Overgang

Overgang

by

John Eider

Copyright 20232

Smashwords Edition

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Part 1

1962 — Kent, Southern England — Talking at the Garage

‘Well, there it is,’ said George, staring at the glossy photograph on his desk.

‘Just look at it,’ said Philip, standing at his shoulder. ‘The pride of the line.’

‘They’re calling it the E-Type,’ remarked George, reading the letter that had accompanied the photograph in the courier’s pouch. ‘The latest in the lineage of C-Types and D-Types that raced in France.’

‘Won in France,’ corrected Philip. ‘Won.’

George was full of pride, and also a sense of responsibility. He stood and walked to the window of his office. From there, he saw ‘his lads’ out at the petrol pumps, or polishing the gleaming cars on the forecourt, and beyond them the acres and acres of farmers’ fields basking in the sun.

‘Ah yes,’ he declared, ‘all around a cut above.’ Though, after that, he went quiet.

Philip read the rest of the letter that was still sitting on the desk. He remarked,

‘And it appears that we, my dear friend, will have a chance to see it for ourselves; and at the Paris Autoshow, no less!’

‘Yes,’ said George, absent-mindedly. ‘Its world debut.’

‘And,’ Philip tilted his head to read further, ‘they’re asking us to take a three-litre saloon to Paris too, to go on the show stand alongside the new car.’

‘Well,’ admitted George, stating the obvious, ‘we are the closest dealership to the Channel.’ He was fidgeting with his feet by now, wringing his hands. ‘We have that beautiful three-litre in indigo blue just in. We haven’t even taken the tissue-paper off the seats. It makes perfect sense.’

‘But… France?’ asked Philip.

‘I’ve already called them to confirm,’ answered George, bullishly. ‘I said we would be glad to help.’

‘But how do you feel about it, George?’

George didn’t answer; and Philip didn’t press. Instead, he remarked,

‘Across the Channel? That’s an overnight job.’

‘A week, more like,’ replied George. ‘We’re not only driving the saloon there, we’re staying with it and then bringing it back.’

Philip tried to cheer up his friend,

‘Well, think of it as a paid holiday!’

‘I’ll have to tell Mags,’ said the older man, remembering his wife.

‘And you'll need your passport,’ Philip reminded him.

‘I don’t have a passport,’ he suddenly realised. He reflected, ‘I didn't exactly need one the last time we were over there.’

‘No,’ remembered Philip. ‘They didn’t have a border control on Fox Beach… unless you count the cannons.’

‘But, Paris, Cap. Paris.’

George had been running the garage for nigh on twenty years; but in a moment of uncertainty he reverted to their former ranks — he the loyal Sergeant, and Philip the Captain in control.

Philip played along,

‘Yes, Sergeant, Paris. So, get yourself over to the Post Office forthwith — and get your landing papers!’

George paused, transported by the memory, before gathering himself,

‘Yes, Cap. I’m sure it will be fine.’

‘Good man.’ Philip tried to wind things down, ‘And after that, why don’t you knock off for the afternoon? It’s quiet here, the lads have got it covered. Go and tell Mags your news; and all this talk of cars can wait till morning.’

And that was what George went out to do; though still, he cast a loving glance across the bodywork of the indigo blue saloon on his way out.

With a call made to the Board of Trade to confirm that the application was in the service of British exports, the new passport was delivered within the week. It was couriered by dispatch rider, their second of recent days. As George signed for it, he asked the motorcyclist,

‘I bet you'd rather be travelling in one of these?’

The cyclist turned his helmeted head to see the deep-blue Jaguar, now parked outside of the showroom.

‘No fear,’ he answered, ‘give me my Norton any day.’

‘Your funeral,’ remarked George.

‘Live free or die,’ answered the rider. He pulled his scarf up over his mouth, and throttled his untamed beast back out onto the highway to dice with London coaches and ten-ton trucks.

‘What’s that noise?’ Philip bounded around the corner, just missing the motorbike display. He spied the envelope in George’s hand, ‘You have your passport?’

‘Yes, all sealed and signed for.’

‘Then the Balance of Trade is safe. We leave in the morning.’

‘You’ll come?’ asked George.

‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

On the far side of the building, at the door to the garage’s workshop, Ernest, the mechanic, was wiping oil off his hands with a rag. He was still known to everyone as ‘one of George’s lads’, though he was pushing forty like the rest of the originals.

Baker, who manned the sales office and wore a short-sleeved shirt and tie to work, spotted his workmate outside and came past,

‘You hear that?’ he began. ‘He’s at it again.’

‘Oh, is he?’ answered Ernest, distractedly.

‘Yes, he bloody well is!’ confirmed Baker.

‘It’s this France-thing, I guess,’ noted Ernest. ‘It’s making him tense.’

‘But it’s not healthy,’ spat Baker, ‘muttering away like that. It’s bad enough in his office, but not out on the forecourt!’

‘It’s whatever gets him through it, I suppose,’ offered Ernest.

Baker shook his head,

‘We’ll, I hope he knocks it off. I’ve got an apprentice coming for an interview in half an hour. I don’t want the lad thinking we’ve all gone cuckoo!’

1962 — London — The Goods Yard

The dark-blue Jaguar saloon nosed its way around the sun-baked backstreets of London. Before Dover, there was one last errand to run.

‘It gives us a chance to break her in,’ said George as they cruised the bustling highway.

Philip smiled, pointing out a drayman’s cart when it appeared in their way, and reminding George not to miss his turn-off.

Once they reached their designated district, George turned off and headed for a lot of small brick-build units — these were working lots: die-casters, metal-platers, machine shops.

At the open door to a motor garage, two men in filthy overalls looked uncomprehendingly over a twisted Ford Zephyr.

‘Watch ‘em wreck it,’ said George, ‘just watch ‘em wreck it.’

Philip only smiled. George couldn't watch a car being fixed badly. It was why he had men he’d known for years doing the repairing in his own workshop.

George kept the gleaming three-litre in second, his left hand resting on the gear stick. Eventually, he made a tight turn and pulled into a small car-park. Across the way, two men in slim-cut suits were talking at the door of a unit.

‘They’re well-dressed for this place,’ noticed George. ‘I wonder what their business is?’

‘Oh, you might be surprised,’ offered Philip, knowingly, but left it at that.

‘I should only be ten minutes,’ said George getting out.

‘Good oh,’ said Philip, his mind elsewhere.

Not much longer than ten minutes later, George emerged from the printers with a cardboard box full of glossy brochures and thick photographic prints of the cars to hand out. Some were of the saloon, but most were of the new coupe. In the bright sun, the brochures’ shiny surfaces glinted up at him and caught his eyes. He stopped, and looked down at the picture facing him from the top of the box. It was an angle of the new car that he hadn’t seen before, a car he wouldn’t see in the flesh until Paris. It blew him away all over again — it was a joy to behold.

He muttered something to this effect as he resumed his walk, and was unwittingly overheard.

‘Speak up will you, fella?’

‘Sorry?’ George looked over to see the younger of the two smart men he had seen earlier. His partner had gone, and now this one hung by the door alone with a cigarette.

The man repeated, ‘Speak up, will yer? I can’t quite hear.’ He craned his neck in George’s direction, and held his free hand to his ear.

George was completely thrown by such behaviour. But something playful in the man’s eyes gave George the impression that he wasn’t being serious.

‘What’s in your box then?’ he asked, not leaving George in peace.

George turned to face the young man fully, seeing him clearly at last: he had a bright complexion, beneath a fringe that fell almost to his eyebrows. He had a bearing that didn’t match his suit, and his accent had a northern twang that was at odds with the voices George normally heard on his visits to the nation’s capital.

George didn’t understand this fellow, and it must have shown on his face.

‘Easy there, mister,’ the young man went on in unmodified Scouse. ‘I’m only kidding. Can't you hear the sadness in me voice?’

But there was no sadness in his voice, which bridled George, who blurted,

‘We’d have skinned you alive in the Army.’

‘Here we go,’ started the youngster, ‘How I Won the War! Hitler bombed me too, you know. I was born in an air-raid shelter.’

‘They should have left you in there,’ answered George, proud of his retort.

The lout smirked, also enjoying the comeback, even if it was at his own expense. George didn’t