Copyright Oggbashan August 2019
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
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I had completed my professional qualification at the weekly evening classes in the mid-1960s. This academic year I was offered a discount on some summer break classes as a previous attendee. I chose the five session introduction to car maintenance class. There were four reasons. The first was the tutor, a mechanic at the local specialist sports car dealership. The second was the age and state of my two vehicles, both later 1940s small Fords. I had two cars because one or other was almost always in need of attention. As yet I couldn't afford anything better because I was paying the mortgage on my house. The third was that I had no local friends. My work was twenty miles away and the previous course had been near my office. I had spent too much time on my studies or renovating my house to socialise locally. I might meet some local people at the class. The fourth reason was that the course was at the school next to my house.
When I arrived for the first evening class on a Thursday evening I was surprised that all the other students were young women. As we introduced ourselves it was obvious that they needed more basic knowledge than me. I knew how to check oil, tyres, battery and how to do basic maintenance. They didn't.
Dave, the instructor, had asked us, one by one, what we expected to learn from the lessons. The women were unanimous. They wanted to know enough to look after the cars, to know if anything serious was wrong, and how to talk to garage mechanics. I wanted more, far more. Both of my vehicles had an occasional tendency to drop out of second gear. I needed to know how to remove the engine and gearbox, and how to rebuild the gearbox to solve the problem of second gear. After that, how to reline the big ends, decoke the cylinder head, adjust the valves -- far more technical tasks than the women were contemplating. Five of the women were still on provisional licences and wanted to take their driving tests before they could buy a car. They wanted advice, as did some of the others, on which cars were suitable for inexperienced drivers.
Dave had a problem. His car was one of the dealership's specials and not really suitable for showing how to do basic checks. The engine was crammed into a small space, not easily accessible. I lived closest. Why not? I had bought what had been the school headmaster's house before the war. It had been damaged in the 1944 flying bomb campaign that had killed the new headmaster. That was why I could afford it, as a wreck untouched since 1944, and had been repairing it with my father's and brothers' help. It was now sound and waterproof but still needed modernisation. I had bought it damaged but still full of the previous owner's contents from before the war.
Dave asked me to bring one of my cars, an E93A Prefect. It took me a couple of minutes to move it from my drive to the school's playground. I placed it under an outside light and lifted the bonnet. Dave asked me to explain the use of the dipstick, the oil filler, the water level etc. I was almost swamped by attractive young ladies watching my every move.
We went back into the classroom where Dave told us what we should check daily and weekly. He gave out a list of regular items and some homework to emphasise the importance of some of the checks. We should have had a coffee break but the school's coffee machine was broken. I offered my kitchen? Why not? It was closer than the coffee machine and the coffee would be far better. I just had enough mugs for the thirteen of us, plus Dave. Dave was worried. A dozen was the minimum class size for the authorities to fund the course. If one or more of us dropped out? The course would end and the further sessions planned for next academic year would never start.
The women seemed to know each other. Over coffee they considered whether anyone else could be persuaded to join the course. They had at least another ten names to approach by the time we went back to the classroom.
By the end of the first lesson I was slightly concerned. The women knew each other. I was a definite outsider who wanted more from the classes than they did. I was nervous about being with so many women. Despite being in my mid-twenties I hadn't really had a serious girlfriend. I had been too busy working on my house and doing my professional qualifications. Both had left with little time and almost no money for socialising.
As we were leaving after the lesson, one of the women stopped me.
"Tom? Could a couple of us come back to your kitchen for a few minutes?" she asked.
"Yes. Of course," I replied almost automatically. "I can't provide coffee without rinsing out some mugs."
"That's OK. We'll wait for you to move your car."
They did. A couple of minutes later there were four women in my kitchen. All of them were nearly as tall as I am and I'm not short at just over six feet. If they were wearing heels they might look taller than me. Ruth, the one who had spoken to me earlier, rinsed out some mugs while the kettle boiled.
"Tom. I'm Ruth. The four of us are sisters. They are Sandra, Jenny and Maddy."
"Madeline, not Maddy," Madeline retorted.
"Pleased to meet you," I said.
"I'm not sure you are," Sandra said. "You looked and behaved like a startled rabbit when faced by twelve of us."
"It was a bit of a shock," I admitted cautiously.
"We can be. All twelve of us have been friends since primary school. We often go places as a group. Any boyfriends have to accept the other eleven as our close friends..."
"They do, Sandra, of if not, they don't stay as boyfriends for long," Madeline said.
"But, Tom, we want your help," Ruth said.
"My help? How?"
"We need this course to continue for the full five classes and into next year. We want to learn. Using your car and your kitchen does help. But what if there were more of us than there are now?"
"I can seat many more in the living room. I'd be short of mugs, would need to get more coffee and milk, but we could cope."
"Can we see your living room?" Jenny asked.
"Of course. Follow me."
They grabbed their coffee. As we went through the hall I pointed out the downstairs cloakroom. The living room runs from the bay window at the front to the conservatory doors at the back. There are two fireplaces, neither of which was lit. There is enough seating for about twenty people if they sat close together. More chairs could be brought in if required.
Madeline and Jenny sat on the longest settee. Ruth and Sandra gently pushed me to sit between the two, before adding themselves at the outside ends.
"Yes, this has possibilities," Ruth announced.
I was blushing. Madeline and Jenny were pressed very closely against me. I hadn't been that close to women for years. I gulped my coffee to try to conceal my confusion.
"In winter I would have to light the fires," I gabbled. "The central heating is a project for next year, after the bathrooms..."
"Bathrooms?" Jenny asked, "As in more than one?"
"Yes, Jenny. I hope to replace the bathroom fittings on the first floor, make an ensuite for the main bedroom, and add two more bathrooms on the second floor."
"How many people live here?" Jenny asked.
"Me. Just me."
"And you want four bathrooms for 'just me'?"
"If I sell the house, as a family home, four bathrooms would be an asset."
"I can see that, but four seems excessive even for a family. How many bedrooms are there, Tom?"
"Nine, and there still would be nine after I've created four bathrooms."
