She wondered if Joe’s wife or girl-friend approved.
“I’ve made the bill out. Cash or cheque? Fraid I don’t do credit cards.”
Ralph glanced at the bill and was surprised to see that it was a tad under 300 pounds, spot on the estimate. He made out the cheque and gave it to Joe.
“Thanks,” said Joe as he scrutinized the cheque and made out the receipt. “The car’s out back and the keys are in the ignition. You’ll find it runs like a dream now, Mrs. Chalmers; should give you a lot of satisfaction.”
“Just a little something to buy yourself a beer after work,” Ralph said as he added a 20 pound note that he had taken from his pocket.
Katie just smiled. She had met a lot of Joe Mintons in her time. If you had been brought up in a man’s world as she had in Australia been married twice and lived alone in London, you learned pretty quickly. She could swot Minton like a fly on the wall.
Ralph had noticed a cutting from a newspaper cello-taped to the wall alongside the pin-ups.
“I read about your find last year.”
“Lucky day out for me an’ Bruce,” Joe said as he touched the cutting.
He obviously welcomed a bit of ‘mens’ chat, so Katie left them to it and walked off to get her car.
Joe told Ralph about Bruce and their lucky break.
“It turned round our lives, mine and Bruce’s. That’s him in the picture. He’s going back to Australia to buy the farm he grew up on as a boy. It’s what he’s dreamed about ever since we first got into metal detecting. We’re going out for a farewell drink tomorrow night. He never got over losin’ Joan. She was his wife, ya know. Maybe over there he’ll have a chance of startin’ a new life.”
“And you always wanted to work on vintage cars?” Asked Ralph. He had asked partly out of politeness, but also because he could see how happy Joe was in his work; he recognized a kindred spirit.
“Well, since a kid I’ve always been mechanical minded. I was working up at Lord Farleigh’s. I looked after all his farming equipment and his collection of cars. It’s a bit like that place down in Beaulieu except Lord Farleigh wouldn’t allow visitors; he likes to be private. Then when we struck lucky up at Sherracombe we could both do what we wanted; be our own man. That’s what everyone wants. You’ve got to do what you think is right.”
“You in business, Mr. Chalmers?”
Ralph was always stumped when anyone asked him a direct question about what he did for a living. He suspected that he suffered from a bit of inverted snobbery, although he preferred to think not. Saying that he was a Professor would be a show stopper; teacher was still awkward; consultant? Definitely not.
“I do a bit of this and that,” he finished up saying.
“Best way. Being independent is the way nowadays. Answer to no one. That’s me and Bruce.” He stood there almost savoring the words.
Joe rambled on and only stopped when Katie pulled up outside the garage and gave a toot on the horn.
Joe smiled. “Missus waiting. She who must be obeyed.” He laughed in recognition of the common bond that men have when sharing their views of life. Ralph admired someone who could make a go of a new business venture and shook Joe’s hand.
“Thanks for taking care of the Morgan,” he said as he climbed behind the wheel of the Jag.
“No problem, sir. Drive carefully.”
Katie drove a bit too fast for Ralph’s liking and he eased back as she disappeared around the corners of the twisting road back to Clovelly. Joe had obviously worked the oracle. Everything seemed to be back to normal.
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Chapter 5
The Rising Sun, a 14th Century smugglers’ inn on the harbor-front in Lynmouth, was a favourite for the locals. With its thatched roof, whitewashed exterior, and situated at the foot of what the guide books claim as the highest hogback cliffs in England, it is the quintessential seaside pub. A funicular cliff railway connects the seaside town to the clifftops above. But, as it closes at dusk, the only way to get from top to bottom is by either walking down a steep pathway or driving down a twisty road. The Rising Sun is a snug place to meet. That night the locals were busy judging the ‘ugliest sweater’ competition, one of the many events that the publican put on to draw customers. Joe and Bruce sat at a side booth drinking their beer, having just finished a large steak and chips supper.
“How you gettin’ to Taunton?”
“Ray’s going that way; I’ll catch the train to London then get to Heathrow from there on the tube. It’s a straight shot from there. The plane don’t go ‘til late; ‘bout nine.” The truth was that Bruce was anxious about what lay ahead.
“By my calculations, that container ship should be in Sydney by now; our stuff’ll be waiting for you in the customs sheds when you get there. Let’s hope that welding holds,” Joe laughed. “Took me a week to fix that false floor in that bloody Toyota truck you bought. Once you get on those Aussie highways you’ll forget you ever left.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder as he went to get two more beers.
Bruce had taken a sheaf of papers out of his coat pocket and was studying them when his friend returned.
“That lot are gettin’ all worked up over some stupid contest as to who’s wearin’ the worst jumper. Bloody mad if you ask me. Next it’ll be whose got the biggest bloody feet. They need to get a life.” He looked at the papers that lay on the table. “Put that lot away Bruce, for god’s sake. We agreed to
