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“Last time I saw you in here, you were searching all over for a few nuts and bolts, losing your patience.”
Gardener laughed. “That’s par for the course. It’s part of the restoration process. You lose things, and you’re allowed to swear a bit while you find them.”
“Do you want me to chuck these all over the floor again?”
“Yeah, right. We don’t get enough family time like this together, Chris. The way things are at the moment, I have to grab it while I can.”
“It’s okay,” said Chris, taking a slurp of soda. “I wouldn’t want your job. I don’t care how good the money is.”
“It’s not as good as you think.”
“Why do you do it, then?”
That was a good question, thought Gardener. Working all the hours God sends, chasing perverts and criminals and murderers with no thanks and no patience and no help from the public, wasn’t ideal from anyone’s point of view. “It’s all I know. And it’s personal.”
“What do you mean?”
Gardener pointed to his chest. “It’s in here. I suppose it’s a bit like being a priest. You might wonder why he does his job, and he’d probably tell you it’s not a job but a calling. That’s how I feel. It’s more than a job, and it has been ever since I first started.”
Chris seemed deep in thought about the answer before asking, “Do you think you’ll ever catch all the criminals?”
His son was full of good questions tonight.
“I doubt it. And in a way, I hope not.”
“Why?”
“Because then I’ll be out of a job.”
They both laughed.
“At least then you can do something you really want, like fixing bikes.”
Gardener finished his chocolate bar and sipped his herbal tea. “I doubt I’ll ever be good enough for that. Your grandfather might be.”
“Is he good?”
Gardener nodded. “He’s the real brains behind this restoration. I’ve spent a long time tinkering with bikes because I love it, but I’m not in his league.”
“I thought he was a gardener,” said Chris.
“He was, but that’s what he did for a living. His passion on the weekend was his motorbikes. I know he used to love his job, but there was a time when he totally refused to work weekends. He spent it with his family and his bikes.”
“Did he have many?”
“Not really, no. I can only remember him having about six in life, and never usually more than one at a time. He almost gave up after he nearly got arrested.”
“Granddad did?”
“Yes. God, that was funny.”
“What happened?”
“He had a Triumph Speed Twin. It was his pride and joy. It was the business. I think it was a bloke called Edward Turner who was responsible for it. It had everything a bike could want.
“I can’t remember what year your granddad was, but he looked after it better than he looked after me, I think. Always polishing it; stripped and rebuilt it every year. It looked like it had just come out of the showroom every time you saw it. Anyway, this one time, he’d finished his annual strip and rebuild, polished it like a new pin, and took it out for a test drive. Police stopped him near Rothwell. They’d had a report that one had been stolen from a showroom in Leeds. The description matched your granddad’s.”
Gardener chuckled as he remembered. “He had no identification on him whatsoever. The police impounded the bike and took him in. Me and your gran had to go down there with all the documents and sort the whole mess out. It took us an hour to get him out of there, and when we all got home, bike included, there was a letter waiting for us to say he’d forgotten to pay the television licence and if he didn’t, he was going to get a visit from the police.”
