Smith and Jones

I promise you that this is a TRUE STORY, one, I feel I can tell you ..... at last. 

IT'S A BIT LONG.

ENJOY

: )

 Smith and Jones

I used to have a couple of elderly, lady customers, let's, for the sake of posterity, call them Mrs Smith and Mrs Jones. They lived in a tiny Gloucestershire village, close to my tiny Gloucestershire town. As well as being close friends, they were neighbours and were both in their late eighties. Mrs Jones had been married to a globe trotting aero engineer, Mrs Smith to a executive in the fabric manufacturing industry. They were both typically English middle class.

Mrs Jones still owned a fully legal car which she kept out on 'the drive'. She didn't keep it tucked away in the garage, mind you; it was always out on 'the drive'. Ostentatiously, this little red automatic stood, four square on its' little wheels, bragging on behalf of Mrs Jones, that here lived a rare woman of her era; this woman could, and still did, drive. Mrs Jones also held a valid driving license. The one thing in the driving arsenal that Mrs Jones didn't have was, eyesight.

Mrs Smith, on the other hand, had to give up her car on the insistence of her children, grand children and great grand children. In fact, she didn't actually 'give it up'. Late one night her family took it away. Mrs Smith was told that it had been stolen and that her son would deal with the insurance company and the police. Unlike Mrs Jones, Mrs Smith was not blind, in fact she had amazing vision and her reflexes were positively ninja like, as was her physique. No Mrs Smith was a few pearls short of a set. In fact if Mrs Smith had a set of pearls she wouldn't know where she had last seen them. She had alzheimers.

The two ladies enjoyed popping into each others homes for tea and chats as well as an occasional trip into town. Between them, with true wartime spirit and determination, they had worked out a system which meant that they didn't need to do all that tedious, lower class stuff, such as, catch a bus, or call the ring and ride. These ladies had beaten 'Gerry', they were indomitable, if they wanted to go somewhere, they didn't even need to order a cab, or members of their families. They had their Marshall Plan and it worked like this;-

Mrs Jones would reach out her long slim fingers, with their neatly manicured nails and pluck her jangling car keys from the silver tray that rested, elegantly, upon the highly polished, spindly legged, hall table. Having unlocked the car, both ladies would settle their octogenarian, posteriors into the old cars' sagging, wrinkled, leather seats, of the bucket variety. This had been a racy car for a racy lady. Mrs Jones, as the driver, would then put on her large, Jackie O, sun glasses, and out of habit, blindly check in the mirror to confirm that she probably still looked truly gorgeous. Reaching, down, inelegantly, between her legs, skirt lifted, in order to accommodate this manoeuvre, she adjusted the cruelly embroidered cushion with it's huge, red, head of a poppy as its' decoration, A quick pummel on the compacted mass and the petals of the flower graciously aligned themselves with the remnants of her rear end, one petal enveloped one cheek, another petal, the other cheek, a third petal folded into her crotch and the fourth caressed the small of her back. Now that the cushion was moulded to the shape of her bottom and to the seat beneath, she sat erect and ready to don her cream and tan driving gloves. She could now see over the steering wheel on which she had a death grip.

Meanwhile, Mrs Smith, wearing an orgy of beige, would install herself in the front passenger seat, her beige, tapestry handbag on the floor to the right of her beige clad feet, her hawk eyes fixed firmly on the view out of the windscreen.

Mrs Jones would ignite her engine and engage reverse gear. The car would glide backwards straight down the drive to the road. A three point turn in the roomy cul de sac signalled the start of their journey. They would then warm up the holy trinity of motoring, their driving skills, their stiff old reflexes and the cars' engine, by hurtling, in the style of Bluebird attempting a land speed record, down the wide cul de sac. It was a short stretch of road, made all the shorter by their need for speed as they blasted towards the T junction that marked the abrupt beginning of the open road.

Mrs Smith would give directions, a la co-driver; left a bit, hard right, break-5,4,3,2,1-now! It was their countdown to a world of endless possibilities.

They would continue in this way into town, never overtaking, you understand. They were not stupid, simply venturesome. A wander about in town, buying inanities and drinking tea, was followed by the inevitable trip home again. At chez Mrs Jones they would drive forwards along the drive to the parking place. Following these journeys they were in too much of a nervous frazzle to risk attempting to reverse in. They fully acknowledged that if you want a job done, you should do it yourself. Being a team player is completely exhausting. But for them, there was no choice. It was work together, or stay at home all day. So they had chosen to work together and it appeared to be a successful model.

One day, Mrs Smith and Mrs Jones had managed to negotiate their way out of the cul de sac, and were 'good to go Houston'. They weren't going far that day. They were heading into the centre of the village. Their village. It was raining and nobody wants to get caught in the rain, do they? The car was the obvious option.

So here they were, in the car, all going well, only another 3 or so minutes to go and they would be parked and able to have lunch at the rather nice little tea shoppe in the middle of the village.

As they drove along, Mrs Smith, she of the goldfish memory, took her eyes off the road and slipped into an ominous, not to mention, dangerous, silence. Mrs Smith then turned herself to look fully at Mrs Jones, she of the mole rat vision. The car sauntered on, blindly. Mrs Smith said, after careful deliberation,

“Do I know you?”

Mrs Jones told me later that was the moment she decided to stop driving, and did I know anyone who wanted a little red automatic; one careful lady owner.