The Moggie

He watched the Soft rain roll in off the hills and into Mossbank. Arthur Harris pulled down his beanie. Keep the rain out of his ears. He was listening to the lump under the bonnet. 

Aye, and she were purring. Like only a Moggy does. The A-Series engine he’d rebuilt from scratch was ticking over. Sweet. Yeah, spot on. Reet proper. He reached in and turned it off. Thought about backing the van back into the workshop. But she’d be grand. Spot of rain never bothered her. 

The letter on his workshop bench? Ah. Shite, that. He didn’t know what he were going to do about that. Fucking council tax bill. Unpaid, they said. And now he owed a grand. Must have overlooked the bugger. He couldn’t remember. He’d been working on the timing chain for the other Moggy saloon in the workshop. A Series Five. Nice example. But he’d sell it. 

The other letter in the tray in his little office? Off the landlady. Rent was going up. Again. He couldn’t afford the rent he was paying. Fuck it. Back to sleeping in the workshop. He’d give the house up. 

The Series Five would fetch about three grand, he reckoned. No bother. Sort the SU carb, bit of work on the sills. It’d be good to go. 

—Oi! 

He turned around. Ah, there he was. Eric Hindle, his mate from the pub. The Old Crown on the High Street. 

—Alright, Eric? 

—Aye, happen I’m sound, mate. How yer gettin’ on with the old banger?

—Eric, mate, when will yer learn? These are proper cars. Not like those heavy, gas-guzzling boxes you drive. 

—Have yer sold that ‘un yet? 

—Nah, still workin’ on a couple of bits. She’ll be ready in a day or so. 

—Ah. 

—Why? 

—Happen there’s a problem. And it in’t a good one. Have yer ‘eard about the council? 

—Well, I know they sent me a fuckin’ huge bill I can’t afford. 

—They’re talkin’ about stoppin’ the traders fairs. 

—Wha’? 

—Yeah, I know. It’ll kill both of us. 

—Why would they do that? 

—They want to use the square for an official market—

—Ah, mindin’ their pals from Manchester and Preston then? 

—Yeah, reckon so. I got new stock in. And would likely shift most of it over the next couple of weeks. Dunno what will happen after that, like. 

—I sold a couple of Moggies there. 

—I know. That’s why I told yer. 

—Right, ta mate. Happen I’ll have a word. See what I can find out. 

Eric waved and set off back towards the town. His camera bag over his shoulder. Likely with a few of his old cameras in he was trying to sell. 

—Well, lass, I dunno about that. We need them trader days. 

The van didn’t answer. But she did. Sort of. He made a decision. He knew a young lass at the council. Connie Clayton. Bright, lovely young ‘un. And she loved the Moggies. 

He walked into the workshop and picked up his old Nokia. Found her number and called. 

—Connie Clayton, Mossbank Council Press Office. How can I help? 

—Connie lass? It’s Arthur. Arthur Harris. Yer know, the moggie man. 

—Aw reet, Arthur? How yer doin’? 

—Grand, but I’m ‘earing things. Wondered if yer could help. 

—I’ll try. 

—The trader days in the Square. Are they getting stopped? 

—Ah. 

—Wha’? 

—Can yer meet me? In the caff on the High Street? 

—Yeah, when? 

—I’ll go there now. 

—Right, see yer in a bit, like. 

They hung up. Arthur locked up the workshop, made sure the van was locked and walked. He weren’t far away. Easy stroll would get him there in ten minutes. 

He walked down Dales Road, dodging the puddles where he could. Turned right onto Park Road, passing the bit of grass and two trees they called the park. Then, he turned onto the High Street. Moment later, he entered the caff. 

She was there, sitting at the back. Two brews on the table. He sat opposite her. 

—Ey up, Connie. 

—Arthur. Listen, right? This is not public yet. But they are talkin’ about making the square an official market. You’ll need a licence. And yer won’t be able to sell classic cars on there. 

—Balls. 

—Aye, shite, I know, like. 

—Is it definite? 

—It’s being discussed in the council. So it ain’t official yet. But I reckon it will be. There’s at least two councillors who’ll get summat out of it. 

—Fuckers. 

—Well, I were thinkin’ about that moggy yer working on. 

—Oh aye? 

—Yeah, series five, right? 

—Yep. She’s a good ‘un. 

