Glenn Patterson - Gull

Haddad was one of those guys, whatever the subject, he knew more than anyone else around the table. If he hadn’t seen it or done it himself he had learned it from the Kennedys. He interrogated Randall about Belfast, about the factory, about Warren House. Seemed there was no end to his curiosity, or his antipathy. He had something against Roy Nesseth, something even greater than he had against Maur Dubin, whose ‘excesses’ — to say nothing of his access — were in danger of making DeLorean a laughing stock among CEOs: apricot carpet, indeed!

Disliking Roy of course was not unusual, although in Haddad’s case Randall got the impression that he believed Roy was standing in the way of his elevation to a position of greater (and rightful) authority. I mean, he, Haddad, had worked for the Kennedys, the United Nations Peace Corps. What had Roy ever done except hustle people into spending more than they had intended on their new cars and accepting less than they had hoped for on their old ones? (There had been another complaint, from Wichita, an elderly couple had signed a blank lease form on the understanding that the terms they had agreed in the lot would be written in. They weren’t. They said. Roy said he would see them in court sooner than pay them the $9000 they were claiming he had overcharged.)

‘Who would you rather have going in with you to a meeting with the British government?’ Haddad said.

It was a long couple of hours.

Truth be told, he had spent happier Christmases. Not even much in the way of snow to help create the mood. All in all they had had a pretty easy time of it the past couple of winters. Every cab driver he had while he was in town said the same thing: they were due a really bad one some year soon.

In Belfast too — it was no surprise on his return to learn — it had been mild for the time of year.

He had not been back at work more than a few hours, the bulk of them spent with Don Lander in Lander’s office, a sort of 280 Park Avenue debrief, when the devil he had so far avoided talking of (talking of how he had been talked of), Nesseth, rang.

‘Clear the third week of January,’ he said, loud enough that Randall could hear him without Lander removing the receiver from his ear.

‘And a very good morning to you too, Roy,’ said Lander. ‘Third week of January… Can I ask what for?’

‘That’s when we are unveiling the first Dunmurry-made DMC-12.’

‘I would hope it would be ready by then.’

‘No, it will be. John is coming that week.’

Lander had covered the mouthpiece with his hand. ‘Did you know about this?’ he hissed. Randall shook his head.

‘Don, are you listening?’ Roy asked.

Lander took his hand away. ‘I’m listening all right.’

‘We’re just making final arrangements with press on this side. I’ll get back to you with an exact date.’

‘I await that with interest.’

‘Oh, and tell Randall to book into a hotel for that week. Or better still leave the booking open-ended.’

‘He’s standing right here,’ Lander said. ‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’

‘That’s fine,’ Randall called towards the phone and Roy hung up.

A half-hour later, by which time Randall was back in his own office, DeLorean himself rang.

‘I’m sorry about Roy,’ he said, a little wearily. ‘Carole told me she was in his office when he was speaking to Don. I didn’t know he was going to take it upon himself to call. We had only finished talking and I was going straight into another meeting…’

‘No apology needed. Like Don said, I just hope we are going to be ready by then.’

‘I have every confidence in you all. And thank you, by the way, for agreeing to move out for a while. It’s probably time anyway we tried to find somewhere more permanent for you.’

Randall’s shoulders slumped. ‘I thought maybe once production started I wouldn’t be needed here any more.’

‘Oh, sure, when I say permanent I’m talking about the end of this coming year.’ Twelve months of Randall’s life — of Tamsin’s — accounted for just like that. ‘It’s just I’m thinking I’m going to be spending a lot more time at Warren House myself from now on.’

*

There was a big meeting called in the body-press shop the first day back after New Year. Managers and union reps shoulder to shoulder at the front. Anto, at the near end of the line to where Liz stood, had had a haircut over the holiday. Short back and sides, possibly DIY. Randall — next to Don Lander — was almost dead centre. It was odd. She knew now his forename was Edmund but she did not think she had once called him by it, nor could she imagine the circumstances in which she ever would.

Liz hadn’t seen him since the Sunday before Christmas. He looked, she thought, a little jaded. Who knew what he had been up to over there.

(She had Saturday Night Fever in her head. The trailer. Robert hadn’t liked the look of it when they caught it before Jaws 2 , and there was no way, once she had seen the age of the ones in queues outside it, she would have gone on her own.)

Lander started by wishing them all a happy and prosperous 1981. He told them how much he appreciated their patience all these months — their patience and their application . It was no easy thing to keep putting in the effort when there was so little that you could point to and say, ‘See? I did that.’ He wanted to ask them though to apply themselves with renewed vigour. These next few weeks were going to be the most important yet. All this equipment they saw around them would have to be tested and retested. All the routines they had rehearsed would have to be rehearsed a few times more. On 21 January the doors at the end of the shop next door would open and a DMC-12 would be driven out. He didn’t think it was too much of an exaggeration to say that the eyes of the world would be on it, and them.

*

She was held up getting home that night. A lorry abandoned under the M1 bridge by Black’s Road was the word that filtered down her bus. (Some day someone would give the bombers and abandoners of lorries and cars jobs in the roads department. They knew the network and its stress points better than anybody else.) After twenty motionless minutes outside the Speedy Cook on Kingsway she cracked and got off. Avoiding the bridge, she walked halfway up Dunmurry Lane then hoicked her leg over a low wire fence and climbed a clay embankment into the wood. Robert would have a fit. She would have a fit herself if it was one of the boys attempting it in the dark. Except it wasn’t absolutely dark. Lights were still burning in the school on her left and, a little further off to the right, she could see through the trees — thinner than she remembered them — glimmers from the streetlamps at the back of her estate. It was no distance between the two, she told herself. The assembly shop, for goodness sake, was longer. Even so her heart when she emerged on to the playing fields on the other side was thumping. She wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry.

The car was already in the driveway when she turned into the street. She hoped Robert or the boys had had the wit to turn on the potatoes while they waited for her.

Her shoes were caked in orange mud. She went round to the back door and kicked them off on the step. Give them a wipe with a sponge later. No one would be any the wiser.

The glass in the door and in the window next to it was steamed up. She pulled open the door, into the kitchen, and the heat wrapped itself round her face like a wet facecloth. One of the three of them had turned on the potatoes all right, but whichever one it was had forgotten to turn them off again when they came to the boil. The lid was half off. She lifted it with a tea towel bunched in her hand. Mush.