Just to warn you. No graphic sex in this story as usual, and not a single wife gets burned at the stake.
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I cursed the day that I'd sold the damn car, and then I double cursed the cursed damn day that that I'd bought the damn thing!
Damn car!
I'd fancied a Porsche all my life, and I found myself there, me pushing thirty, a four year old Ford outside our house, and just about enough money in the bank to pay the difference. The difference that is between my old Ford and the considerably older but none the less beautiful red Porsche 911 that I'd been drooling over for the last four weeks every time that I passed it in the garage in town. The registration number even featured the letters GAD. Got it? George and Debbie!
I talked to my wife, pleaded, cajoled, joked and made every sought of promise imaginable, and at last she came round and agreed that we could splash our hard earned savings out on the object of my desire.
That I guess was my first mistake.
On reflection, Debbie and I weren't really Porsche material, the Ford being more our type of thing, maybe some GTI or other, or even an MX5 perhaps. But as I'd said, I'd fancied a Porsche for so long that I couldn't wait to get behind the wheel once it was mine.
"Golly George," Debbie grinned at me the first time she sat in it. "I'm not sure I feel right in a car like this."
"You look great dear," I told her happily, smiling at my pretty young wife, imagining how much better she'd look sat there in a shorter skirt and skimpy top, than the sensible dresses that she habitually wore.
That was part of the problem I suppose, neither of us being 'clubby' types or lovers of the bright lights. We were both schoolteachers at different schools in our little town in Bedfordshire, where we'd both been teaching since we'd left college. I'd been there nearly five years and Debbie, some two years younger than me a little less. We'd met at college when I'd plucked up the courage to approach her in her first year to ask if she wanted to share my blotting paper, as it seemed that we were the only two in the class who still used a real fountain pen. She'd looked terrified at first, not knowing how to respond, having no idea that I was going through the same emotions.
Quite how we got there will always remain a mystery, but for the rest of that year we went steady, even though it took me till our sixth date till I actually got round to kissing her. Debbie really was a pretty little thing, only five two, with long brown hair that she almost always kept done up in a bun. She was slim and nicely put together in a homely sense, breasts not at all large, but very firm and pert, not that I was to confirm that till much, much later. As you will have guessed perhaps, I graduated, got my job in Bedfordshire, and when Debbie followed a couple of years later, then marriage soon followed within months.
So there we were, me and my sensibly dressed wife sat in our Porsche, and didn't we feel grand! I set off on our first trip, surprised at the power available compared to my previous cars and absolutely loving it. And I continued to love it for the next four months, rather inconveniently just out of the three-month guarantee that it had come with.
The first time I heard the noise I ignored it, imagining that it would just go away. The second time I simply couldn't pretend that it didn't exist, and by the time we got home that evening from school, we both knew that something was amiss.
A trip back to the garage where we'd bought it didn't help much, as all they did was direct us towards a specialist over in Luton.
"Gear box trouble mate," the oily mechanic informed us with a sad look on his face. "All sprockets and grommets these things. I wouldn't want to take this too far with a problem like that."
You can imagine we were both desolate, all our savings having gone into buying the damn thing.
"I've got a spare one in the back," he cheered us up with. "If you leave it with me then I could have it done by Wednesday."
Well, at least that cheered us up, and Debbie gave me a cuddle and a little smile of encouragement.
"How much?" I asked feeling more confident.
"Three grand for the box plus labour," he floored us with.
"Three thousand?" I screeched in disbelief, my innards running cold at the prospect of such an impossible sum.
"Yes mate," he confirmed. "Three thousand plus another grand or so for the labour and gaskets and things. Plus VAT of course.
Oh shit!
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Our house was a pretty sad place that night, with Debbie trying not to blame me, though every time she looked at me her eyes showed the evidence of tears trying to break through, and it nigh on killed me with shame for what my indulgence was about to cost us.
"We can't afford it you know George," Debbie spoke out at last.
"I know honey," I agreed broken up. "I'll ask the guy what he will give us for it."
"I'm sure it'll be Ok George," Debbie assured me, though the look on her face told me that she knew full well that it would be anything but so.
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"Not interested mate," the mechanic informed me the following morning. "Once the gear box has gone on a car like this, then it'll be something else. I don't need trouble like that."
"But what can I do?" I pleaded with him.
"Stick some thick oil in the box to quieten it down, and then get shot of it mate," he suggested rather disinterestedly.
"But I couldn't just sell it to someone else knowing there was a major problem," I protested. "That wouldn't be honest."
"Stick it in the car auction then mate," he went on. "Then you won't even have to see the poor mug who buys it."
"Thanks for nothing," I thought as I carefully drove the damn thing home that evening, praying that the noise wouldn't suddenly get worse, and having no idea what to do.
That evening the two of us talked it over for hours, hating having to take advantage of some poor soul, but not knowing what else we could do. Duly, the following Saturday found us buying the extra thick oil, and most of my Sunday morning was taken up swapping the oil, no easy feat at the best of times. The Porsche was delivered to the local car auctions in Bedford the following week and we sat back to wait. A call on the Friday confirmed the good news that the car had indeed sold, but the bad news was that the top bid had been far below what we had paid for it. We'd expected the auction price to be less than we'd paid of course, but it was still a hard knock to accept.
"Well that's your dream over for a few years honey," Debbie consoled me, as we looked at the replacement second-hand bog standard Volkswagon parked where the Porsche had so proudly sat, our savings blown on our unfortunate escapade. "But at least you lived it for a few weeks."
"Thanks sweetheart," I sniffed back and took her in my arms and pulled her tight. "The important thing is that we've still got each other."
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Life went back to normal for about three weeks, our sensible car doing all that was asked of it, getting the pair of us to and from school each day. Of course questions we were asked about the sudden disappearance of the Porsche, which had caused such a stir when it first arrived in my school car park, but we brushed them off with claims that we'd simply changed our minds when we realised how much the running costs were going to be. Not quite the truth, but close enough, and to be honest a bit of a face-saver.
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"Mr Adams," the voice on the other end of the line demanded when I picked up the phone one evening shortly afterwards. "Mr George Adams?"
"Speaking," I confirmed.
"The Mr George Adams who used to own the Porsche 911, that was sold at the Auctions the other week?"
My legs went weak and my stomach knotted, knowing that the bloody Porsche had come back to haunt us.
"You still there Mr Jones," the now threatening voice demanded. "It was you who sold it I presume."
"Yes," I mumbled back uncertainly. "What can I do for you?"