—Want me to see if I can find yer a buyer? Yer won’t ‘ave to worry about the trader days then. 

—That’d be right proper, but ‘ow yer gonna do that? 

—Well, in me spare time, right? I do a bit of wheelin’ and dealin’ online. I built up a few contacts. I can put the word out. 

—Sound, that, lass. 

—But Arthur? Say nothin’ about the market, right? 

—Me lips are sealed. 

—Another thing…

—Oh? 

—D’yer owe council tax? Sorry to ask.

—Er, yeah, why? 

—I ‘eard Councillor Barker on about them clampin’ down on debtors. Oh aye, and is so ‘appens his brother’s got a stall company. 

—Right, happen I’d better find some dosh then. 

—I’ll see what I can do about a buyer for yer. 

—Sound, thanks, Connie. 

She drained her mug and stood. 

—Reet, gotta get back. Mind yerself, Arthur. 

—And you lass, thanks fer the tea and info. 

She smiled, patted his shoulder and left. Arthur drained his own mug. Took it back to the counter and headed back into the rain. 

He’d go and get the series five finished. Yeah, made sense. There could be one more trader day. Or Connie might strike gold. Either way, the moggie needed to be ready. 

He set off back to the workshop. When he got back he’d phone Mrs Hargreaves. His landlady. Tell her he was giving up the house. Shame, but the workshop had what he needed. 

Aye, he could even sleep in the van if he wanted. 

---

Friday, the Series Five was ready. He’d even given her a good polish. The sills were repaired, the SU carburettor sorted, timing sorted. She were running sweet.

—I’m bloody knackered, he muttered. 

He could smell swarfega and patrol on him. He grinned. Normal form, there. Arthur sat at his workbench and drank his brew thinking numbers. 

Connie got him a buyer, bless her cotton socks. She was bringing ‘em to the workshop, she was. Young couple. Plenty of money. Their three grand would pay the rent he owed. And settle his council tax. Sorted. 

The workshop door rattled, and two shadows filled the opening. A young woman, dressed in a sharp blazer and smart trousers, stood next to a man in a new Barbour jacket, looking slightly out of place amongst the oil drums and engine parts.

—Arthur, this is Sarah and Tom, Connie announced, stepping in ahead of them. —They’re very keen.

Arthur wiped his hands on a rag, nodded, and pointed to the Series Five. It shone under the bare workshop light.

—Morning, folks. There she is. A proper little runner.

Sarah stepped closer, circling the car slowly, her expression thoughtful. Tom, meanwhile, looked slightly bewildered, staring at the Morris Minor’s distinctive shape.

—It’s, er, very… classic, Tom mumbled.

—It is, Sarah said, ignoring him. 

She crouched down, running a finger along the recently repaired sill. 

—The bodywork looks sound. No bubbling around the arches?

—Clean as a whistle, lass. I’ve gone over every inch, Arthur confirmed. 

—New shoes all round, brakes are sweet. Engine’s singing, just turn the key. I rebuilt that A-series myself. She’ll run forever.

—And the interior? Sarah asked.

—Unmarked. Original dash, good headlining. Proper good condition for a sixty-year-old car.

Sarah straightened up, her thoughtful expression softening into a smile. 

—She’s lovely, Arthur. Exactly what we were looking for. We want something a bit different for weekends. Tom, look at the colour!

Tom nodded vaguely, still looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.

—So, three thousand, right? Sarah asked.

—That’s the figure, aye, Arthur agreed, his heart lifting. Three grand. Sorted.

—We’ll take her, Sarah said immediately. —Can we sort the paperwork now?

Arthur grinned, reaching for the V5 registration document on his workbench. 

—Course, lass. That’s right proper.

He spent the next twenty minutes sorting the transfer, taking their cash, and talking them through the little quirks of driving a Series Five. Tom remained mostly silent, but Sarah was genuinely excited, already planning trips to the coast.

As they finally drove away, the little Moggy popping sweetly down Dales Road, Arthur stood in the doorway, the bundle of notes heavy in his pocket.

—Right then, lass, he whispered to his own van. —We’re reet proper sorted now.

He pulled out his phone. The first call was to Mrs. Hargreaves. Second, a quick detour to the council offices to sort out that bloody bill. He’d save the last of the cash—just in case. The rain had stopped, and a shaft of pale sunlight broke through the clouds, lighting up the workshop floor.