Riley engine out of the engine-bay using a block and tackle hoist hanging from an overhead beam.  Later they took the whole body-shell off and renewed parts of the ash timber framework.  The aluminium bodywork was laboriously stripped.  Mr. Edwards had a whiteboard which was almost full-height on the workshop wall.  On this he had made out an extensive task list with a rough timeline alongside.  There were more than 120 tasks that had been formalised onto the list.  Cillian was always eager to strike a line through when one was finished, often frustrated when Mr. Edwards said “Not quite yet, son.”  By the time he was 13 Mr. Edwards had him using the lathe and the drill-mill.  This had entailed learning how to use a micrometer and calipers.  Cillian reveled in getting the go-ahead each time.  “Go on son, you’ve got better eyesight than me, make phosphor-bronze bushes for the suspension eyes”.

Mr. Edwards was a patient teacher happy to impart the gleaned knowledge from a lifetime hobby.  Cillian learned about Whitworth, BSF and BA thread forms and where each was likely to be used, and why. They studied and repaired every component of the suspension with its alloy trailing-arms, coil springs and lever-arm shock-absorbers.  The worm and roller steering gear was fortunately in good condition necessitating just repacking with grease and painting.  Slowly but relentlessly they worked their way down the list of tasks, every so often treating themselves to a small celebration when a linked group of jobs were complete.

When he was 14, Cillian’s dad was killed in a work accident, a happening which occasioned little grief to either his mother or himself.  There would have been a company pay-out but it was found that Eion O’Dwyer was under the influence of alcohol and operating a piece of plant he was not authorised or trained to use.  The company offered commiserations but no compensation because they could not be seen to be setting a precedent.  Free of her abuser’s shadow Aileen O’Dwyer regained a little of the spark from her youth although she never managed to shrug off the lure of the whiskey.  A year after her Eion’s passing she cashed in her meagre superannuation savings and returned to the Emerald Isles, lasting only a few months before passing away in the arms of her younger sister.  This left Cillian an orphan but there was never a moment’s doubt regarding where he would live, it just meant now that he never crossed over to the ‘down’ side of Hanson St.  He now really was the son that the Edwards never had.

Each year on the day following the anniversary of the car’s arrival, as a family they would go out to The British Car Day, to “check out the opposition” as Mr. Edwards would say.  This was always a good time with an enormous old-fashioned picnic.  They would look at the various owner’s clubs displays and vicariously enjoy the easy banter and camaraderie that always seemed to be there.  Of course there was no Healey owners’ group but Marjorie Edwards had decided upon their ‘spot’.  “We’ll majestically cruise in and sidle up to those beautiful old girls … the snooty-looking ones.  They’re nearly as gorgeous as our Helen” as she called the Healey.  Mr Edwards approved of her choice because the cars she always admired were also bespoke, limited-edition, rich-men’s sports saloons.  One a two-tone blue Alvis Grey Lady and the other a sleek silver Lagonda drop-head coupe.

The Healey was duly finished in the five-year time-frame laid out on the whiteboard and was as magnificent as they had all expected.  For her age she was sophisticated, fast and able.  She brought great joy to the Edwards and an annual highlight for Cillian was always the Friday afternoon before British Car Day because together he and Mr. Edwards would give Helen a detailed cleaning and special polish.  This always brought back the recollections and remembrances of their journey.  There was also a certain tactile enjoyment in polishing those big voluptuous flanks with their sweeping almost-sensuous curves.  Mr. Edwards would inevitably say “If Botticelli had made a car … this is what he would have made.  God she’s magnificent isn’t she … almost as magnificent as our Marjorie!”

Leaving school was not a wrench.  Cillian was pleased to get away from the environment he had endured for over 10 years.  It was natural that he would take up a position just down the road at John St Motors as an apprentice mechanic.  No longer bullied, he looked forward to every day and was always at work early, easily in time to have the jug boiled for the boss’s morning coffee.  Interestingly, the years through to his early 20s corresponded with a belated growth spurt and whilst still slim he was no longer the runt from his brutal Marist Newtown days.

The years slipped by enjoyably for the three of them, the Edwards just progressively aging and slowing while Cillian contentedly matured into adulthood.  Nobody called him Gillian anymore, no one taunted him or made fun of his hesitancy in responding to the barked questions of his teachers.  The coin had turned and now he was more likely to be in the position of asking questions as he now had two apprentices linked to him at work.  Occasionally he spotted Tom Frost through the one-way glass from the workshop to the reception and parts area when he was either dropping off or picking up his car.  The boss’s wife Deirdre who manned the ‘front of house’ gave feed-back that he was invariably unpleasantly pompous, over-bearing and bordering on rude.  His rise through the celebrity ranks of the city’s glitterazzi was observed without comment.

