Vince Quilter said, stepping inside the garage and finding the light switch, ‘what are you – we – I mean …’ He shrugged, his arms wide, expression forlorn.
Charlie took a deep breath and, despite the February chill at her back, unzipped her coat and unwound her thick maroon scarf. The wind assailed her neck, newly exposed to the elements after the pre-Christmas, post-break-up, chop-it-all-off graduated bob that – she now realized – had been an ill-advised choice for this time of year.
‘We’re going to fix her,’ she said purposefully, putting her bag against the wall and laying her palm flat against the bus’s cold paintwork. ‘We’re going to restore Gertie, aren’t we, Dad?’ He was staring at the workbench where all Hal’s tools were laid out, rubbing his unshaven jaw. Hal’s death had hit him harder than anyone else, and while Charlie felt her uncle’s loss keenly, she knew it was nothing compared to what Vince was going through. ‘Dad?’ she prompted.
‘Sorry, love. That we are.’ He started rolling up the sleeves of his jacket, thought better of it and took it off instead. He switched on the heater and rubbed his hands together.
Charlie felt a surge of hope. She hurried over to her bag and pulled out a flask of coffee and a Tupperware box. ‘Here, have a brownie to keep you going. I thought we could do with some sustenance.’ She took off the lid, and a glimmer of a smile lit up Vince’s face.
‘Always thinking ahead, huh?’
‘This was never going to be the easiest task in the world, practically or emotionally. Brownies baked with love – and hazelnuts and chocolate chip, because that’s your favourite kind.’
‘Your food is the best, because it’s baked with love and extra calories,’ her dad said, taking one of the neatly arranged squares. ‘That’s what he always said.’
‘Yup.’ A lump formed unhelpfully at the back of Charlie’s throat, as it had been doing at inopportune moments ever since her uncle Hal had been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer at the end of last summer. So many things reminded her of him, and while dealing with practicalities – assessing the state of his beloved Routemaster bus, for example – were easier to focus on without the emotion overwhelming her, his sayings, his nuggets of wisdom, always knocked her off kilter. They were so ingrained in her family now, but it was as if she could hear Hal’s voice, his unwavering cheerfulness, whoever was saying the words.
‘Love and extra calories,’ she repeated, wincing when she noticed a deep gouge in Gertie’s side. ‘How did he get away with being so sentimental?’
‘Because he was straightforward,’ her dad said through a mouthful of chocolate and nuts. ‘He said everything without embarrassment or affectation. He was a sixty-eight-year-old man who called his bus Gertie. He meant it all, and was never ashamed of who he was.’
Uncle Hal had given scenic tours on Gertie, the vintage double-decker Routemaster, that were legendary throughout the Cotswolds. He was an expert bus driver and a world-class talker. Everyone who took one of his tours left feeling as if they’d made a friend for life, and the testimonials on TripAdvisor were gushing. His untimely death had left a huge hole in the Cotswold tourist trade, as well as his family’s life.
And now Gertie belonged to Charlie; left to her in Hal’s will, for her to do with whatever she wanted. At that moment, all she could see in the bus’s future was being dismantled and sold for spares, but she was not going to let that happen. She couldn’t imagine herself taking over her uncle’s tours, even though she had spent many hours on them and had been taught to drive the bus as soon as she was old enough. Her expertise was in baking, not talking.
Her dad finished his brownie and started examining Gertie’s engine. As a car dealer he knew his way around vehicles, but had admitted to Charlie that he wasn’t that knowledgeable about buses. Charlie had argued that it was just a bigger version, and nothing could be that different.
She cleaned the chocolate off her fingers with a paper napkin and climbed on board the bus. It had taken on a musty, unloved smell, and was bone-achingly cold. Charlie walked up the aisle of the lower deck, her fingers trailing along the backs of the forest-green seats, and opened the cab.
Her dad appeared behind her, wiping his hands on a rag. ‘The engine seems in good enough shape, but I only know the basics. And in here?’ He gave another melancholy sigh.
‘It’s going to be fine,’ she said. ‘She needs a bit of sprucing up, that’s all. A few things need fixing, there’s some cosmetic work, knocking a couple of panels back into shape, and then Gertie will be as good as new.’
‘I could give Clive a call,’ Vince said, worrying at his scruffy hair, ‘get him to come and give her a once-over, see what condition her vital organs are in.’
‘And in the meantime, I’ll tackle in here. We’ve got the Hoover, cleaning sprays, and I can make a list of what needs repairing. The toilet probably needs a good flushing out.’ Charlie made a face and her dad laughed.
‘You sure you want to start that now?’ he asked. ‘Shouldn’t we find out if she’s salvageable first? You don’t want to waste your time cleaning her if the engine’s buggered.’
‘Dad, the engine is not buggered. She’s fine. Hal was driving her right up until … he wasn’t any more. He never mentioned anything being wrong with her.’
‘Yes, but you have to agree she looks—’
‘Neglected,’ Charlie finished. ‘Which is why we’re here. I guarantee that once we’ve given her a bit of love and attention, things will look a hundred times better. Gertie is going back on the road, that’s all there is to it.’ She grinned, and it wasn’t even forced. She had almost convinced herself.
Her dad looked at her fondly. ‘You’re a wonder, Charlie. Anyone else faced with these circumstances – with this,’ he gestured around him, ‘and Hal, and everything you’ve been through with Stuart – would start a lengthy hibernation, and nobody would blame them. Instead you’ve baked brownies and dragged me here, and you’re not going to leave until Gertie’s gleaming. You don’t even know what you’re going to do with her when she’s restored!’
Charlie’s smile almost slipped at this last point, because that was worrying her far more than the state of Gertie’s engine or how many panels needed replacing. What on earth was she going to do with a vintage, double-decker bus, when she worked in a café in Ross-on-Wye and her main skills were baking and eating? ‘I’ll think of something,’ she said brightly. ‘One step at a time, Dad. Fix Gertie, and then decide what to do with her.’
She put the key in the ignition and a satisfying thrum reverberated, like a heartbeat, through the bus. The engine was working, at least. She cranked the heating up to max – she didn’t want her fingers to fall off before she’d polished the metalwork – then turned on the radio.
‘Gold’ by Spandau Ballet filled the space, and Charlie took her dad’s hands and pulled them up in the air with hers. She forced them into an awkward dance down the aisle, bumping into seats as they sashayed from the front of the bus to the back, and sang along at the top of her voice. Soon they were both laughing, and her dad let go of her hands so he could clutch his stomach. She dinged the bell and tried to get her breathing under control. When Vince looked up, Charlie could see the familiar warmth in his eyes that she had been worried was gone for good.
It was impossible not to feel cheered in Gertie’s company. Hal had been convinced there was something a little bit
