Chapter 13: They Still Say, I Love You

Our sales trip began with a disaster. Because of the AGM, we arrived in time to attend the final day of the vintage car show. All the business had been done on the first two days and the principals had gone home, leaving the has-beens and the not-quite’s in charge; two nights in the kellers drinking deceptively strong beer didn’t help. The exhibitions were manned by tired, listless creatures who were far more interested in offloading their own literature than looking at our brochure. We had another show to attend in Turin, so I called Madelaine from the hotel to have her change our arrangements for that event.

What saved the day was the machines. There were cars on display that first took to the highways in every decade of the twentieth century and several even older than that. Jim is the petrol-head in our group; I prefer machines that are bolted to the floor and Bob likes devices powered by pedals. What we did see that day was a cornucopia of possibilities; when these cars need a repair, the owner can’t simply run to a parts shop. There might not be much enthusiasm amongst the exhibitors but the number and variety of cars in the exhibition hall argued that there were people willing and able to spend money.

That evening over dinner, Bob and I discussed whether, and how much of, that money could be diverted to Robinson Engineering. The next day we were guests of the manager of a specialist workshop. Richard Douglas had arranged it through a fellow billionaire who used the facilities to maintain his fleet of ancient vehicles. The manager clearly did not want to offend a good customer by telling us to get lost, but his dismissive attitude showed through in the way he tossed aside our brochure without even glancing inside.

Things got better when we got on the shopfloor, where our expertise was quickly recognised by the men actually wielding the tools. The breakthrough came when Bob commented on a track rod that did not match its neighbour. The man fitting it shrugged, asking what we could expect when they only had an antique lathe to turn new parts. Bob told them his cat could do a better job, and before we knew it a challenge had been made and accepted. Bob took off his jacket, borrowed a mask and, in twenty minutes, turned a perfect replica of the original part. Workmen are alike whatever language they speak so there was a good deal of banter.

There was also a good deal of respect. The manager was chosen, I have no doubt, for his ability to charm the rich customers, but he was shrewd enough to realise that he had just seen something special. He ordered twenty units from Robinson’s as a trial order at the price I quoted. I thought Bob was going to choke when I asked for and got a price that would give us an enormous profit. “I needed a premium since I want the job done by your best men in the shortest possible time,” I explained to hm later. “You’d have got that anyway, you daft bugger. I thought you were going to ruin everything!” Madelaine had the paperwork completed by that evening, while Bob spoke to Doug, who would be in charge of the work.

A week later, the completed order was at our factory gate awaiting collection. I don’t know how many of the parts found their way onto vehicles, but I do know that they were passed around within the vintage community. By the time Bob and I reached Italy two days after that first order was placed, word had gone ahead. From then on, our brochures were eagerly studied. We picked up other small orders, but it took two further direct interventions to turn the trickle into a steady stream. It was a good start, but Robinson’s needed a flood to prosper and we were still some way from that.

It was push-bikes that gave us our next sales boost. Since his retirement from head of production, Bob had been making and repairing bicycles for competitive cyclists. He commented on a few frames hanging on the wall of a garage of vintage cars we were visiting. It turns out that Italians are enthusiasts of pedal power, so Bob spent the day talking bikes while I tried to flog our product. I was patronisingly patting myself on the back for allowing the old man a day off, until I discovered that he had found the mother lode. It was his knowledge and love of bikes that won us our biggest order so far.

From then on, Bob spent his time sharing the secrets of improving speed or endurance. I was a more or less useless appendage, at least until the day we were invited to watch vintage cars climb an outlier of the Alps. On a practice run, one of the cars hit a rock, wiping out the off-side front suspension. After watching the mechanics for a couple of minutes, I realised they didn’t have a clue, so I stepped in and took over. We didn’t finish the repair in time for the competition, but the owner was delighted that his pride and joy could take part in the closing parade.

“I’m Count Rudolph...” he beamed. He did give me the rest of his name but between the unfamiliar words and the background of revving engines, I never did catch it. Later, he sent his Rolls to collect us from our hotel to whisk us off to his palace for supper. He admitted to a passion for vintage cars, mentioning in passing, that the Pope had told him that it was bad enough to be a venal sin. The Count proved to do more than talk; he told all his minions to put Robinson’s on their list of preferred suppliers. Later, in Venice, he rescued us from a potentially disastrous difficulty.

