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All throughout the short journey, I was reaffirming my
intention to pay the following evening. Within five minutes, we were in front of my car. I was just about to thank
him yet again and get out of the car, when I suddenly realized, I hadn't got his address. I asked him his address
and he asked me for a piece of paper so he could write the address down. I didn't have my wallet and no piece of
paper could I find in my coat. He asked me to open the glove compartment in the passenger side and took out a book.
It was a Penguin classic book by Emily Bronte - Wuthering Heights. I will never forget it to this day. He opened
the book and tore an odd shaped piece of paper from the corner of the book at the last page. "It's so she
won't think I damaged her favourite book" he said wryly, wrote his name and address on the corner of the sheet.
"Here, Alan", he said, "just so you won't forget". He gave me the piece of paper and then put
the book back in the glove compartment, wished me luck and drove the 80 yards down the road and turned left into
the Crescent. The number plate was a little odd, having the rear number plate broken in half. The registration
number was UNE 560. I watched his tail lights disappear.
Suddenly, I heard an almighty crash coming from the direction where Gregory had just turned into. I immediately
ran the 80 yards or so to the crescent, looke up and down, saw no evidence of any accident and just assumed it
was one of the many engineering companies on Reckitt Lane that was responsible. I went back towards where I had
parked the car,went to the rear of the car, opened the petrol can and poured in the life giving substance.
Thirty minutes later I was home and probably an hour later I was fast asleep.
I got up as usual the next day, went to work, filled up the car, saved the right amount of money for Gregory and
went home for tea. In Lancashire, where I live, Tea is what you would normally call dinner everywhere else. Tea
starts at around 1630 and lasts till late evening.
After tea, I decided I would go and pay Gregory for the kindness he showed last night and then go out with my friends.
I drove up Reckitt lane this time coming from Ashton, turned right into "The Cresent" and went to number
30. It is called Maskell Close as there is only one entry point to the close. It has a sign that says Cul-De-Sac
in black writing on a white background at the start of the close and a T sign with the top half being red in colour,
signifying, no way out. The Close is quite pleasant, having all the gardens at the front of the properties with
wooden or Asbestos garages aside the entrance gate to the houses. This one had a rather nice looking wooden garage
outside, obviously well-cared for and the number 30 on both the gate and the garage. It was getting fairly dark,
so I decided I wouldn't stay too long and drive the car for a few hours.
I got out of the car, armed with the piece of paper and the 7shillings and 8 pence for the gallon of petrol.
I walked up the path to the front door, knocked on the door and a lady answered the door. I said "good evening,
my name's Alan Smith, I'm here to pay Gregory what I owe him from last night. - Is he your Husband?"
She asked me if I was playing some kind of joke. I was a little puzzled and related the story of the previous night
to her. I even showed her the name and address on the torn off piece of paper he had written on. She looked curiously
at the torn off corner of book and said that it was indeed Gregory's handwriting. She asked me again how I got
the piece of paper. This time, I was puzzled and again related the story that happened the previous night.
She asked me inside, so I went in. What a beautiful clean house I thought, very neat in every aspect, not a thing
out of place. There was a strong smell of gas and I remarked that I could smell gas of some sort, "Oh don't
worry about that, it smells like that most days, it's that damn methane gas from the nearby rubbish site"
She motioned me to the dining table.
Again she asked me where I got the paper from, again I related the entire story, exactly as it happened. She asked
me what sort of car Gregory was driving, so I told her it was a Morris Traveller. Now I pride myself on recognising
any car, even from the headlights in the dark, sidelights, rear lights and shape, as my Father always asked me
car questions when I used to ride with him a lot in his job. It was then that I got this knowledge of cars.
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