‘Wonderful,’ replied Jimmy. ‘Now you know what to do. Check the old car out. Ring me. And if it’s worth it, I’ll come out and tow it back here.’
‘No worries,’ said Mick.
Jimmy paused for a moment at the other end. ‘Hey. You know this is gonna cost you. Don’t you?’
Mick shook his head. ‘When doesn’t it, Jimmy?’
‘I’ll wait till I hear from you.’
Mick hung up and decided against making any coffee. Instead, he tidied himself up and changed into a pair of jeans and a blue checked shirt. Then, after stuffing the brown envelope full of money down the front of his jeans, he locked the house and walked out to the white van parked in the driveway.
Although he was in an upbeat mood when he left the house, Mick still couldn’t avoid the feeling of sadness whenever he climbed behind the wheel since Mark’s death. Three weeks had passed and he still expected Mark to pile in next to him, click up
his seatbelt and make a quick joke about something before they set off for work. Mick stared through the windscreen for a moment then started the engine. He gave it time to warm up before turning right out of his driveway.
It was a beautiful spring day, traffic was light and before long Mick was driving through New Lambton. Two streets past Regent Park he found the place he was looking for halfway down on the opposite side of the road. Mick pulled up and checked it out.
It was an old white wooden house with the paint flaking off under a rusty galvanised-iron roof. A TV aerial clung loosely to the side of a crooked chimney and a rusty gate clung loosely to a chipped brick fence at the front. On the left, an open driveway ran down the side to a garage, and behind the gate a short path led up to a wooden verandah and a door between two security windows. Apart from a yellow letterbox, the only sign of colour was a large tree growing over the roof. Mick did a U-turn and pulled up behind a small white car parked out the front then cut the engine and got out of the van. He walked over and opened the gate just as the front door slammed and a stocky, blonde woman in a blue dust coat came striding down the path, her face a burning mixture of rage and frustration.
‘That’s it,’ the woman cursed, shaking her head angrily. ‘I’m never coming here again. Bloody Bronwyn can stick the job. I don’t need money that bad.’
‘Hello,’ said Mick, keeping the gate open. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Something wrong?’ The woman glared at Mick. ‘Are you the cleaner?’
Mick shook his head. ‘No. I’m here to see Mrs Hedstrom about a car.’
‘Well bloody good luck.’
The woman stormed past Mick and got into the small white car out the front, slamming the door behind her. As soon as she revved the engine noisily into life, the woman crunched the car into gear and disappeared down the street in an angry squealing of tyres. Mick gave a quick shrug as he closed the gate, then walked up to the front door where a buzzer on the right sat above a large jade plant in a plastic pot. Mick pushed the buzzer and a sound like a whiny car alarm came from inside the house. There was no answer. Mick waited and pushed the buzzer again.
‘All right!’ barked a whining, horrible voice from inside. ‘You don’t have to ring the house down. I was on the toilet. I’m not deaf, you know.’
‘Sorry,’ apologised Mick.
Mick waited contritely until the door opened and a short, stooped apparition wearing a blue dressing gown with a green scarf over its head peered up from behind a safety chain. Set in a thin bony face, a bony nose poked out from under the scarf and a pair of watery eyes blazed with hatred and loathing. One thin hand held the doorknob and the other clutched a metal walking stick.
‘Well, what do you want?’ demanded the figure in the dressing gown.
‘Are you Mrs Hedstrom?’ Mick asked politely.
‘Well of course I’m bloody Mrs Hedstrom,’ snapped the old woman. ‘Who else would I be?’ The watery eyes glared at Mick. ‘Well, come on. Don’t just bloody stand there. What do you want?’
Mick hesitated for a moment. ‘I came here to see about a car you might be selling, Mrs Hedstrom,’ he replied.
The old woman appeared to ignore Mick’s answer. ‘I suppose that bloody Bronwyn sent you, did she? Bloody bitch!’ she spat. ‘She’s conspiring against me, you know. She wants to put me in a home.’ The old woman paused for breath. ‘The bastards. They’re not shoving me into some glorified bloody dog kennel.’
‘Was that Bronwyn I just saw coming down the path?’ asked Mick.
‘No,’ snapped the old woman. ‘That was Maxine. She’s another lazy good-for-nothing bitch, too. You can’t rely on anyone these days.’ The old lady paused to build up more steam. ‘They’re all out to get you, you know. Nnnrghh! They won’t get me though. The bastards.’
‘No. You’ve got the right idea, Mrs Hedstrom,’ said Mick. ‘Keep your guard up. I do.’
‘Bastards,’ grunted Mrs Hedstrom.