Three days after the hill climb, we arrived at the motor show in Turin. After our experience in Munich, I had asked Madelaine to hire a small stand and a person to man it. As I was coming to expect, she had gone far beyond my vague brief. Our stand was small, but it was well positioned close to the coffee stall; it was womaned by a gorgeous Italian girl. I’m embarrassed to say that it was late on the first day before I could force my eyes high enough to notice her dazzling smile.

Madelaine had also sent a box of Robinson products that we laid out on our small table beside the brochures. Bob set out the pieces and stayed with Gina while I wandered around the show. I came back just before twelve to find Bob alone. Gina had gone to powder her nose before her lunch break. “We be back at two, Frederico,” she announced on her return, taking Bob’s arm and dragging him off. I was kept busy during the two hours they were gone, but not too busy to wonder what was going on. Bob was a pace ahead of her when they returned. “I’ll go to the hotel and get English brochures,” he blurted out, looking sheepish. “We’re almost out of the Italian version.”

When he returned an hour later, he flung the bundle at me and disappeared into the crowd. I didn’t see him again until we shared a taxi back to the hotel. “That Gina propositioned me at lunch, Fred. We’d been teasing a bit during the morning, you know how it is. Then we went out to a bistro, and she said she was only paid until the show closed but she was open to negotiation if I wanted some fun for the rest of the time.” He was not happy when I asked if she had given him an idea of her rates. “It’s not about money, Fred. She just seemed such a wholesome lass that it shocked me to find she was on the game.”

I didn’t like to tell him that a man of about his age had turned up just as we closed to offer Gina a single red rose. She smiled prettily and went off with him arm in arm. It was quieter the next day, and I spent most of it with Gina on the stall. She still managed to move our stock of brochures and we were almost out of English copies; tomorrow we’ll only have the German edition left. In the lulls, I decided to subtly probe Gina on her extra-curricular activities. She laughed at me. “You want to know what a nice girl like me is doing in a job like this.” So much for my attempt at subtlety.

“I like getting dressed up in pretty clothes, and they’re tax deductible. Even my lingerie is tax free although I don’t tell the tax man that I never wear any at work.” I admit I was a bit shocked, although I was trying to be cool. “You’re not that cynical, Gina. I understand that you may not want to tell me the truth but spare me the fiction.” Her smile faded for an instant but beamed out again to engulf an approaching customer. Later in the afternoon when we were alone again, she told me her story – or an edited version, at least.

She was born in a poor area in the south of Italy, the second of four children. She and her older brother are the dummies of the family, but her younger brother and sister are clever and deserve the chance to complete their education. Gina and Roberto are doing whatever is necessary to provide for the youngsters. “When Maria is a doctor and Paulo a lawyer, I will find a man like you, Fredrico and be a faithful wife, giving him lots of healthy babies.” Until then she will use her pretty face and gorgeous body to benefit her siblings. “Your husband, when you find him, will be a very lucky man.”

We ran out of brochures an hour before the show closed, so I sent her away an hour early with a bonus. The older man who had brought her the rose on the first evening was taking her to his villa on Lake Como. “He wants me to impress his friends. I make him feel that he is still a man even although he has lost his mojo. I let him play with anything he wants but I am a virgin hooker,” she laughed. I just hope Maria and Paulo appreciate the sacrifice she is making.

On the drive to Venice, Bob was a bit scathing about Gina and her morals until I snapped at him. She was making the most of the hand life had dealt her and it was hard to criticise her choice. She certainly retained a core of wholesomeness that was untouched by her actions. There was some tension between Bob and me when we arrived at the airport to await the arrival of Agnes’ flight. He went to study the arrivals board and I decided to cheer myself up by phoning Madelaine and gloating about the success of our sales trip.

She may have been having a bad day although I suspect that she responded to the arrogance in my voice. Whatever the reason, she clearly and succinctly laid the truth before me. Our best efforts had won orders that would keep the workshop occupied for less than three months. The total profit would still leave us out of pocket: our junket, as she expressed it, had cost the company a lot of money. As if that wasn’t depressing enough, Agnes was in a foul mood when she arrived.

