She turns away. I call after her. 'Can I have the usual?'

She turns round. 'Sausages and eggs and coffee?'

'That's it.'

'I'll be right back.'

I take a seat in a booth in the middle, and face the door. There's a newspaper already on the table.

I've only read half the sports pages when she comes back with sausages and eggs and coffee.

'Here you are,' she says.

'Thanks.'

I swallow a bit of my nerves, then speak.

'I wonder if you'd like to have dinner with me?'

She looks toward the kitchen. 'Oh,' she says. 'That's so sweet.'

This probably means she'll say no.

'What do you think?' I ask.

She's making the tea-towel into a rope, twirling the length tight.

'I don't know.'

'Right,' I say. 'Never mind.'

She walks away.

I eat the eggs and sausages, but look over my shoulder whenever the kitchen door swings open.

When she comes back, she doesn't speak, just reaches for my plate, leans across in front of me and the closeness of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s makes my heart beat hard in my neck.

'Would you like more coffee?'

We both look round to the back of the cafe. One of the women has raised her voice in argument and she says, 'I'd be a lot b.l.o.o.d.y happier if you didn't keep telling me I look tired.'

I look at Georgia, make my mouth into a grimace, and she copies me. She's showing me that she likes me.

'I was wondering,' I say. 'If I borrowed a nice car from work, a sports convertible, would you like to go for a drive somewhere and maybe have a picnic?'

'When?'

'When it suits you.'

'Where do you want to go?'

'Could it be a surprise?'

'I suppose.'

She smiles. 'I've never been in a convertible. I could have my hair in a scarf and wear dark sungla.s.ses.'

'So you would?'

'I could finish early one night.'

'What about Thursday or Friday night?' I say. 'It's bright till well after eight o'clock. What if I picked you up after work, around seven o'clock?'

'Are you allowed to take cars from the garage?'

'Yeah,' I say. 'I can get my hands on an MGB.' She says nothing.

'So, do you want to?' I say. 'You don't have to.'

I'm nervous as h.e.l.l and she looks at me for a good long while as though to check if I'm lying.

'Okay,' she says. 'I'll ask Mich.e.l.le to spot for me.'

She picks up my cup and saucer.

Her hands are steady. She's not shaking at all, it's as though nothing's happened.

'Back to work,' she says.

I go to the counter and leave the money I owe next to the till. There's a pen on a pad of jotting paper and I get the idea I should write a romantic note for Georgia and leave it for her on the counter and she'll find it when she's least expecting it.

I lean on the counter and think what I might write, but when I look up at the clock on the wall I see I'm late for work.

There's no time. I pick up my toolkit and go.

Hayes is sitting behind his desk and doesn't bother saying good morning.

'Could you work on the Renault?' he says. 'I think you'll need to look at the tappets, they're really noisy. Check the whole lot. Cam, tappet, push rod and rocker arm.'

'Okay.'

I go out to the garage, use my own tools, and get the job done quickly.

At morning tea, we sit in the small tea room and talk about cars. It's the first proper chat we've had.

'You're a pretty good mechanic,' he says.

'Thanks,' I say.

Pretty good? I'm better than he is, better than most. Why doesn't he say so?

The phone rings in his office and he's gone a good while. I pour both cups of tea down the drain.

He comes back.

'I'd better get back to work,' I say.

'What did you do with my tea?' he wants to know.

'I thought you'd finished.'

'I'd only just started.'

'Sorry.'

At noon I take a break and go outside to the yard.

I've only been outside in the sun a few minutes when a Triumph TR4 drives slowly by. The driver's got his elbow resting on the open window and he looks d.a.m.n well happy. He's got the radio turned up loud, his long hair flaps against his face in the breeze and his pale-blue polo-neck looks expensive, straight out of the shop, clean and new.

I go back in. I'm dying to take Georgia for that drive. I've got to ask Hayes if he has any customers with a TR4.

He's in the office, on the phone. I stand back from the door so he can't see me. I hear him say, 'Come in tomorrow, I'll have some work for you then.'

I step away, but I'm too slow. He's seen me.

'Patrick?'

'Yeah.'

'There's a message for you. From your mum. She sounds like a very lovely lady.'

He holds out the piece of paper and I've to go to him at the desk to get it. My hand's shaking when I take if off him. I want to know what she's said and I want to ask him who he was talking to about work and I want to ask about the car.

I'll start with the car, wait till my nerves steady before the other questions.

'I was wondering if I could get in touch with the owner of the MGB? Mr Hanc.o.c.k.'

'Why?'

'I'd like to ask him if I could borrow it.'

He frowns. 'That's not exactly company policy.'

His words have come out sharp. He's in a filthy mood about something.

'Okay,' I say. 'Not to worry.'

I'll ask the other questions tomorrow.

'Get to work on the Rover,' he says. 'It's just come in.'

'I didn't see it.'

'It's out the back.'

'Okay.'

I finish work on the Rover and Hayes meets me in the tea room to tell me to knock off early.

'I'm happy to stay on,' I say.

'No need.'

'The Rover might need a new clutch,' I say.

'Do an estimate for me tomorrow and I'll talk to the owner.'

'I can do it now.'

'It's a nice day. Go ahead and knock off early.'

It's only four o'clock but I'm in the mood for a drink.

I cross the esplanade and walk down to the end of the main street and go to the pub behind the station. I put my toolkit under the barstool and order a pint.

The two young lads who were smoking on the end of the pier yesterday are here. They're sitting at a table near the door and they've got pints of dark ale and in between drags on their cigarettes they look at their hands, same as they did at the end of the pier, as though in awe of the act of smoking.

I drink the pint and get to wanting a game of pool. My hands are steadier now.

I go to the lads and ask them.

'Mark'll play,' says the lad with pimply skin. 'He's better than me.'

'Yeah, I'll play,' says Mark.

Mark stands.

He's skinny and about five nine. Not much different in build from me.

We go over to the table and the pimply lad follows.

'Want to make it interesting?' I say.

'Yeah.'

'Can we play for pints then?'

Mark's a good player and he wins the first game, probably grew up on this table, but after that it goes my way. All I need to do is make it close enough to keep him interested.