Chapter 6, A Bookshop Moves to Tadfield

Tadfield Manor had become one of Crowley's real estate investments. After overcoming her initial fright and dismay at Crowley's management presence – Crowley still routinely called her "Sister Mary" as a little reminder that they had a past and that she knew damned well what he was – she was thrilled when he had added a performance driving course to the list of executive training courses.

Acquiring the real estate had required the usual potpourri of straightforward but surreptitious land purchases under a variety of names, graft, mysterious adjustments to title documents, some thuggery, but only one arson. It was actually a bit outside the boundaries of Tadfield, but that didn't prevent Mr. Tyler from writing what was now practically a weekly column of complaint about it in the Tadfield Advertiser. When contacted by an editor distraught at the prospect of offense to a major financial supporter of the town, Crowley had reassured him that he considered it a form of advertising, and he would be obliged if the editor did not discourage Mr. Tyler.

To say that the driving course was becoming a huge success was an understatement. Crowley & Mary had to install a helicopter landing pad at the request of corporate clients used to that sort of thing on their jaunts to Davos. A surprising percentage of the younger residents of Tadfield and surrounding areas were now either industriously earning money to take a half day course or lining up at the gate in hopes of a part-time job. "I'm having to beat them off with a stick, Mr. Crowley, no mistake," his manager had told him when the phenomena was first noticed. "And they're keen workers." This manager, one Jimmy Evans, had been a racing pit manager back in the day, but drink and drugs had driven him to dereliction. He was still legendary in the field, however, and Crowley, after having asked around a bit to discover who the best automotive mechanic in England was, had searched him out.

Evans worshipped the tarmac Mr. Crowley walked on. And his friend, that kindly Mr. Fell who ran the old bookshop. It had taken awhile to get Evans functional once again, and it was thanks largely to Mr. Fell's efforts. Mr. Fell was somehow always there when Evans felt himself weakening, and helped Evans get through some very tough patches, especially at first. He suspected Mr. Crowley would have been less gentle, but then, the hard driving Mr. Crowley was just not that kind of person now, was he. Mr. Fell had introduced Evans to the local Salvation Army chapter, suggesting that as a reformed alcoholic and drug abuser, Evans would be an excellent board member and speaker. And so it had turned out. Meetings had become better attended, surprisingly, by younger members of the population when word got around that Evans was pit manager at Tadfield. Lemonade was now a thing of the past, but cocoa was definitely still an option, on the menu of the espresso and gelato bar that had been installed in the meeting hall, a generous donation from Mr. Crowley.

What Evans admired most about Crowley was his feel for his automobile. Mr. Crowley wore that old Bentley of his like a full body glove, and kept it in what Evans swore was as-new condition. He didn't know how Mr. Crowley did it, because Mr. Crowley never asked him to service it. No doubt enjoyed doing his own mechanicing, he did. Evans recognized true automotive love when he saw it.

And then a most surprising thing happened.

Crowley?

Young Master Adam. What's up?

Could you teach me to drive your Bentley?

A very long pause.

Crowley? Did I say something bad?

Oh no. It's just that . . . it's just that. (Crowley recovers himself.) You're only 12 years old. Too young. And your father would have a fit.

Well that's just it. I don't think Dad will ever allow me to drive his car, and I want to know how to drive.

Planning a nice career as a deliveries driver, are you?

We could do it at your performance driving course. I could come by Saturday mornings. No one would know.

You do realize how I feel about my car. I could no more sit in the passenger seat and show someone how to drive it than I could . . . ("see Gabriel and not attack him on sight," but he doesn't say that.) Evans would have to be your instructor. I couldn't stand to even watch from the sidelines.

Mr. Crowley, I wouldn't let anything happen to your car. I know how much you love it. But you never know, you might want me to move it for you some time. Or something.

None of the other cars at the driving course would do? We have some rather exciting ones . . .

No.

This was not a request Crowley thought he could refuse. Adam, was, well, the Anti-Christ, and if he wanted to learn to drive, that was a done deal. Would have to make sure that only the three of them were present on the course during the training sessions, wouldn't do for talk to get around. Get Mary to work out that little scheduling difficulty. Crowley wondered what Adam was really up to. The kid was definitely a bit prescient. Spooky. Crowley loved that.

So. Drive the Bentley, it is. Start this Saturday? Very early morning would be best. I'll tell Evans to set it up. And all three of us will keep schtum, right?

Yes. Thank you, Crowley.

One Saturday dawn some weeks later, as Crowley was brooding over a cappuccino in the tiny course cafe, Evans had called, audible awe in his voice.

Mr. Crowley, that Adam Young just did a drift in your Bentley. Didn't think that was possible, meself.