‘Yeah. The world’s full of them.’ Christ, thought Mick, what have I got myself into here? This is the old-age pensioner from hell.
The old lady glared up at Mick. ‘So why are you here? What do you want? Nngrrhh.’
‘I came to see about the car,’ answered Mick.
‘The car?’ grunted the old lady. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Have me standing here all day. I’m an old woman you know. I’m eighty-six.’
‘That’s…very good,’ smiled Mick.
‘Yes. Well, I don’t need you to tell me that,’ frowned Mrs Hedstrom. The frown turned into a scowl. ‘Well come in,’ she barked. ‘Don’t just stand there.’
‘What about the chain?’ asked Mick.
‘Chain? What bloody chain?’
Mick pointed. ‘The one just there.’
The old lady looked at the chain then glared up at Mick. ‘Well how am I supposed to see that? Can’t you see I’m an old woman? I’m eighty bloody seven you know.’
‘Sorry,’ said Mick.
The old lady undid the chain then stared angrily up at Mick. ‘Well, what are you doing?’ she snapped. ‘Are you coming in or not?’
‘Yeah. I am. Thanks.’
Mick stepped into the house and Mrs Hedstrom closed the door behind him. It was gloomy inside. But Mick noticed a bedroom on the right and a hallway leading down to the kitchen at the back. On the left was a loungeroom full of bric-a-brac. Mick started picking a few things out as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, when suddenly he blinked and started to gag. The house absolutely reeked of stale urine. Mick was about to check the front of Mrs Hedstrom’s dressing gown when through the gloom he noticed a cat box sitting behind a recliner that faced a TV set near the front window. Next thing, a fat, senile, grey-faced blue cat with its stomach dragging on the ground wobbled over, miaowed and rubbed its back against Mick’s leg.
‘That’s Hazel. Give her a pat,’ commanded the old woman.
‘Okay,’ smiled Mick. He gave Hazel a pat and came up with a handful of stringy fur. ‘Nice puss,’ he said, still trying not to gag.
‘She’s my friend,’ said Mrs Hedstrom.
‘Yeah. I can see that,’ gasped Mick.
Mrs Hedstrom gave Mick a withering once-up-and-down. ‘Wait here,’ she ordered. ‘I have to go and take a tablet.’
‘All right,’ said Mick.
As the old lady shuffled off towards the kitchen, Mick spotted a pile of newspapers on the floor; he quickly grabbed two and placed them over the cat box. They helped to block the smell and Mick was taking in some air when the cat came over for another pat. Rather than get hair all over his jeans, Mick gave it a quick toe in the backside. It jumped away in surprise then turned and looked stupidly at Mick before wobbling across the loungeroom and taking itself out through a cat flap into the backyard. The old lady returned from the kitchen and glared rancorously at Mick.
‘Now what is it you want again?’ she snapped.
‘The old cat…I mean the old car you’re thinking of selling,’ said Mick.
‘It’s out in the garage.’
‘I thought it might have been.’
‘Well, what did you ask me for?’ Mrs Hedstrom replied irritably.
Mick stared at the old woman and shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied helplessly. ‘I just did.’
‘Asking me stupid questions,’ scowled Mrs Hedstrom. ‘Where did you think the car would be?’
‘Can I just see it, please?’ pleaded Mick.
‘Isn’t that what you came here for?’ barked the old woman, glaring menacingly at Mick. ‘Well, come on,’ she said, turning slowly around. ‘Don’t stand there all bloody day. And don’t walk so heavily. You’ll frighten the cat.’
‘I’ll be lighter than Tinkerbell,’ said Mick.
Mick slowly followed the old lady across the loungeroom then out the same glassed door the cat had gone through into an unevenly paved backyard edged by three rickety wooden fences overhung with trees. A number of plants in pots were scattered around the yard and Mick noticed the cat eyeing him from behind the one furthest away. Standing in the right-hand corner was a dilapidated wooden shed that badly needed another coat of white, and on the left the garage
was in the same condition. There was a roller door on the front; Mick followed the old lady as she shuffled towards a door on the side.
‘That bloody Bronwyn,’ grunted Mrs Hedstrom. ‘She put me in hospital you know.’
‘Yeah? What happened?’ asked Mick.
‘I hurt my leg. Nngrhh! Bloody hospitals. They do illegal experiments on us oldies in there you know.’
‘Really?’ said Mick.
‘My word they do. Especially that slimy bloody Pommy doctor. The bastard. But I knew what they were up to. I was onto them. Bloody Bronwyn. Conspiring against me. The bitch!’ The old lady glared up at Mick. ‘I’m eighty-eight you know.’
