Rachael Bishop was an enigma even before I met her. A nurse with Médecins Sans Frontières operating in grim parts of the world, Rachel became orphaned when her parents died in a house fire a year earlier. From that sad description, most men would want to help a woman like her. When Steve showed me a picture of an attractive brunette in her late twenties, my resistance melted.
"That's Rachel Whatshername the actress." I squinted at the picture of a shapely woman in a black two-piece suit taken at a funeral.
"Most people think so at a glance. This is the actress. See the difference?" Steve flicked between the pictures on his phone and I agreed they were close enough to be mistaken. "Same name, different people. So, you'll do it then, Tom? You'll look after her keepsakes until she can collect them. Unless you don't want to meet her and she can just give you an address to send her stuff to?" He shook his phone, knowing I would not pass up the chance.
"Let's back up a minute Steve. You're prepared to sell me this barn find Rover P5B Coupe on behalf of Rachel's cousin, your wife, on condition I take half a dozen boxes of Rachel's stuff with me, for her to collect at a later date." He nodded. "Why can't she collect it from you?"
"There's bad blood between Rachael and Jo-Jo. It goes back to when they were kids. Jo-Jo won't tell me the details. She doesn't know I salvaged Rachel's stuff when I saved the car before the garage collapsed after the fire. Jo-Jo already accuses me of fancying Rachael." I gave Steve a look. "Okay, maybe I do. But I want a happy wife and an easy life. The car and all this stuff, needs gone today, as they say in the small ads."
I drove back to Upper Cockton with my latest restoration commission on the trailer. On my back seat were half a dozen cardboard boxes containing all that remained of the family life of Rachel Bishop, real life angel and Hollywood lookalike. You'd be as curious as I was to know what was in those boxes, but I packed them away in my parcel storeroom and forgot all about them. Soon I was into restoring the classic 1960s saloon beloved by police and crooks alike; for Justin, a modern-day crook who managed a hedge fund.
It was two months later when Rachel called.
"Hello, is that Tom? Steve gave me your number. I'm Rachel Bishop. You are kindly looking after some boxes for me. I was hoping to contact you before now, but I've been in Sudan. It's awful for innocent people caught up in the conflict."
What was I going to do? Chew the woman out because saving lives was more of a priority than clearing my shelves. I said I understood, having been on several humanitarian missions when I was in the Royal Engineers. I told Rachael to enjoy her R and R in Paris and I'd see her in a few days.
A taxi deposited her and a small wheeled suitcase on the end of my path early next week. Rachael Bishop was stunning in person. Dressed in denim jeans, a white tee shirt and short leather jacket, she had a healthy tan on her face, hands, and feet. She pushed sun glasses onto her caramel-coloured hair and smiled. Rachel gave me a moment to compose myself. I reddened, realising she was giving me the once over as well.
"Hello Tom. I came over on the Eurostar. It took ages."
I smiled. "Well, it's a long train ride from Hollywood, Rachel."
"Please Tom, stop it." She blushed, even though she must have heard it many times before. "I brought you a thank you." She presented a bottle of brandy she had been hiding behind her back.
"Thank you, Rachael. Aren't I the lucky boy today? Come in and get settled. I'll make some tea and you can go through your boxes."
"You are very kind Tom. Most is from years ago. It will probably go to the charity shops."
"Don't be in a hurry. They can stay here until you are ready."
She took my hand. It was an instinct thing until we became self-conscious of the contact. "That tea will not make itself. Take a seat at the big table." I left her with her boxes and the teapot and retreated to the garage to give her some privacy.
Rachel found me a couple of hours later. She'd been crying, but gave me a happy smile. "Wow. The Rover is looking like new. My uncle Pete loved that car. Pete bought it from his old boss and ran it for a couple of years, but something broke and he never got round to fixing it. It sat in the garage for years."
"I've had the engine out and replaced all the consumables. It's had a new water pump and I've fixed the steering rack. It's a common problem with P5s. Let's take it around the block to check my repairs?"
I had no road tax or MOT, so we just did a couple of circuits the oval road that described Upper Cockton. I kept an eye out for Audrey and Barbara as an attractive young woman in my passenger seat, dabbing her tears was bound to demand an explanation at some point. Luck was with me and we pulled up on the drive again without incident.
"The engine sounds good Tom. Like a growling lion."
"It's a Buick V8, 3.5 lump. I've tuned the carbs. It might be too loud for Upper Cockton. The client wants it to sound like a well-dressed thug."
Rachel laughed. "Thank you for giving me space, Tom. Most men see a woman crying and jump in with questions. They want it to stop."
"Grieving is a difficult thing. Many men don't know how to react. It's instinct to try to save a damsel in distress. Well, the beautiful ones anyway. Blokes can let ugly women cry all day."
"Tom! That's a terrible thing to say." I gave her a whimsical look. "It's still terrible even if it's true."
In the living room, she'd sorted her memories into piles. "Keepers, charity donations, recycling and not sure if it's valuable, but I don't want it." The keepers were mainly photographs.
I picked up the one on top of the pile. It showed Rachel as a preteen with two other kids and her mum and dad. "Nice family. You look like your mum. Your sisters look like your dad."
She looked at me, and her tears started again. "We were happy once then..." Her mouth moved, but the words would not come.
