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Would he say the car was particularly fast? ‘What, a 740? It goes like s*** off a stick.’ And what was the fuel consumption? ‘Between 20 and 30 to the gallon. Depending.’ Is that miles or kilometres? ‘Yards,’ he said, ‘if you’re using it as a getaway car.’ What about the elderly couple, I said. They looked after the car very well, presumably? ‘Quakers, pal,’ he said. ‘Only used the car on Sundays to go to church.’
I liked this man and his all-bridges-burnt manner. I asked him a few more questions about the car and then we got on to life in general, beginning with a discussion about reaching that point in life when you begin to wonder whether the drink is only making matters worse. We spoke for over an hour. His conversation had the moral breadth one usually only associates with classics dons or armed robbers. I formed a picture in my mind’s eye of a retired villain from the Richardson era: overweight, greasy hair plastered over his bald patch, vicious, thoroughly dishonest, selfish, unshockable and, in the right mood and with the optimum amount of alcohol flowing in his veins, wonderful company.
Two days later I stepped off the train at Lewisham and he was leaning against a ticket machine looking nothing like the kind of person I’d imagined he was. The discrepancy between my supposition and the reality shocked me. He was not even a son of the Richardson generation, but a grandson, and there was nothing remotely recidivist in his manner or excessive about his weight. He was smart casual in a black polo shirt and designer jeans and he had a sharp haircut. I must be losing my grip, I thought to myself, to have got this person so wrong, to have allowed my imagination to run with such ludicrous, hackneyed stereotypes.
I bought the car. It was by no means immaculate. (So far the only stares I’ve had have been pitying ones.) The car wasn’t the one in the photograph, either. I think the photograph had been what it had appeared to be: a picture copied from a glossy advert in a magazine. But I’ve had the car a week and found no major faults so far — touch wood.
We did the paperwork at his flat. Afterwards, we chatted over a roll-up and a coffee about how south London has changed in recent years. As he handed over the key, he looked me squarely in the eye (for the first time, I remember thinking), and he said, ‘I married into a well-known criminal family, you know. The old order is still around. You just don’t notice it so much.’ So although the car was initially a disappointment, I drove away feeling glad that my instinct for placing people, although not immaculate, was still functioning.
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