The Getaway Car

A short story I wrote for Hanif Kureishi’s spring writing competition.

On the first day of her retirement Shirley drove to the MOT testing station. She passed Rekha’s house, with the banana plants winter-wrapped in plastic bubbles. The morning was slightly chilly for spring, not quite big coat weather but calling for a padded anorak.

Pete was in the pit with his head inside a Volvo when Shirley arrived, still he managed to see her come in.

“Park yourself there girl,” he said. “I’ll be ten minutes.”

He meant park your body, not the car, which Shirley had already parked outside. Too close to a neighbouring fence and slightly at a diagonal.

Obediently Shirley sat on a hard plastic chair between two sets of railings. There was no danger of her knocking anything over, becoming entangled or falling into a pit.

Pete accepted a cup of tea from his colleague Dave, but Shirley politely declined. She couldn’t see a toilet anywhere and had no idea how long a MOT took. Prior to retirement she had never had time to wait. Sitting in the greasy garage was a new luxury. Shirley took in the items lying around and wondered what they were: machines with tubes, wires, cables and even arrows on them; open pits, ramps going nowhere and sliding doors. A thousand years ago someone had painted the pock-marked floor with red quarry-tile paint.

Perhaps the car would fail its test, and she would have to return. Shirley felt queasy, she couldn’t afford a big bill, now her life was funded by a haphazard collection of pensions from her odd jobs over the years.

Pete parked Shirley’s car above a yawning chasm and ran the engine. Then he walked away with his tea. Shirley could hear him talking to Dave.

“They wouldn’t let him out yesterday, he’s still gonna be locked up. He’s never gonna be let out now, that’s the trouble.”

“That’s a good thing though, innit?” Dave responded. “That’ll get him off the drugs. Has he been sectioned?”

“No, he only fractured his leg.”

The flapping of Shirley’s ears was drowning out the engine noise. Pete returned and tweaked the engine until it roared.

“Alright there, girl?” he asked her and pointed out that she had a blown headlight. He took a long gulp of tea and showed her a blackened bulb. Shirley thanked him. The mug of tea seemed intrinsically linked to the MOT, maybe that’s what it stands for Shirley thought. Pete studied the drink and sighed and pursed his lips as if reading the leaves for a diagnosis. He poked a stick through the open window of Shirley’s car and the engine roared louder.

To her left was a shiny new-looking Snap-On Tools unit, with horizontal strips of chrome and white doors and drawers. It was on wheels with tyres of glossy black rubber and rims of dazzling chrome. Shirley fancied it for her kitchen, it didn’t look as though it had ever been used. To her right a very neat notice board declared MOT Tools, not a tool was out of place. Shirley knew this because there was a helpful shadow of each tool painted on the board behind it, like a wooden puzzle for very young children.

“I like your Strap-On Tools,” Shirley wanted to say but didn’t. Now’s the time to be adventurous she thought. I can say what I like, go where I like. She thought of Rekha, leaving her banana plants behind whilst she Air BnB’d in Malaysia, on her own.

Pete was in the front of her car now, facing backwards, his fluorescent jacket pushed up against her windscreen. The engine revved as if ready to explode. Then he exited the passenger side and resumed his conversation with Dave who was asking,

“How did he fracture his leg?”

“I found him at the bottom of the stairs. We’d been watching telly, I saw he was crying. Then he just wet his pants. I said to him What did you do that for? And he says, ‘To see what you were gonna do.’ And then he storms out. Fifteen minutes later, CRASH! There he is.”

Pete returned in view, carrying a small piece of carpet which he placed at the back of Shirley’s car and swigged his tea again. It must be cold now, thought Shirley.

“Do you want a Pass or a Fail, girl?” he asked her, killing the engine.

Shirley laughed.

“Keep it,” she said, newly gung-ho. “Give it to your mate in the hospital if you like. I can get around the whole country for free with my bus pass.”