the covering of the heart. And Clem’s VSD doesn’t help and…” He spins the ratchet. “Ow! Ow! Jeez!” A stream of curses follows.
Instead of catching the bolt, he’s caught his knuckles.
He kicks himself out from under the car, still cursing, and I elbow my way out behind him.
His knuckles are bleeding and I don’t like the blood, not because my stepfather is hurting, but because the blood came when he was speaking about Clem and that brings the monsters closer. I mean, why did it have to be Clem, the weaker twin, the one who dips – why did it have to be Clem’s name all spilt and spattered with blood?
“Half-inch,” says Si, sucking at his fist. “Should have used a half-inch not a 9/16th. Idiot.”
I need to do something to help. “Shall I get you a plaster?”
“Yes – over there.” He nods at a cabinet at the other end of the garage, beneath the Morris Authorised Dealer sign and a bunch of red onions. “Top drawer, I think.”
I find an old box with a random selection of different-sized plasters and help him patch himself up. Mum would have made him wash his hands first.
“First rule of mechanics – check your socket size. Right. Let’s try again.”
I hand him a half-inch socket and we both resume positions underneath the car. This time the bolts come away easily.
He removes the timing chain cover and then slides out again.
“We’ll do the timing marks from up top,” he says. “They need to be lined up and the crank has to be at TDC,” he says. “Do you remember TDC?”
“Top Dead Centre,” I say.
“That’s my girl!” he says.
His girl.
He works in silence for a while, but his mind, not unlike mine, remains with the twins, because then he says, “There’ll be a rehearsal operation first.”
“What?”
“A rehearsal. When they go through everything. Who’s going to do what on the day. So, unlike us, they don’t end up with the wrong-sized socket.”
“But what if they do end up with something wrong?”
He pauses. “They won’t. That’s the point of the rehearsal.” He smiles, but this time it’s a little tight. “Come on now – chain tensioner.”
He fiddles with something I can’t see and the timing chain comes free. It looks nothing much, it looks like a slightly bigger version of a bicycle chain. Yet it can rattle and break and make the engine fail. The car remains all mixed up with Clem.
“Now all we have to do,” Si says, holding the new chain, “is fit this little beauty and redo everything in reverse order.”
But it doesn’t happen quite that way because, when he’s fitted the new chain and checked the timing marks again and refitted the tensioner, he has to turn the crankshaft two revolutions and when he does that one of the chain teeth jumps and the timing marks are out of alignment.
“Typical!” he says. He looks at his watch. “Maybe we should break,” he says. “Get some lunch.”
“No,” I say, “we have to finish it. Get the job done. Now.”
“Since when did you become chief mechanic?” he says, but he’s smiling as he starts all over again.
I wonder then what will happen with the babies if something goes wrong, because an operation is not like a car, and the doctors won’t just be able to start it all over again, will they?
Eventually Si gets the cover back on and checks and seals the new gasket so it doesn’t leak oil. Then he reassembles the radiator. It’s late, late into the afternoon now.
“Now for the moment of truth,” Si says, and he starts the engine.
The car coughs and spits and rattles, and then roars into life.
“Fantastic,” he says. “Listen.”
I listen.
“Not a peep,” he says, face beaming.
So we won this one, I think, despite the blood on Clem. We’ve kept the monsters at bay.
Si turns the engine off, gets out and pats the car on the bonnet. “My perfect, perfect little moggie.”
I think about perfect.
I think about this Morris Traveller 1000, Si’s little moggie, which
Instead of catching the bolt, he’s caught his knuckles.
He kicks himself out from under the car, still cursing, and I elbow my way out behind him.
His knuckles are bleeding and I don’t like the blood, not because my stepfather is hurting, but because the blood came when he was speaking about Clem and that brings the monsters closer. I mean, why did it have to be Clem, the weaker twin, the one who dips – why did it have to be Clem’s name all spilt and spattered with blood?
“Half-inch,” says Si, sucking at his fist. “Should have used a half-inch not a 9/16th. Idiot.”
I need to do something to help. “Shall I get you a plaster?”
“Yes – over there.” He nods at a cabinet at the other end of the garage, beneath the Morris Authorised Dealer sign and a bunch of red onions. “Top drawer, I think.”
I find an old box with a random selection of different-sized plasters and help him patch himself up. Mum would have made him wash his hands first.
“First rule of mechanics – check your socket size. Right. Let’s try again.”
I hand him a half-inch socket and we both resume positions underneath the car. This time the bolts come away easily.
He removes the timing chain cover and then slides out again.
“We’ll do the timing marks from up top,” he says. “They need to be lined up and the crank has to be at TDC,” he says. “Do you remember TDC?”
“Top Dead Centre,” I say.
“That’s my girl!” he says.
His girl.
He works in silence for a while, but his mind, not unlike mine, remains with the twins, because then he says, “There’ll be a rehearsal operation first.”
“What?”
“A rehearsal. When they go through everything. Who’s going to do what on the day. So, unlike us, they don’t end up with the wrong-sized socket.”
“But what if they do end up with something wrong?”
He pauses. “They won’t. That’s the point of the rehearsal.” He smiles, but this time it’s a little tight. “Come on now – chain tensioner.”
He fiddles with something I can’t see and the timing chain comes free. It looks nothing much, it looks like a slightly bigger version of a bicycle chain. Yet it can rattle and break and make the engine fail. The car remains all mixed up with Clem.
“Now all we have to do,” Si says, holding the new chain, “is fit this little beauty and redo everything in reverse order.”
But it doesn’t happen quite that way because, when he’s fitted the new chain and checked the timing marks again and refitted the tensioner, he has to turn the crankshaft two revolutions and when he does that one of the chain teeth jumps and the timing marks are out of alignment.
“Typical!” he says. He looks at his watch. “Maybe we should break,” he says. “Get some lunch.”
“No,” I say, “we have to finish it. Get the job done. Now.”
“Since when did you become chief mechanic?” he says, but he’s smiling as he starts all over again.
I wonder then what will happen with the babies if something goes wrong, because an operation is not like a car, and the doctors won’t just be able to start it all over again, will they?
Eventually Si gets the cover back on and checks and seals the new gasket so it doesn’t leak oil. Then he reassembles the radiator. It’s late, late into the afternoon now.
“Now for the moment of truth,” Si says, and he starts the engine.
The car coughs and spits and rattles, and then roars into life.
“Fantastic,” he says. “Listen.”
I listen.
“Not a peep,” he says, face beaming.
So we won this one, I think, despite the blood on Clem. We’ve kept the monsters at bay.
Si turns the engine off, gets out and pats the car on the bonnet. “My perfect, perfect little moggie.”
I think about perfect.
I think about this Morris Traveller 1000, Si’s little moggie, which
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