Mr Wrong Read Online Free PDF Page A

morning she found her mother packing the back with some everlasting flowers ‘for your flat’, a huge, dark old tartan car-rug
‘in case you haven’t enough on your bed’, and a pottery jar full of home-made marmalade ‘to share with your friends at breakfast’.
    ‘There’s plenty of room for the things on the floor, as you’re so small, really, that you have your driving seat pushed right forward.’
    When she said good-bye and set off, it was with the expectation of the journey to London being uneventful, and it was.
    The trouble, she discovered, after trying in her spare time for a week, was that she
could not
sell the car. She had started with the original dealer who had sold it to
her, but he had said, with a bland lack of regret, that he was extremely sorry, but this was not the time of year to sell second-hand cars and that the best he could offer was to take it back for a
hundred pounds less than she had paid for it. As this would completely rule out having any other car excepting a smashed-up or clapped-out Mini that would land her with all kinds of garage bills
(and, like most car-owners, Meg was not mechanically minded), she had to give up that idea from the start.
    She advertised in her local newspaper shop (cheap, and it would be easy for people to try out the car) but this only got her one reply: a middle-aged lady with a middle-aged poodle who came
round one evening. At first it seemed hopeful; the lady said it was a nice colour and looked in good condition, but when she got into the driver’s seat with Meg beside her to drive it round
the block, her dog absolutely refused to get into the back as he was told to do. His owner tried coaxing, and he whimpered and scrabbled out of the still-open door; she tried a very unconvincing
authority: ‘Cherry! Do as you are told at once,’ and his whimpering turned to a series of squealing yelps. ‘He
loves
going in cars. I don’t know what’s come
over him!’
    Out in the street again, all three of them, he growled and tried to snap at Meg. ‘I’m sorry dear, but I can’t possibly buy a car that Cherry won’t go in. He’s all
I’ve got. Naughty Cherry. He’s usually such a mild, sweet dog. Don’t you dare bite at Mummy’s friends.’
    And that was that. She asked Mr Whitehorn and her flat-mates, and finally, their friends, but nobody seemed to want to buy her car, or even wanted to help her get rid of it. By Friday, Meg was
in a panic at the prospect of driving north again in it. She had promised herself that she wasn’t going to, and as long as the promise had seemed to hold (surely she could find
someone
who would want it) she had been able not to think about the alternative. By Friday morning she was so terrified that she did actually send a telegram to her mother, saying that she had ’flu
and couldn’t drive home.
    After she had sent it, she felt guilty and relieved in about equal proportions. The only way she could justify such behaviour was to make sure of selling the car that weekend. Samantha told her
to put in an ad in the
Standard
for the next day. ‘You’re bound to make the last edition anyway,’ she said. So Meg rang them, having spent an arduous half-hour trying to
phrase the advertisement. ‘Pale blue MG –’ was how it finally began.
    Then she had to go to work. Mr Whitehorn was in one of his states. It was not rude to think this, since he frequently referred to them. There was a huge order to be sent to New York that would
require, he thought, at least a week’s packing. He had got hold of tea chests, only to be told that he had to have proper packing cases. There was plenty of newspaper and straw in the
basement. He was afraid that that was where Meg would have to spend her day.
    The basement was whitewashed and usually contained only inferior pieces, or things that needed repair. While working, Meg was allowed to have an oil stove, but it was considered too dangerous to
leave it on by itself. Her first