… and then seven years ago, having fully polished Helen and thinking of the next day’s outing to The British Car Day, Cillian was blacking the tyres.  He was almost finished when he heard a surprised gasp from the other side of the Healey and a cultured voice utter “My word, its Noddy’s car only bigger … and we match!”  Cillian popped up from road-side of the car to look upon a statuesque young woman of similar age to himself dressed in what he may have described as old-fashioned summer blouse and frock of indeed similar colours to the black and silver of Helen.
“Ooh did I say that out loud?”
“Yes you did and Noddy’s car was red and yellow and you are way too young to know Enid Blyton’s books”
“Maybe so, but I grew up on a diet of them when visiting my Nan and Pops.”
There was a small period of hesitation as they both seemed to size each other up.  Whilst not normally socially adventurous, Cillian hardly recognised his lips were moving and his voice transmitting a conversational interaction.  “What do you think?  My name is Cillian by the way”
“I think it’s gorgeous!  What is it … and is it yours?  My name is Veronica Plumstead, Cillian by-the-way”

Cillian wondered if this was what was described in books as flirting.  He couldn’t help himself smiling which wasn’t usual for him.  He didn’t know how much detail he should go into about the car.  Something made him just skim over the details.  Enough detail to not appear condescending but not so much so as to overwhelm her.  To his surprise she seemed to be interested and asked for more.
“I have an uncle who would love to see this.  Could we have a photo of me with the car?”
She reached into her clutch-bag for her cell phone.
“I can do better than that, I do a bit of photography, and I know much better backgrounds than this.  Can you spare 30 minutes?  Where were you off to?”

It seemed that Veronica was a new immigrant from the UK who had just taken up a nursing role in Wellington Hospital.  This was the end of her initial week and she was having her first walk in the sun after a morning duty.  Within minutes Cillian had thrown off his overalls, grabbed his camera, told the Edwards he would be back in an hour or so and was soon happily cruising around the Miramar Peninsular chatting animatedly with an ease that surprised him, reveling in his role as local tour guide.

That was the beginning of The Glory Years.  To Cillian it was like he had won a lottery.  Veronica slipped into his life, enhancing it beyond anything he could have dreamed of.  Her grace and aplomb were legendary, her inner beauty radiating for all to see.  “Of course I could be biased.” Cillian chuckled at these inner thoughts.

Inevitably and inexorably the Edwards aged into their eighties, their joy at seeing their ward in love and settled was transparent.  Their lives had plateaued with the completion of the Healey and the embracing of Veronica’s presence, then gently declined and finally within two months of each other they peaceably passed away.  The rituals around the preparation of Helen for The British Car Day always vividly brought back the memories and the timeline recollections – from the trembling child on the front porch through to the joy of being a man approaching his middle years with the most wonderful life-companion.

So it was that once again Cillian and Veronica went off in the gleaming Westland, hood down and vintage Motorola radio playing.  The day was typically February-hot and they were very pleased that their usual spot at Trentham Memorial Park was clear, as a large plane tree provided all-day shade for their picnic and socialising.  Cillian had noted that the celebrity judge given the duty of selecting the ‘car of the day’ was none other than Tom Frost who had recently ascended to the lofty civic role of Deputy Mayor.  The day as always was a delight. They loved catching up with their friends with the Alvis and the Lagonda as well as numerous others.  They still used the cane picnic basket that Marjorie Edwards had bought when first married.  This was like a talisman for enjoyment.  Mid-afternoon Cillian went off to get a chilled ginger ale from a stall for Veronica as they had run out of their home-made lemonade.

Whilst still in the queue he noticed Tom Frost only a couple ahead of him with an adolescent son, smugly noting that the good-life was making him prematurely portly.  Cillian hoped he could remain incognito and thanked the sun for ensuring he was wearing dark shades and a broad-brimmed cap.

“Dad, you’ve got to leave soon or you’ll miss your plane.  Have you done the judging?”
“Don’t you worry about me being late, I know how long it takes from here … to the minute, and yeah I think so … it’ll be that 3.4 litre Mark 2 Jag, but I’ll do one more walk around, hand in my card then we’ll split.”
The son then pointed over to where he could see Veronica alongside the Healey, looking in Cillian’s eyes an absolute picture of summer radiance in the silvery grey and black ensemble that he first saw her in, with an extravagant sun-hat keeping the harmful sun’s rays from her visage.

“Did you see that car with the matching lady and stuff?”
“Yeah … a try-hard, and will you look at the outfit.  Mutton dressed as lamb … no way Jose!”

Silently Cillian got the ginger ale and went resolutely back to Veronica, handing over the can before going straight to the car and squatting beside the rear wheel.

  "I'll be back soon, there is something I have to do!”  He then strode off towards the park’s boundary road and was soon lost to Veronica’s sight.  Cillian had earlier spotted Tom Frost’s ostentatious red Jaguar with the personalised plate of FROSTY.  It was a simple matter of skirting away to the trees behind the cars and bending down out of sight and quickly making his way along to the target of his attention.  Deftly Cillian removed the valves from both off-side tyres with the dust cap tool he’d removed from the Healey and briskly he retraced his steps and within minutes slipped back into the vintage deck chair beside his beaming spouse.
“What a lovely day … life’s good isn’t it?”
“Pretty good so far” replied Cillian with a wry grin “… might even get better!”

15 mins later there was a call over the public address system asking for a tyre pump.  Cillian chuckled and muttered to himself “They’ll need more than that.” Later still there was a call for schrader valves.  “Wasting their time … even if you get some valves, you’ll never pump up tubeless tyres without a compressor.”

Veronica was mildly amused that Cillian seemed unusually happy as they headed off to Newtown an hour or so later.  The following morning’s 6.00 am news brought him further satisfaction.

DEPUTY MAYOR MISSES CONNECTING FLIGHT.  HUMILIATION FOLLOWS LOST TRADE DEAL.

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