AN INDEPENDENT REMEMBERS


“MY GRAND PLANS WERE BACK ON TRACK”


Our independent hardware retailer takes a step back in time, with part 13 of his stories from the shop floor M


y grand plan to expand the hardware shop by opening up the wood-cutting area – where the boss


also parked his rotting car – had been foiled when I set it on fire. I didn’t feel any better than the fire extinguisher rep who’d pulled a similar stunt only a few weeks earlier. It wasn’t my fault, but my indignation cut about as much ice as a rubber drill bit against hardened steel.


Drowning in metaphors The writing was on the wall, the chips were down – and I’m not talking cafe menus here: the boss would accept no more talk about expansion until his car had been fixed. And until that came to pass, I had to collect him from home each day, return him at tea time and take his wife shopping at least once a week. This was driving me up the proverbial, only without hand- holds, so I set myself a target: I had to get that car back on the road and bloody sharpish. My job was on the line; my prospects in a market riddled with mass closures and redundancies would easily fit on the head of a one-inch panel pin, and no way was I willing to throw myself on the mercy of the bank, holding my limp welding torch whilst begging them to take me on again. Oh no, the car’s interior wasn’t the only thing still smouldering: my resolve almost needed a toxic- safety chamber all to itself. I was determined to fix the wreck, just so long as it could be done before I myself sank without trace.


The final frontier


Space – or rather the lack of it – was a huge problem. There was barely enough room for the important stuff such as the boss, me, the stock and the customers. Expanding the sales area wouldn’t only be a matter of creating extra sales: it would be a matter of life and death as there was barely enough room to breathe. “Have you got a piece of wood this big?” asked many customers whilst indicating some random


8 DIY WEEK 26 MAY 2017


“It did get the car going again... I felt like an arsonist who’s been given the all-clear for reinstatement at a petrol refinery”


dimensions with their hands. We’d ask what type of wood they wanted and what were the exact sizes. “It’s to back a picture,” they’d say. We would ask what size, and they’d reply, “You know, standard size.” Sometimes they would look at me with incredulity, as if I was supposed to be able to sense what size of whatever it was they actually wanted. I wonder if today’s hardware shops suffer these same demands. Let me know. There was another reason why I wanted to expand, and it was to do with the daily ritual of opening up, which was far from straightforward. Every morning began with the boss pulling up outside – when he had a working motor vehicle, that is – going in through the shop door, up the stairs and into the workshop, lifting a trapdoor, positioning a ladder and climbing down into the cutting shop. Each and every door on the way had to be unlocked. And every morning there would be a queue of rebellious customers interrupting the procedure. The large double


doors would be un-barred and unlocked, swung open, then he would drive in forwards or, if it was a day to make deliveries, backwards


to aid loading-up.


Sometimes we were so busy the car stayed at the top until there was some cutting to be done.


One day I asked if I could be the one to roll it down to the doors, where it was meant to be parked. But I’d not driven a car with servo- assisted brakes, and was ignorant of the fact that when the engine’s not running the brakes don’t work too well. The concrete floor had a pot hole, into which one of the wheels had stuck, so the car refused to budge. I got out and pushed it free, then jumped in and jabbed the brake pedal. Nothing happened and the front end smashed against the doors, pushing out the Victorian tongue and groove boards into the street. I stopped myself from scarpering


and sneaked outside to check the damage. It looked bad, but the boss simply went out with a hammer and knocked all the boards back in


place. It was like magic; talk about invisible mending. It must have been a Thursday, pension day at the Post Office, because for years afterwards I would hear old men telling the story, applying a fair amount of exaggeration, as time rolled by.


Making connections A scrap yard provided me with a fuse box for the boss’ car, together with some other bits, and the rest, such as the accelerator pedal, I got from a main dealer. The connections to the wiring loom were made using a mass of electrical joint blocks (that we sold), and when stripping from the scrapper I had the foresight to take enough wire lengths to allow for the blocks. It didn’t look at all neat under there, but no one would see, and it did get the car going again. I took it to my girlfriend’s father, where I paint-sprayed it myself and it did look like new when I’d polished it. Joy of joys! I felt like an arsonist who’s been given the all-clear for reinstatement at a petrol refinery. Finally, my plans were back on track.


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