The E-type

British English spelling and grammar.

A quickie based on a true story. The English legal system is as I describe it. No arguing; it's fiction so my rules count.

By the way - I've got emails from two Americans who both made the same promise. Because I don't allow public comments, they're going to give me 1 star for everything I write. Whether they read it or not.

Here we go guys - fill your boots!

***

The E-type

It started one Saturday when I saw a Ford Focus parked in a lay-by on the A4. A woman was sitting on the bank, head in hands. I was on my way to see if a mate of mine fancied a pub lunch. He wasn't expecting me, so I pulled in.

"Anything I can do to help?"

She jumped up; obviously been crying.

"I've run out of petrol. I feel so stupid."

She started sobbing briefly, then stopped.

"I'm so sorry." she said. "I rarely cry. This is frustration rather than grief."

"No need to apologise." I replied. "We all have bad days. Are you a member of the AA or RAC?"

"No. And I left my handbag at home; no money, cards anything. I don't even have a comb."

She made a good point. Her face and hair were a mess. I handed her a handkerchief.

"Thank you."

"Keep it. Then get in my car, we'll go and get some petrol, and I'll bring you back here."

"Thank you so much. I'll pay you back."

"Sure."

On our way, she told me the story. Her name was Cathy and she lived a couple of villages over from me. I told her I was Harry. She and her husband, now her ex, were quite well off and she had caught him cheating. He had left the marital home and moved in with his new girlfriend. Once all his personal possessions had been collected, he had signed the house over to her. It, all the furniture, and the car were now hers. She was furious; and angry at all the wasted years. And, no, she wasn't looking for another relationship.

"Me neither." I agreed. "And, for what it's worth, I got screwed in my divorce."

She smiled.

Cathy had a job, and was more then capable of looking after herself. She'd been learning to enjoy the single life again; no dating though. Then today, something had pissed her off, and she gone out for a drive to get her head together. Completely forgetting the car needed petrol.

"What set you off? If you don't mind me asking."

"A letter." she said.

Just then a filling station loomed into view. We got out and I bought a five litre jerry can. It was green plastic with a red nozzle and tube, and was stamped as 'Approved' by whoever approves these things. I filled it up and we set off back.

"You won't believe how I caught him."

"Go on."

"He had this lodge meeting, every Thursday night - Masons or Buffaloes or something. I'd suspected for a while he was having an affair."

"What tipped you off?" I asked.

"Mostly it was the scent of Estee Lauder Youth Dew. I can't stand it; too sweet. Anyway, one Thursday he got home as usual and I asked how the meeting went. He said the same old same old, and I asked if they still held it at the Grange Hotel. He said yes, they use one of their meeting rooms. Then I knew he was lying."

"How?"

"It burned to the ground that night. Two people killed and a fireman injured. It was on the local news. He had no idea."

We emptied the jerry can into her tank and she asked if I wanted to keep it. I said no, she should. She grimaced a bit.

"Yeah, I suppose I should. Thanks again."

"I'm always happy to help a beautiful lady in distress!"

OK, she wasn't dating. She wasn't particularly beautiful come to that. But you'll never hit the ball if you don't swing the bat.

"Will you follow me home, or are you busy?"

"I can follow you, but why?"

"I need to pay you for the petrol. And the can."

"There's really no need. It won't break the bank."

"Please. I want to. Come in and I'll make us lunch."

It was a bit late for lunch with my mate now, and it would be impolite to refuse.

"I'll come to lunch then. But on one condition."

"What's that?"

"It's a date. I'm your first since the divorce!"

She laughed out loud.

I followed her to her house - grander than mine - and parked on the drive in front of the garage. As we entered, she said 'Excuse the mess.' It was immaculate. Why do women say that?

"Is salad ok? I've got some Wiltshire ham, off the bone."

"That sounds great. Got mustard?"

"Of course, take a seat."

Cathy busied herself in the kitchen and I sat on the sofa. She stuck her head round the door.

"Fancy a beer?"

"Yes please."

She came in with a cold bottle and a glass.

"You pour it. I know what men are like."

Butcombe Original. I read the slogan: 'Born in Bristol'.

"Interesting." I said.

"What is?"

"I've had Butcombe's on draught and thought it was 4%."

"It is, on draught," she replied. "But the bottles are 4.5%."

"Yet they both claim to be the 'Original'." I argued.

"Ah, I see I'm drinking with a pedant." She came in holding a similar glass. "And don't you dare suggest this is beer my old man left behind. I happen to like English beer, and bottles are best. Cans are for petrol!"

We clinked glasses.

"It's ready, we'll eat at the breakfast bar."

"This ham is delicious."

"Yes. You can still get the authentic stuff, if you know where to look."

We toasted again. Salads don't take long to eat - soon we were finished.

"Fancy another Butcombe's?"

"Thanks. I think I can squeeze one more in."

