The Bungalow-13

Continued from Chapter 12

Hawke reached over the punch the off switch on the bleeping alarm clock, then stopped himself. It would be a bit presumptuous to do that in someone else’s bedroom. Then, Hayley levered herself up and reached across him. “Bloody solicitors. What time is nine o’clock on the morning for a meeting?”

She was due at the offices or Tweed and Gumble in Coulsdon to discuss the latest stage in her divorce from Conor McNally of 89A Mersey Road, Aigburth ‘on the grounds of his being a complete arsehole, a prick, a self-righteous little twat, not to mention an absolute tightwad’ as Hayley put it, though that wasn’t what it actually said on the court papers. Assuming all went well, Hayley would soon be a free woman again. Free to  do what, Hawke wondered. Marry him? Unlikely, he thought. There was the age gap, quite along with the threat of him doing a ten-year stretch for whatever crime they eventually decided to nail him with. And there was what Hayley called “his Walter Mitty stuff”, Northern Ireland, Iraq, Afghanistan though, if Hayley did but know it, what she got was the heavily redacted version.

He was hardly a catch.

Still, Hawke was the current occupant of the right hand side of Hayley’s kingsize bed with its cream counterpane until further notice, and that wasn’t to be sneezed at.

Downstairs, in the kitchen, Hawke offered to give Gnasher and Slasher their breakfast and clean out the litter. He and Marjorie had always had cats, so he knew the drill. Hayley, flying around the house gathering up papers, briefcase, laptops accepted his offer with alacrity.

They scrunched out of the driveway in the orange Ford into Hilltop Lane. He’d catch the bus from Chaldon, pick up the VW from the repair shop in Purley. It was ready at long last. Parts for 20-year-old cars were hard to find, the garage had said.

And, with the car back in commission, he’d finally be able to pick up the job lot of old gardening tools he’d bought on Facebook marketplace, somewhere in South Croydon.

They may have taken their time, but the repair shop had done a good job; the old VW fairly purred along as Hawke drove back from South Croydon. Gertie, the car was called, that had been Marjorie’s name for her. He rarely used it now.

There was a blockage on Hillside Lane, a couple of hundred yards before Number 70A. Since satnavs had become widespread, more commuters had discovered it as a cut-through from the congested A23. Now, a couple of them had got stuck as they tried to squeeze past a DPD delivery van. A bloated grey BMW 4x4 half buried itself in the hedge as it pushed past the van, then veered back into the middle of the lane, only to find its passage blocked by Gertie. The BMW’s electric window whirred down. “Oi! Gerrahtofit!” The guy was bearded, eyes bulging from a paunchy face. An estate agent or – even worse – a solicitor, Hawke thought.

Hawke wound his own window down. “Pardon?” By now there were three more cars queued up behind the grey 4x4. “I said: gerramoveon! I’m late for work!”

“Well, p’raps you shouldn’t have spent that extra twenty minutes festering under your duvet, wanker! And next time, go on the main road, like everyone else, you little tosser.”

“Yerwot? You talkin’ to me Grandad?”

Hawke undid his seatbelt and pushed opened Gertie’s door, planting his feet emphatically on the tarmac. He slowly and deliberately took the key out of the ignition, jangling the big metal bunch, tossing it in the air and catching them. He slammed the door shut and locked it. “You can sit there all day, as far as I’m concerned. Hope you get the sack for unpunctuality, you little twat.”

By now, the other drivers in the queue had stopped hooting and had wound down their own windows to listen. “And you lot can fuck off an’ all! Piss off, the lot of you – fuckin’ rat-runners!” shouted Hawke, waving his massive bunch of keys at them. He turned around and unlocked Gertie’s tailgate and rummaged in the boot, producing a pickaxe, it’s 18-inch blade curving to a lethal point. He shouldered it and slammed the boot shut, striding up the lane towards number 70A.
“Wanker,” he said quietly but distinctly as he passed the grey BMW. All up the queue, people were hastily winding windows back up and locking doors. One guy had opened his door and was running, panicked, back down Hilltop Lane. Two drivers at the back of the queue were frantically trying to do three-point turns, bouncing off the hedges in their haste to get away, gears clashing, engines racing. Hawke reached the end of the queue and turned abruptly into the drive way of 70A. “Nice day for a spot of gardening,” he called over his shoulder.

To be continued in Chapter 14: The Bungalow-14 | ABCtales