AN INDEPENDENT REMEMBERS


A spot of tinkering under the bonnet and a trip to A&E leaves more than his job hanging in the balance, as our independent hardware retailer takes a step back in time with part 18 of his stories from the shop floor


journey there hadn’t gone well, with the car lacking power and sounding like a tray of rattling glass bottles. This “pinking” may be a thing of the past, but back then, in the days before computer- controlled engine management, it pointed to the ignition timing being out of alignment and the loss of power could make setting off from traffic lights a bit hairy. First job was to send out my assistant to buy a strobe lamp – and no, we didn’t intend to set up a lunchtime disco while the boss was having his day off; the lamp would make setting the timing a doddle. It was a busy morning, with many sales of cut wood and creosote (which was legal back then), so it was pushing lunchtime before I finally opened the bonnet and blobbed on some white paint that, with the engine running and the lamp flashing, would show when the timing was perfectly aligned. Simple. All I needed was a few minutes, and we’d be going back home on full power.


Timing is everything


Adjustment was done by moving the distributor, only it looked rather close to the steel blades of


14 DIY WEEK 10 NOVEMBER 2017


CHOP?” O


“WOULD I GET THE


ne Saturday in October 1981 it was the turn of the motor engineer’s daughter and me to run the shop. The


the cooling fan, which was driven directly by the engine, so a bit on the dangerous side. I would need to exercise extreme care. Also, there was risk of an electric shock, which couldn’t be classed as a fun experience, so I wrapped my right hand in a cloth and started the engine. There was barely enough room and hardly any light, but I eased my fingers around the distributor and, keeping watch on the flashing strobe, began the adjustment. The highlighted marks were getting closer, so just one more shove... My arm jolted, there was a dull thud and the engine stalled. At first I thought it was because the cloth had become caught in the cooling fan, but as I tried to untangle it, an intense pain began throbbing – right where my second finger was. Okay, you don’t need to sit down


to read on. Or maybe you do, in which case I’ll apologise now if you’re feeling a little sick. Just rest your head between your knees for a moment or two… then come back.


Hitting the fan There, feeling better? Now, if I was a proper rat, writing purely for dramatic effect, I would have written “right where my second finger should be”, but I didn’t, because it was still there; it just didn’t look too good, neither did the car because, when the cloth caught the fan and dragged my


finger into harm’s way, it broke the water pump, so now we had no transport to get me to the nearest A&E.


Do you see the irony? I was


hard-up money-wise because I’d resigned from the bank, which had caused me to almost lose one of my counting fingers. The motor engineer’s daughter was not pleased, especially as right then the shop filled with customers, so I went into the office to assess the damage. A-ha! The first aid box! It contained four Paracetamol, three small sticking plasters, a pirate’s eye patch, and a handy guide to first aid in tiny print and nine different languages. Rushing in just as I was holding the finger under the running tap, she sat down and watched the washing-up water in the sink bowl turn red. Then she went spark-out, falling backwards off the chair and cutting her head. Just then the shop door bell sounded.


A pair of flakers


Dragging her upright, I tapped her cheeks with my good hand. She mumbled that she was okay (didn’t look it) and I went to serve, like you do when you’re a shopkeeper. The man wanted me to cut some wood in two for him. When he saw my hand wrapped in a blood-soaked towel, he said, “Looks like you need some medical attention. You need to lock that shop door and


get that hand sorted out bloody quick.” He had a point, so I agreed. “But I want my wood sawing first.” I kid you not!


My assistant-cum-first-aid officer


(freshly appointed) wrapped up the injured bit. We tried calling the boss but he was out. A taxi was too expensive, so she packed me off on a bus to her parents, who didn’t have a phone, but should be able to ferry me to the hospital. They were also out, but their sons answered the door. The elder one took one look at my bulging hand and swallowed. I said, “Is your dad in? I’ve nearly cut me bloody finger off” – and he fell backwards in a straight line, his shoulders bouncing as he hit the floor. His younger brother turned to me and sniggered, and we went to pick him up. From then on it seemed a good idea not to be too specific about the nature of my injury.


New appendage Eventually, their father returned and I reached the hospital, was stitched, got a new part (for the car, not me), went back and, despite my clean white dressing, he watched me repair the car myself, which wasn’t easy with a four-inch appendage sticking out in all the wrong places. Hmm, so maybe I wasn’t cut out for working on cars but, when the boss found out I’d been fixing mine during opening hours, would I get the chop?


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