"Bring it through here. I want to show you something."

She took me through a side door off the kitchen, and into the garage.

"Wow, an E-type Jag! Looks like one of the first."

"I thought you'd like it. Do you know much about it?"

"Do I? It's mid sixties, in original Carmen Red with black interior. Designed by Malcolm Sayer, it will do 150 miles an hour, and was the first to have disc brakes. Enzo Ferrari called it the most beautiful car in the world!"

"It's my turn to say 'wow!'. You're clearly a fan."

"So, if you wanted to go for a drive to clear your head, why not go in this?"

"Long story; let's go back to the lounge, and I'll tell you."

"OK, but I want another look before I go home!"

"My husband bought it years ago as an investment. He's spent those years renovating it. He took it to a specialist to get the last elements installed, and have it resprayed the correct colour. They kept it for six months, while crucial parts were delayed. It was round about that time he hooked up with his fancy bit of stuff. In his excitement to move in with her, he forgot about it."

"No!"

"Well, not really. Then, a week or so ago, it was delivered."

*** *** ***

"What's this?"

"An E-type Jaguar madam."

"But it's my ex-husband's. He's left."

"Sorry, but this is the delivery address I was given. It took some heavy insurance to transport it on the low-loader. I don't think I'm covered to take it back."

"Put it in the garage then. I'll move mine out."

"Will do, madam. These are the receipts. Sign here please."

He handed over an envelope.

*** *** ***

"I telephoned my ex and he said he would put his instructions in a signed letter. It arrived today."

"And that's what set you off."

"Yes. He was so terse. I'll show you."

I read it.

'With regards my E-type Jaguar, registration plate JAC 99C:-

I, James Matthew Meadows hereby authorise my ex wife, Catherine Hilda Meadows, to sell said car for the best price she can get at auction. She may keep 10% of that sale price, and must send me 90%.

Signed: James Matthew Meadows.'

"That's it?"

"Short and sweet. All those years ago, he thought the plate was so romantic. JAC - Jim and Catherine. The whole idea sickens me now. And he doesn't say how I'm supposed to finance getting the damn thing to an auction house."

"He doesn't give a deadline either." I said.

"This is an infuriating inconvenience. And I hate the name Hilda. He deliberately included that to piss me off." she paused. "With no deadline, can I delay the sale indefinitely?"

"Probably not; he can always supersede this with amended instructions."

"You know about the law?"

"I did ONC Business Studies. I know a bit about contracts."

I read it again.

"I've got an idea. Who lives next door?"

"Retired couple. Sam and Eleanor Long."

"Are they in?"

"They're always in."

"Do you think they would help you stitch your ex up?"

"God, yes! They never liked him. They've been really supportive since he left. Eleanor is always bringing me soup and stuff, says I've lost too much weight."

"You look fine to me."

"Thank you. What's your plan?"

"If we screw your ex, and make you some money, will you come to dinner with me?"

"Do a good job and I'll go to bed with you!"

She was exaggerating of course. And I would never hold her to such an outrageous promise. It had intriguing possibilties though. And she wasn't qualifying her statement, or even blushing. Who knows? I told her what I had in mind and she actually clapped her hands with delight. After a brief argument, she insisted on a fifty / fifty split. Then went next door and fetched the neighbours.

They arrived and introductions were made. Eleanor gave Cathy what my mum would have called an old-fashioned look - obviously wondering if I was the new boyfriend. I explained what was going to happen and asked a question.

"Who's going to be the bidder, and who's going to be the auctioneer?"

"I want to bid!" said Eleanor. "This is so thrilling!"

"You'll act as auctioneer Sam? And stand up and recount what happened; in a court of law, if it comes to that?"

"I look forward to it."

"Here's the final definition then. At official auctions, the auctioneers are licensed. But there are hundreds of unofficial auctions up and down the country, and they're all perfectly legal."

"We went to one dear." said Eleanor.

"That's right. I bought that model ship."

"Catherine Meadows, you know what to say."

"I hereby appoint Harold Spencer to conduct the auction of E-type Jaguar, registration plate JAC 99C which I, in turn, have been authorised to sell, on behalf of James Meadows."

"You know the details of the vehicle." said Sam. "Do I have any bids? Fifty pounds anyone?"

"Twentyfive!" shouted Eleanor, raising her hand.

"I bid fifty pounds." I countered.

"Sold to the gentleman on the sofa!" said Sam.

Cathy and I waited till the next specialised car auction. We went to watch the proceedings. By then, she'd sent her ex a five pound note. He immediately consulted a solicitor, but wasn't making any headway. He sacked him and got another with the same result. What we had done was legal. We were an item by then, and had been to view a new house nearer to town, and agreed to go fifty / fifty on that as well. The bidding on my E-type was closing. Bang!

"Sold to 189, for two hundred and twentyfive thousand pounds!"