CHAPTER - 9

9 

 

 

Monkie dropped me at the petrol station at ten minutes before two, plenty of time to do the changeover with the early shift man, Frank. Old man Frank. Sixty something and always with a bit of advice. The Rockers were in this morning so watch out, the boss was on the prowl earlier so keep your jerry can well hidden. Stuff like that. The same most weeks. Always being helpful and, I would say, he was. Nice guy, Frank, wore a long white coat. You know, one like doctors used. He said it made him look official but, judging by the two neat, palm width, oily lines heading down from his waist, it was mostly used as a rag. He read the counters, filled in the log and I signed to agree the numbers which had to be accurate. Get the gallons sold wrong and, as with Charlie the milk, the old pay packet took a knock. 

 

The garage, a place just after the bend on the main road right in the middle of the village. Four pumps. Two star juice up to five. Boring, that’s the best way to describe the job. I easily filled the first couple of minutes using the garage phone to call Benny. Got confirmation of a lock-in then told him to bring the empty jerry can from his last fill up over at the normal time and there would be a full one waiting. 

Then it all went downhill. It left eight long hours less, the two minutes of course, to alternate between arranging my work schedule, catching up on reading and pumping petrol and that only involved quick bursts of activity. Fuel, clean the windscreen, check oil and water, slam down the bonnet, maybe do the tyres and hope for a seldom given tip. Not so busy to wear out the bumper boot soles but busy enough to fill a five gallon ex-military jerry can ready for Benny. The can retrieved from its hiding place down the side deep in the big bush up against next door’s rickety old fence. 

One more thing I haven’t mentioned about working here: the opportunity to gain lucrative information. On the dot, every week without fail, at four-thirty in came Mr Mercer in his Mark 10 Jag. Now here’s a man who did tip. Older guy, fiftyish I’d guess. Always wore slacks and one of those navy blue blazers with the shiny silver buttons. Buffed up shoes. He was dapper all right but didn’t speak posh. His wife, dripping in gold and diamonds, always smiled sweetly from the passenger seat. Had the look of a fake smile though, one of those she probably reserved for manual workers. Now she did speak posh but in a kind of fallacious way.  I had no idea what the guy did but he was definitely a rich one. Thing was he was really nice with it. Always asked how I was. Refrained from giving me any advice, except just one time and that had been really interesting. Another time he asked what I wanted to be and I told him a lawyer and he said he thought I’d end up okay. 

Anyway, the Mark 10 had two ten gallon tanks. One each side. As you would expect, having the E-Type high performance engine on board, it took only five star petrol. Filling both tanks took a time giving plenty of opportunity to talk. Listen well and that’s when you learn things. After filling up the conversation would continue as I cleaned the screen, pinged the bonnet catch and checked the oil. It turned out that Mr Mercer was into horses. The racing kind and owned one called Daydreamer. He frowned as he said his wife had named it. Said that as though he was making an excuse and if he’d asked me I would have agreed that it was not a great name for a five furlong dasher. But there you have it, insider knowledge. A horse specifically trained to win a specific race on a specific day that had no previous form. I told him his oil was okay and held the door. He pushed the normal half crown into my palm as he got in to head towards Weybridge and the land of the rich and famous. 

Benny pitched up at five on his way to open up the pub at seven for the evening. He liked to get there in plenty of time to make sure all the barrels were correctly connected to ensure there was no danger of accidental spillage. He collected the jerry can that by that time was full and left me the empty one from last week. The switch was a bit like milk bottles, I suppose. Then the long haul to the end of my shift began. Customers were less frequent in the evenings. Maybe heading home after a day out. There was a spurt around seven as the evening started and people went out but that was usually enough to ensure the empty jerry can could be filled.    

 

After cashing up, I had just read the counters and shut down the pumps, turned out the lights and was about to lock up when Monkie drove onto the forecourt and pulled up in front of the door, the smoke catching up with him as he came to a stop. 

“Looks like you might need some oil,” I said, swishing my arm about. 

“Probably… This is a good looking garage. It’s in a great position. What’s inside?” 

“Office, workshop out the back with a ramp. Stores. Small showroom. All of it’s a bit run down. The owner’s an old guy. I heard him say he’s thinking of retiring.” 

