Ivy always took the car to the Roper brothers in the village, even though she knew they rolled their eyes behind her back and over-charged her.
‘Sounds like it’s the carborator or the catatonic convertor,’ Gordon would say, his voice echoing under the bonnet and Greg would cough and turn away to stop himself from laughing out loud. Ivy wasn’t stupid; she knew.
It was the smell of the place that kept her coming back to be made a fool of: oily dust and petrol fumes, warm leather and cigarettes. The smell of her father; dead and gone these past sixty years.
I’m also delighted that a short piece of my non-fiction about living with teenagers has been published on the Tin House blog today.