big healey

Ray has been washing his car every Sunday for fifty years. The same car. For fifty years. Even if it was raining, his wife Val would tell anyone who would listen. Even if they had plans! she’d gasp. Sunday was the only day Ray got out of bed before her. She would stretch, enjoying the extra space in the bed, and go downstairs to pour herself a cup of coffee that he dutifully put on before filling his bucket with hot soapy water. Over the years, the strange combination of citrus lemon and fresh coffee made Val incredibly calm. Cupping her weekend ritual with one hand, she used the other to gently pull back the living‑room curtain. Just to check on him, she would think. He caught her rolling her eyes, and missed her smile as she returned to her magazine. This was often the case.

One Christmas their son bought Ray a gift certificate for a professional valet service. He smiled using none of his teeth and thanked Peter. Val was sitting on the floor in front of him, helping their grandson with tricky corners. Looking puzzled, Ray placed the envelope on the arm of the sofa. Val squeezed his. He shuffled in his seat, the leather and wrapping paper crunching around him. When he got back home, he tore the tag off his new pair of socks and placed them in a drawer, tucking the envelope underneath the balls of fabric, and forgot all about it.

April came. One Tuesday afternoon, Val’s walk with her friend was rained off. Ray was more annoyed than he let on. He would make a bacon sandwich when Val went for her walks. Frying rashers until they turned crisp, just as he liked them. He would open all the doors and windows in the house to air out the smell, and eat his sandwich standing in the doorway looking out onto their garden. Val made him bacon sandwiches on bank holidays, but she would always cut off the fat and it was never crisp and there was never enough butter on the bread. Still, Ray would cover it in pepper and smile. He rubbed his stomach and told his wife she was a wonderful woman. Val was completely oblivious to Ray’s small romantic gesture of pretending, but she smelt the bacon before she opened the front door every time. That man! she would smile and shake her head, pushing the key into the lock.

With a free afternoon, Val pulled all of her clothes out of their wardrobe. Ray never felt it was a fair title, their. He kept two jumpers and an old suit in that wardrobe; the rest was neatly folded in his chest of drawers. Unsuspectingly, he walked into the eye of the storm and Val demanded he pull everything out of his dresser. He did not. So she did. An hour later, she walked downstairs, dragging slippers across the carpet she made Ray help pick. He pointed to a brown colour; she went with the cream. Why ask? he thought, but knew better than to say. Feet up, watching highlights of a match he had just seen, Ray barely looked up as Val placed the gift certificate on his lap. She had a couple of old T‑shirts and a pair of tights flung over her shoulder.

Eyes glued to the screen, Ray lifted the envelope and put it back on his knee. Expires next week, Val said, dragging a vacuum across his view. Still fixed on the game, he joked — me or the voucher? Val switched the socket on. He couldn’t hear her laugh but he saw it. Pleased with himself, he went back to the match. The certificate stayed on the footstool for two days.

On Friday, Val came back from her walk with an old colleague. Ray never liked it when Val went out with Denise. Last time, she came back with a new idea about putting a shipping container in the garden so they could have an office. Even though they retired six years ago, and neither of them have worked in an office a day in their life. Ah, not true, Ray said to the ceramic frog on the patio, taking another bite of his forbidden snack. Val did two weeks as a receptionist when she was nineteen. They fired her for eating a sandwich at her desk. It’s not like it was egg! she would finish the story, every time. Ray mouthed the words behind her to her captive audience. They would laugh and she would turn around and push his chest. God, Ray! She’d roll her eyes and resume chit‑chat.

Smelling secrets on the air, she asked her husband if he would like a bacon sandwich. He hovered in the doorway, wondering whether to confess. It’s not a bank holiday, he said. Well, it can be our little secret, she said, winking at him as she opened the fridge. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Ray heard his mother’s voice say. He nodded, wide‑eyed and childish and took a seat at the table. He sniffed the air to check he was safe and watched his wife take the scissors from the drawer. Snipping off the fat; he winced as she threw it in the bin. Val placed the treat in front of him and took a sip of her tea before touching her sandwich. She watched her husband devour his. She did not mention the missing rashers.