“Interesting,” said Monkie as he looked through the glass in the door. “Any chance of a look around?” 

“Sure,” I replied and opened the door and turned on the light. The fluorescent starter pinged life into the ceiling. “Through that door’s the showroom. Back of that is the door to the workshop. Office is next to the showroom with the stores behind.” 

Monkie followed me through the showroom and into the workshop, “Nice space,” he said, “enough room for a couple of mechanics. Good looking ramp… Great looking place. It would suit my dad’s business.” 

“If you want I could find out if the owner wanted to sell.” 

“Not sure there’s that much point. I'm positive my dad’s not got anywhere near enough to buy this place but I’d still appreciate knowing its value. It’s really unlikely he’d be able to afford it, though. Shame, it would be a goldmine for us. I’ll ask him though, you never know, do you… Okay, I’ve seen enough, let’s get to the pub. First, though, petrol.” 

“Out front in the jerry can. We’ll fill the motor then I’ll hide it for next week.” 

“Topped up from the pumps?” 

“Not really. If I run the pump the gallons are measured. There’s no way they’d be undetected.” 

“Okay, so how does this petrol thing work then?” 

“See the pipe with the pump lever?” 

“Sure, an absolutely essential bit of kit, I’d assume.” 

“Definitely. It’s ten feet long with a three-quarter inch diameter. It holds about a third of a gallon. Stick the nozzle in the tank, grip the lever and out comes the juice.” 

“Yeah, everyone knows that.” 

“Sure they do and they know when I release the lever the petrol stops but the pump remains working until I switch it off. What they don’t realise is petrol stays in the pipe. It doesn’t drain back into the tank.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Not sure, but maybe when the pump shuts down it’s like turning off a tap.”  

His face lit up with a sudden understanding, “It stays in the pipe to be fed into the next car unless…” 

“It is emptied into my jerry cans. After the customer leaves I just squeeze the lever and empty the pipe and there you have it. One third of a gallon that no one knows about.” 

“Now that is real slick… How did you come up with that?” 

“Easy. When I started here the first thing I did was…” 

“Search out the angles.” 

“You’ve got it. I can even set the pump to dish out the number of gallons wanted. Then the pump stops automatically even if the lever is still held open. The first couple of cars I filled I noticed that when the pump stopped if I held the pipe up with the lever depressed more juice came out. So, all I do is shut the lever and just hook it back up with the pipe still full.” 

“Okay, that explains the petrol. What about the oil?” 

“That’s a no brainer. Oil’s slow moving stuff. Pour it in and there’s still about a half inch in the can that takes ages to dribble out. So, I leave it. Most people are happy with not having to hang around to squeeze out the final drops. Or they don’t realise. All I do is suspend it over an empty can and let it slowly drip. It takes about ten cans to get a pint. I sell about fifteen cans on my shift.” 

“One and a half pints then. Not a great return.” 

“But it’s still a couple of bob and I get three pence commission for every pint of oil I sell. It’s an incentive to shift what is a high earner for the garage. Some engines that need a bit so…” 

“A bit is always a full pint.” 

“Yeah, so I’ve a full pint for you. Judging by the amount of smoke your crate produces I expect you need it.” 

“You’re right and I’m nearly out of petrol.” 

“Okay, we’ll sort that out then get off to the pub. By the time we get there the lock-in will be in full swing.” 

We filled up then I disappeared down the side of the garage to hide the empty can in the bushes. When I returned Monkie said, “What about Benny’s petrol?” 

“He called in earlier to fill up. He passes this way en route to the pub. I’ve got two cans. I give him a full one and he leaves me last week’s empty and that’s the one you’ve got. Benny will bring his can back next Sunday.” 

“One thing. You’re a bit exposed here. All the world and undesirables can see you. I take it Take Six didn’t appear.” 

“No and you’re right I am but he’ll catch up with me sooner or later so what the hell.” 

“No Don?” 

“No. I’m not sure my old man knows I work here. I started the job after I left home… Now, we do seem to hang about talking, don’t we… Come on, I need a pint. Let’s go see Benny. While we’re there I’ve half my wages for you. I get paid a week late so they can sort out if the pump readings are correct and calculate the oil commission. This week’s pay is for last Sunday.”