Her first target was her husband, but she had plenty of ammunition left for me after he had wilted. We were almost at our hotel when I realised what the trouble was. “You’ve got a hangover, Agnes! What did you and Ellen get up to last night? A couple of lively ladies on the town. Is there anything you have to confess to Bob?” She had the grace to laugh, turning to her husband and kissing his cheek. “I’ll tell you all about my toy-boy if you tell me about your wee lassies,” she offered, with a fond smile.

She wasn’t much better the next morning. We were drinking coffee in St Mark’s Square, and she was giving her impressions of Venice, at length and at embarrassing volume. We were there to meet Count Rudolph who had offered to take us on a tour of the canals in his motor launch. He arrived and immediately poured oil on her troubled soul. “You must forgive me, Bob, but I am in love with your wife. I had a Scottish nanny when I was a child and I adored her. You dear lady,” stopping to kiss Agnes’ hand, “remind me so much of her – much younger, of course.” The oil was so thick you could have spread it with a knife. It worked; Agnes simpered. Forgotten were the complaints about buildings that needed the services of a decent builder and the drains that made the place smell like a morgue.

When we got to the launch, the Count was devastated that she had never been in a gondola. He whistled, and moments later he and Agnes were close together under a blanket amidships while the gondolier punted them down the canal, singing selections from Verdi operas. Bob and I, in the company of assorted minions, trailed behind in the motor launch. After visiting every canal in the city, the happy couple joined us on a fast journey across the lagoon to the Count’s palace for lunch.

By the time he escorted her to the VIP lounge at Marco Polo airport, Agnes was completely charmed by the Count. He was desolated (again) that her visit had been so short. Once the wheels were up and Venice was safely behind us, Agnes confided that he had been a wee bit over the top. She gave Bob a warm hug, kissing his cheek and telling him that she still thought Venice smelled like a sewer. The Count had arranged for his cousin to pick up the baton, so there was a driver waiting in the arrivals hall in Vienna seeking Agnes Mathieson. He did agree to take Bob and me as well, but it was clear who the guest of honour was.

The cousin works for the Office of Oil Exporting Countries, based in Vienna, which does not export oil. He had arranged for us to visit the opera that evening followed by supper. When we came downstairs, there was a note telling Agnes that the cousin was desolated – a condition that seems common amongst the Italian aristocracy. He was indisposed but his fiacre and driver were at our disposal during our stay. Agnes loved the whole experience. The gondolier was her first introduction to grand opera, but she took to it like a duck to water, and Vienna reinforced her new experience.

On the return, she sat beside the driver on the box seat of the horse-drawn carriage, singing snatches of arias from the Magic Flute. I left the next morning to drive to Frankfurt where there was another garage specialising in vintage cars. Agnes loved Vienna and, from all accounts, the city was quite taken with Agnes. She and Bob went everywhere in the fiacre, and she always sat on the box with the driver. By the end of the holiday, she was exchanging waves and simple greetings in Austrian with passers-by. “After forty years of marriage, I thought there were no more surprises, but Vienna proved me wrong,” Bob confided after we got home.

The story of her arrival in Venice with a hangover was finally told. She had bought a bottle of malt whisky to bring with her, believing Bob would be missing his favourite tipple. She and Ellen decided to have an early night since Agnes would have a busy day. Unfortunately, neither of them was sleepy and the minibar prices were extortionate, so they decide to sample Bob’s scotch. They sat sipping and chatting until there was nothing left but the fumes. “It’s very smooth going down, Agnes confessed. “We hardly noticed anything until we tried to stand up. We were laughing so much that I nearly wet myself before I could stagger to the loo.”

I left before they woke, taking a taxi to the railway station where there was a car hire agency. I had been with Bob every day for three weeks, sharing a hotel room, so we had no respite from each other. He is one of my best friends, but I am accustomed to sending time alone, so I was looking forward to a leisurely drive, alone with my thoughts. My hopes were dashed by a suave young man who spoke English better than I did. There would be, he much regretted to inform me, an extra charge for returning the car a couple of countries away.

‘Covid’ and an eloquent shrug was the only explanation he offered. Bob and I had been flying between counties and had become accustomed to the precautions in force at airports. Basically, we had to supply a list of places we had visited in the past ten days, and we were tested for the dread disease. There were no border checks between Austria and Holland so I could travel with a raging fever, but my car would be quarantined or fumigated before it was put back into service. I was angry, and the young man was becoming rather less suave with every passing minute.