‘Yes. You told me,’ smiled Mick.
‘But they still don’t fool me. The bastards!’
‘No,’ said Mick.
They arrived at the side door and the old lady gave it a rap with her walking stick. ‘It’s in here,’ she said.
Mick tried the door knob. ‘The door’s locked,’ he said.
‘Well of course it’s locked,’ snapped the old lady. ‘You don’t think I’d leave it open do you? The place is full of thieves.’
‘No. Of course not,’ agreed Mick. ‘So can I have the key?’
‘The key?’
‘Yeah. To the door.’
‘There’s no key. It opens from the inside,’ barked the old lady.
Mick looked at Mrs Hedstrom and shook his head. ‘I don’t mean the roller door,’ he said. ‘I mean this door.’
The old lady took a key tied to a piece of red string from her dressing gown and waved it under Mick’s chin. ‘Well, what do you think this is? God! Make up your mind. You’re as stupid as that bloody Maxine.’
‘Sorry,’ replied Mick. ‘I’m having a slow day.’
‘Nnngrhh!’ grunted the old lady. ‘You should get to bed early, instead of going out galavanting around all night.’
‘You’re right,’ said Mick. ‘It’s just that I come from a long line of galavanters.’
Mick took the key from Mrs Hedstrom’s bony hand and put it in the lock. The lock opened all right, but the door itself was tight. Mick pushed with his shoulder and under great protest it scraped open.
Inside the garage the tepid air was a gloomy mixture of must and grime. The only other light
was a few bars filtering through a small window at the end, thick with dust and cobwebs. In the middle, an oblong of rigid grey tarpaulin covered in cracks and hardened oil stains took up most of the room. Mick found a switch near the door, clicked it on and a light bulb dangling from the ceiling filled the garage with a sickly yellow glow.
Mick ran his eyes around a number of crooked wooden shelves haphazardly stacked with grimy jars of nails and rusty tins of paint. An old hurricane lamp sat amongst the tins, along with several small tools and other junk and, like the window, everything was thick with caked-on dust and cobwebs. Mick turned to the tarpaulin, and with Mrs Hedstrom watching from the doorway, took one end and yanked.
‘Holy shit!’ exclaimed Mick, as the tarpaulin fell stiffly to the floor in a cloud of dust. ‘What the…’
Parked nose first to the driveway was a dark blue, two-door, four-seater sedan with the headlights mounted on the mudguards. It had a black canvas roof, the windows were rectangular and the top half of the windscreen was wound out. The tyres were all flat while the wheels were solid metal rims without hubcaps and narrower than normal. Mick wiped the passenger side
window and peered inside at the matching leather upholstery. It was cracked in parts, but still in good condition and the ceiling fabric was only peeling back in the corners. A long metal gearshift poked up from the floor and a spoked wooden steering-wheel stuck out from a crimped metal dash that consisted of little more than a speedo, petrol gauge and ampmeter. There was no key in the ignition and when Mick stepped back, he noticed the number plates were missing as well. But the remains of a white registration sticker were still stuck to the windscreen and in the dull light Mick was able to make out NEW
SOUTH WALES GOVERNMENT
1925. He ran his eyes along the bonnet and had a look at the radiator. Stamped into the top was a checked shield with three arrows pointing down, and printed across it was MAXWELL. Mick stared in fascination at the old car. The last time he’d seen anything like it was when he watched
The Untouchables
on DVD round at Jesse’s. Mick turned to the old lady who was still standing in the doorway.
‘Who owned the car before you, Mrs Hedstrom?’ he asked jokingly. ‘Al Capone?’
‘Who’s he?’ snapped the old lady. ‘And why would I own it? I can’t drive. Uncle Lonsdale left it here.’
‘Uncle Lonsdale?’
‘Nngrhh!’
‘How long ago?’ queried Mick.
‘Well, I don’t know,’ scowled Mrs Hedstrom. ‘How do you expect me to remember? I was still going to school.’ She glared at Mick. ‘I’m eighty-nine years old, you know.’
‘I keep forgetting,’ replied Mick.
‘Well, you should open your ears.’
Mick perused the car and ran an admiring hand over the bonnet. It was unique. But no doubt going to cost too much for just a pressure plate. Nevertheless, he had to find out how much the old lady had in mind.
‘So how much did you want for the car, Mrs Hedstrom?’ he asked her.
‘Two thousand, five hundred dollars,’ she replied angrily. ‘And not a penny less.’
Mick stared at the old woman in disbelief. ‘Did you say…two thousand, five hundred dollars?’