Afterwards, Ray lifted their plates from the table and placed them in the dishwasher. Then promptly fell asleep in his chair. He woke up after midday with the gift certificate balancing on his pigeon chest. He yawned and held it in front of his face. Val had scribbled a note on it. 2pm today. Please get milk on way back. He groaned and looked for his shoes.

Taking a seat in his car, he ran his hands over the steering wheel and tried to recall how it smelt the first day he drove it home. A ritual he did every time he took his lady out. Val hated that he called it his lady. Jealous, he used to say, winking at the car. He started the engine and let it hum as he prodded the postcode into his satnav — a gift from his daughter about eight years ago. She keeps trying to set up his phone but Ray doesn’t think it is right to use a phone when he’s driving. He crawled forward and turned left, just as the shrill woman in the little box told him to.

He drove across town, counting the number of boarded‑up shops. Your destination will be on your right, he mimicked his guide. Seven shops. You have reached your destination, he beat her to it. Folding the panel up, he lifted his head and a young lad was standing directly in front of the car holding a comically large yellow sponge with his jaw wide open. NO way, he said, reaching for his phone.

Ray stepped out of his vehicle, readying himself to reluctantly hand over his keys. That’s an Austin Healey 3000, the lad told him, taking a photo. Yes, Ray agreed. My wife made an appointment, he said, taking the voucher from his pocket. Sick, the boy said. Give me the keys, fella, and I’ll have her back to you in an hour. Uncomfortable, Ray looked around for someone who was older than his grandson. An old boy was sitting in an MDF office with a hi‑vis jacket on, talking on the phone and rubbing his temple. Ray didn’t question why this made him feel better, he just knew that it did. He handed the lad his keys and made sure to catch the eye of the old boy as he walked out of the lot.

Ray picked up four litres of milk. Val never wants four litres but it beats him going to the shop four times. Efficient, he would praise himself. That took eight minutes, he said, looking at his watch. He looked around and set his sights on a café. The girl behind the counter beamed at him. Cup of tea please, love, he said, picking up a newspaper from one of the tables. Any food today, sir? Ray watched a waitress carry a bacon sandwich out of the kitchen. He watched it travel through the air. N…no, he replied, rubbing his belly, and took a seat in a booth.

He did the easy sudoku and half of a concise crossword before looking up. Ten minutes, he said to the empty seats, tapping his watch. He grabbed his hat, slid to the edge of the bench, and set off back to the lot. He walked with a little bounce in his step, eager to get back to his lady. He walked through the wire gates and looked for his car. The boy came running out of the office, yelling the market value. Ray tried to quieten him by placing two hands out in front of him. Okay, okay. Where is the—

He heard the familiar hum and the old boy pulled up beside Ray. Stepping out, he asked if Ray knew what he had on his hands here. Ray didn’t understand. Of course, he replied, walking to the driver’s seat. Thank you, he remembered. She looks great. He only realised he meant it after he said it. If you ever want to sell, the old boy continued, I could find you a buyer no problem. Ray nodded and ducked his head, taking his seat.

He waved at the two men in the rear‑view mirror and turned onto the street, immediately hitting a set of traffic lights. Red. Waiting, he rolled the number around in his head. Amber. He revved the engine and took a deep breath in. As the light turned green, he pushed the pedal as he exhaled, Naahh. He said to his lady. She hummed. We don’t need a garden office, he laughed, lowering the roof.

Val was waiting on the drive as he reversed her in. Smiling, she leaned over the window. Well now. She said, sniffing the air. She smells brand new, Val told him. Ray sucked in the smell, rubbed his hands over the steering wheel and pushed the fumes from his nose. Not quite, he smiled back.

On Sunday, Val woke to the sound of water splashing across metal. She stretched and felt the empty space beside her. Dragging her slippers into the kitchen, she collected her coffee, and went to check on her husband. She peeled back the curtain. Ray was with his lady, wiping one of her blades with an old T‑shirt Val had washed, folded, and placed in his bucket. She shook her head and smiled. That man, she said, picking up a magazine. Ray read her lips through the window and smiled back. My lady, he thought.