Haydon's New Car

Haydon's New Car - Short

The lanky, hooked-nosed salesman read the terms and conditions, but I didn't listen to what he was saying. I didn't need to. Mrs Blaze was sitting upright, her eyes fixed on the sheet of paper he was brandishing. Any violation of our consumer rights and he'd regret crossing me. Oh yes, Mrs Blaze would see to that.

I yawned. I wished I hadn't drunk the plastic cup of tea so quickly. It would have been a distraction if nothing else. 

I felt a nudge in the ribs. My wife's eyes were on me and then on the document being offered by the salesman. "So, I just need your signature here, Mr Blaze," said the nasal voice.

"Fingerprint and retinal scan," I said, chuckling to myself. 

Mrs Blaze, however, regarded me with a look that would have turned a lesser man to stone. I think she may have misheard my little jibe about retinal scans.

It was all worth it in the end. Mrs Blaze and I tore up the A1 before hanging a right into the small market town of Grantham. Home of Newton and Thatcher. We did the unnecessary shopping you did as an excuse to drive a new car somewhere, and afterwards, I found myself tapping the steering wheel to one of my driving classics.

"Get your motor running. Head out on the highway..."

There was a rap on my window and out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs Blaze hide her face in her palm, the way she did just before she denies knowing me.

I pressed the button to mute the ten-speaker CD player, with psychoacoustic surround sound — I read that part of the manual — and took the opportunity to use the electric windows.

Buzz.

"Good afternoon, Officer," I said, flashing my best smile.

The man's face immediately occupied nearly all the window space. "Licence, Sir," he said. His voice was the slow, low drone that was the hallmark of the British bobby. I guessed by his overtones he was a native of that great city of Birmingham in the Midlands, which made him, what we call, a Brummy.

I kept my demeanour warm and friendly, and passed on the document Mrs Blaze had handed me.

He stared at me, then the document; then at me again. "Mister... Blaze, is it?" he said, continuing to draw out the words, just like traffic cops do on reality TV.

I nodded and tried not to seem amused by the trickle of water snaking off his helmet and onto his wide, flat nose.

"Yes, the Haydon Blaze," I said. If there was recognition, it failed to light up his face.

I tried to help jog his memory. "The writer, well, not writer, exactly."

He frowned, and I immediately self-edited my speech. "Is there a problem, Officer?" Reality TV had given me the correct phrase to use.

He looked around. The centre of Grantham was gridlocked and he and I were stuck in the middle of it. It then struck me how irritated he appeared to be. It also occurred to me that I was closer than any other person and could, conceivably, be culpable for anything that elevated his irritation.

Before I could think of an amusing, or at least distracting, little anecdote of which I knew the situation needed and that Mrs Blaze would surely disapprove of, he fixed me with an icy stare.

"I like Steppenwolf as much as the next man, Mister Blaze, but not at 128 decibels in the centre of this quiet, Market town."

To show what he was talking about, he swung his arm around in an arc, unfortunately settling upon a workman displaying a little too much builder's cheek.

He cleared his throat as he turned back to me, but Mrs Blaze, bless her, swung into action. "The groundwork for Lady Thatcher's statue is proceeding well, Officer," she said, with the voice that reminded me of those pastel-coloured washing liquid adverts.

He stooped further to appraise Mrs Blaze, who was lounging back, enjoying the heated seats. As he did so, a cyclist swished by, splashing the Bobby's trousers with icy, muddy water.

The Officer's self-control was commendable. He didn't shout or give chase, only question the youngster's legitimacy under his breath.

"Would you like a Steak Bake, Officer?" said Mrs Blaze, unlocking the rear doors.

The intoxicating smell of the rich, beefy gravy intensified as my wife seductively unwrapped the skimpy paper wrapper.

I tried to catch her eye with one of my legendary hard stares, but failed. She'd bought the square of golden pastry for me. She knew I couldn't resist the delicate crust and succulent beef. But then I saw the Policeman's little chubby face brighten.

Still pink from the stinging rain, his cheeks plumped up as he smiled. I regretted resenting him having my treat, and seeing his happiness made it all worthwhile.

Settling in the back of my new car, he wasted no time devouring the wedge of supreme yumminess. "This is very kind, Erm, Mrs Blaze?"

"Call me Jess, please."

A moment or two later, Officer Bartlet tapped my shoulder. "Turn it up, Haydon! You get the Harmony, Mrs Blaze."

Our singing was — tremendous.

Born to be wild!