Saturday idle, carburettor zen
Drizzle rattled on the corrugated roof of the harbour-yard lock-up like loose change in a collection tin. Inside, petrol vapour mingled with Brasso and damp plywood. The Series III’s bonnet was propped open, twin SU carburettors arranged on newspaper with surgical precision. A few winters ago I’d shoe-horned a Rover V8 into the once-diesel Landy — now greedy as a gull and twice as temperamental — and ever since, fettling the thing here has been a weekend ritual. Without a driveway or garage at home, this draughty shed is the only place I can spread spanners without blocking the road — or frightening the neighbours.
I’d come by it through rumours and pale ale at the Anchor: Ronnie swore the harbour board barely remembered the lease existed, “virtually free as long as you keep the roof on,” he’d laughed, and I took the hint. The general shabbiness keeps serious money away; cracked skylights, leaky gutters, and the ghost of a fish plant next door make the rent feel more like hush-money than a bill — perfect for a hobbyist who values solitude over polish.
Which suited me: for the next few months there would be no deadlines. The Frankfurt fintech had put me on a retainer starting at the end of August, which meant the only project manager breathing down my neck would be Murphy — and he was fast asleep on a greasy blanket.
Outside, the late-April light felt counterfeit, but I took it anyway.
The yard itself was pure 1970s hinterland: cracked concrete, buddleia pushing through rusted rails, the decommissioned fish plant hulking beyond a chain-link fence. No developer had touched it; planning limbo and economic malaise kept the bulldozers away, so the place survived like a film set for forgotten industries. I found the desolation oddly soothing. It let an introvert recharge without apology.
I’d just fitted a new float needle to one of the carbs when Ronnie ambled over from his carpenter’s workshop two units along, a tray of builder’s tea balanced on one hip.
“Morning, Professor,” he said, eyeing the V8. “Tuning the Ark Royal today?”
“Trying to get both throats breathing the same air,” I answered.
We drank from enamel mugs while the rain drummed. Ronnie spun a tale about a young couple refurbishing a lighthouse keeper’s cottage that hadn’t touched mains power since 1963. The story was almost believable; I let it spool out, enjoying the rhythm more than the facts.
A footstep behind us. Emma appeared in the doorway, rain freckles on her cheeks, fanning a deck of pastel colour swatches.
“There you are,” she said, scanning the chaos of gaskets, float bowls, and petrol cans. “I need a ruling on ‘Regency Mist’ versus ‘Shell Pink’ for the hallway.”
Ronnie straightened, wiping imaginary sawdust from his palms. “Shell Pink’s a flirt,” he declared. “Regency Mist, she’ll behave herself.”
Emma laughed. “Says the man who once suggested painting a wardrobe racing green.”
“British heritage, my dear.” He offered a theatrical bow. Emma produced a packet of Hobnobs from her jacket. “Payment for the consultation,” she said, passing them over; Ronnie took one with a flourish, and Emma mock-curtseyed back.
Murphy padded over, tail helicoptering. Emma scratched his ears, then wrinkled her nose at the petrol tang. “Promise you’ll open a window before you spark up that kettle.”
“I’ll survive,” I said. “Did I mention? No client calls till the end of summer.”
“Translation: you’ll be here till dinner.” She peered at the workbench. “So this is what ‘twin carbs’ look like in real life. Honestly thought you’d made it up for pub cred.”
Ronnie chuckled. “He makes up nothing, Emma. Just improves the truth.”
She rolled her eyes affectionately. “Right. Shell Pink it is, then. Ronnie’s endorsement seals it.”
She left the biscuits, blew me a quick kiss, and disappeared into the drizzle.
Ronnie followed soon after, whistling what might have been early‑Bowie. Silence returned, broken only by distant gulls.
While reassembling the second carb, I nicked my forefinger. I hissed and for a second watched the blood swell, reminding myself that machinery plays by physics, not optimism. I wiped the spot, wrapped the cut with workshop tape, and carried on — another offering to the gods of stubborn engines.
Outside, the rain had eased to mist. Beyond the open doors the decommissioned fish‑plant sheds still brooded, but the anticipation of the V8 breathing freely and settling into an uneven purr already felt like analogue victory in a digital century. The afternoon stretched ahead, blank and precise, waiting on nobody’s timetable but mine.
Somewhere beyond the mist a faint rattle of drums drifted down from town — May Day warming its sticks for next weekend’s revelry.