THIRTY-FIVE
I swore again and to ease my frustration further I kicked the bumper of the accursed car. Both actions did not really help my sense of despair – and I hurt my foot in the process. Foolishly, in desperation, I looked under the bonnet once more. It was pointless. I certainly couldn’t work the conjuring trick that the bowler-hatted gentleman had performed so niftily and effectively. Clean the carburettor or whatever he’d done. Perhaps I should have watched him carefully and then I could try to mimic his actions. I should have taken Barry Forshaw’s advice and taken the little sporty number. I bet that little thing wouldn’t have let me down, like this old crate. For a few seconds my mind whirled around such stupid thoughts while my heart thumped desperately within my breast. A litt
