Graham Swift - Last Orders

I say, 'What deal? We already got a deal.'

He says, 'We aint got a deal, we got an arrangement.'

I say, 'A pretty good arrangement I'd say, from where I'm looking. So what's the problem?' Thinking as how he's got two cars in there now that he's stripping down to fancy up. There's a Rover as well as an Alvis, not to mention recent use of the camper. Recent use. Like the place has become his home.

He says, 'A very good arrangement, for which I aint ungrateful. But that was like your kindness. Your kindness to an ex-soldier-boy who wanted to mess around with motors, who wanted to keep his hand in as a mechanic. I can't expect that to go on indef, can I? I can't expect to rely on your kindness.'

He picks up his pack of ciggies and shakes a couple up out of the foil, all neat and practised, and offers me one and lights it. He says, 'I aint ungrateful, Uncle Ray.'

Uncle Ray.

And I think, I wonder if he knows how I got it all wrong, read the picture all wrong. How I thought he could do with a bit of taking under my wing, seeing as how Jack once took me under his. Seeing as how I might not be here otherwise, twenty-five years on, having a beer and a smoke with Vincey in the Coach, I might be lying under a cross in Libya. Least I could do was return the favour, give the lad a help-out on his return to Civvy Street, and take him off Jack's hands. Except Jack didn't see it that way, I should've known. He hadn't given up, even after five years of having to. Dodds and Son.

My foot in it, my big little foot.

And things had shifted now anyway, they'd shifted into a whole new picture, what with that girl sleeping under Jack and Amy's roof, at least part of the time, what with all the comings and goings, what with it seeming suddenly like everyone was looking for a new place to pitch their tent. What with them afternoons at Epsom.

/ hear that you and Auntie Carol. I'm sorry to hear that, Raysy.

And maybe I'd never've let Vincey use the yard, maybe I'd never've picked him a horse to buy his first used car with, Shady Lady, Sandown, six to one, if Amy hadn't said, 'Vincey's coming home, he'll be home in a month or two. I think we better stop this.'

He says, 'Besides,' and he pauses to light his own ciggy and to blow out a big cloud of smoke, he looks at the smoke like he's looking at his life. His knuckles are all cracked and blackened. 'Besides, now I'm going into business, I'll need premises, I'll need to do it all proper. If you're going to have a business you got to have premises, aint you?'

I say, 'You're going into what?

He says, 'You heard, Raysy.' Raysy. Getting cockier, lifting his beer and taking a swallow. 'It's like I always said all along, I aint just doing it for fun, except maybe you thought I wasn't serious. But I want to do it proper, see, I want to do it right. Otherwise you could always say, "You know that arrangement we've got, Vincey? Well, I don't want to keep it going any more, sorry, I've got other ideas for the site." And that would be that, wouldn't it? I wouldn't have no choice.'

I say, 'But I haven't got other ideas for the site.'

He says, 'Well maybe you should have, Raysy. It's good commercial space, aint it?'

I look at him. I say, 'It's not a site, it's a scrapyard. It's still got Dixon written on the gate.'

He says, 'Exactly. And Charlie Dixon popped off over a year ago, didn't he? Since when you aint been collecting rent or nothing. You just been being a bleeding office-boy. And chasing horses.'

I say, 'That's my look-out.'

I look at him. He blows out another swirl of smoke, I say, 'So what are you suggesting? You pay me rent? What with?'

He shakes his head. Tm talking ownership, I'm talking buying.'

I look at him. There's something in his face that stops you laughing.

I say, 'Same question, twice over. What with?'

He says, Tm asking you to make an investment, Raysy. In Dodds Motors. A non-cash investment, you don't have to fork out a penny. An investment of time. There aint no Dodds Motors now, course there aint, but there will be in five years, I'm telling you. You sell me the yard as premises but you loan me out the asking for five years. Come five years, I pay you your price plus a percentage. If I can't stump up - but I will - the yard's yours again. Plain and simple, can't lose. Soon as I've got another car on the go and I've got the margin, I'll give you a deposit. You'd get to keep that an' all,'

Maybe he can see me thinking that I ought to laugh but I can't. I say, trying to look tike I know when my leg's being pulled, 'Why should I take on a cock-eyed offer like that? Why shouldn't I just put it up for the highest bidder?'

He takes a swig of beer, squeezing his lips on it slowly. 'Seems to me you aint been rushing to do that this last year or so. Seems to me that you aint minded me parking my motors in your yard anyway, for free. That's where your kindness comes in, and my being grateful. That's where I'd reckon on us having a special understanding.'

I look at him. I think, He bounced right out the way of a V-bomb.

He says, 'I aint forcing, I'm only asking. If I've put other ideas into your head then that's my problem. It's a gamble, course. But you'd understand that, wouldn't you, Uncle Ray? With me it's motors, with you it's horses.'

But he looks at me like it's a certainly, a racing certainty. The glint in his eye sharpens. And that's when I think that he knows. I don't know how, but he knows. By scent, by doing the same. Sleeping in that camper. And not just sleeping.

Chasing horses.

That's why he thinks I can't refuse him.

He says, 'Mother one?' holding out his hand, all smiles, to grab my glass, but I shake my head, like I don't want to interrupt a different sort of flow. All flowing his way.

I say, 'What about the price?' like I'm not interested, I'm just raising an objection, testing him. Thinking, he won't have a straight answer to that, because he knows anyway he aint got a hope.

But he says, quick as a shot, his hand still hovering by my glass, 'Two grand. Plus twenty per cent over the five years. Twenty per cent. Call it five grand to come - after I've put down a deposit.'

Like he's done his sums.

He blows out another cloud of smoke then he stubs out his snout, taking his eyes off me, looking at the ashtray, while I look at the smoke now, floating up and disappearing, because I know and he must know, without any asking around, that that's still a cheap price, even in 1968, even for a disused junkyard round the back of Spa Road. And if I'd've known what would happen in five years' time, if I'd've known what those years would do, but Vincey had his finger on that pulse too, I'd've said, Forget it, Vincey, just forget it. I aint selling. Have it for nothing, meantime.

Value for money.

He says, looking up, Tm only offering, I aint insisting. I'm only putting it to you. You sure you won't have that other one?'

I say, 'Yes.' Then I say, 'Yes, I'll have another one,' in case he gets me wrong.

He says, 'Think about it. You could be in there at the beginning of Dodds Motors. Founding father. Bernie! You here?'

I think, Maybe he doesn't know, but I won't ever know that he doesn't know.

Then Bernie comes out of hiding and pours us two more pints and Vince pays for them and I say, before I take a sip, 'There's just one thing in all this, Vincey.' Realizing as I say it that it's taking me down the path he wants me to go.

He says, 'What's that?'

I say, 'It's called a butcher's shop.' Realizing it's like I've committed myself. 'It's called Dodds and Son.'

He stops his beer half-way to his mouth, looking all hurt and taken-aback, like it seems I didn't understand him and he had reason to suppose I did. He says, 'Do me a favour, give me a break. I thought you was on my side.' Giving me the little-lost-orphan look.