The next day Mandy trudged resolutely across the grass towards the motorhome sales area. She’d worn sensible brown shoes and brown trousers reckoning that Ruarc probably wouldn’t approve but hoping they were functional for getting in and out of motor homes throughout the day in her new sales job.
Not that Mandy had much of an idea about how to sell motorhomes but it was a plan and any sort of plan at the moment seemed a good one.
The motorhomes were in a circle in the middle of a tarmac area which looked as if it was the remnants of an old World War II airfield.
Ruarc’s motorhome office rusted wearily a few steps away from the circle of motorhomes for sale. Mandy had heard locals in the village say:
“I dunno how he keeps that place going.”
Mandy, keen to sell the beautiful but expensive, dresses and accessories in which her boutique specialised in the small country village had listened to them as if they imparted pearls of wisdom.
Unfortunately, the local women came, talked but preferred to off to the department stores in the nearby town. Mandy’s overdraft with her bank continued to grow and, one fateful day, the letter from the bank came to say that her overdraft arrangement was at an end.
With her home guaranteeing the loan, and with houses not selling because of the 2008 Credit Crunch, Mandy had known but had been unable to forestall how it would all end.
Ruarc’s business, on the other hand, scruffily stumbled ever onwards.
Customers came in small numbers each day and most of them didn’t look as if they could afford even the second-hand motorhomes that Ruarc sold.
Nevertheless, motorhomes left in a steady stream from Ruarc’s secondhand motorhome sales. Their new owners proudly staring through the large windscreens hoping they were wouldn’t hit anything before they got home. Replacement used motor homes arrived with equal regularity to supplement those occasionally left by the customers in part exchange.
Mandy joined Ruarc who was standing at the saloon end of his office motorhome next to his desk.
By way of ‘hello’, Ruarc pointed to a grey / blue motorhome that appeared newly arrived and was standing outside some old cattle sheds on the other side of the field besides the farmhouse that Mandy guessed was his home.
“My son does them up,” Ruarc said, proudly, pointing towards the newly arrived motorhome.
“You’ve gotta allow 1,000 quid off the second-hand price of their motorhome for the work we have to do to get them ready for sale.”
“You usually have to do a lot of work, then,” queried Mandy.
“No way! We do the minimum. Ralph sprays the engine to get rid of any oil leaks and your job is to mop and scrub the inside of the motorhome with a strong detergent that gives them a nice clean smell so it’s seems as good as new – then it’s ready.”
“What happens if they break down after they’ve been sold. Do you give a guarantee?” Mandy said, hopefully.
Ruarc’s face puckered into a snarl.
“What do you think this place is, a charity?”
He aggressively poked his finger at Mandy breast bone. She backed away but Ruarc followed her until her thighs were pressed against a low filing cabinet. The filing cabinet slipped across the lino floor almost as fast as Mandy was trying to escape from Ruarc, obviously it was empty of documents. Probably Ruarc, didn’t believe in documents. His business wasn’t a charity.
“What do I say if they come back with a problem with the vehicle, though?” Mandy quavered.
“Tell them anything. Tell them I’ll talk to them later in the week. They won’t usually come back. It’s one of the advantages of being in the middle of nowhere. It costs them money every time the come here and they have to make quick decisions once they are here otherwise they’ve got to come again, which costs them more money. So they don’t come back unless they absolutely have to. Tell them anything you like but don’t write it down.”
Ruarc sleeked his shiny black hair towards the back of his head, suddenly looking shifty.
“Of course, that doesn’t apply to our special customers. I’ll tell you which those are and you’ve got to give them proper job treatment. They’re the ones that matter!”
“What you mean ’special customers’? Mandy didn’t at all like the the sound of these special customers.
“Never you mind, you’ll get used to it. That’s if you want the job?”
“You know I need the job!”
“Then stop worrying and get on with it, look there are some customers over there – your first sale!”
Ruarc, pointed at some youngster who were climbing into a small motorhome with a big luton. He threaded his way to the other end of his office and slumped heavily into his executive chair and placed his feet on the desk. Clearly, everything Mandy did as she showed the customers the motor homes would be observed. Obviously, he liked knowing what his employees were getting up to. Mandy had no doubt that if he didn’t like anything at all, he would make his anger very clear.
Gingerly, Mandy climbed down the rusty motorhome office steps and went to greet her first customers. Gladys was just arriving, half an hour late and, judging by the curses Ruarc hurled at her as she settled down into her typists chair to file her nails, Ruarc wasn’t pleased.
As she walked towards the young student couple, Mandy tried to remember she mustn’t reach up for anything or the customers would see the damp patches under her armpits. Her motorhome was currently without water and Ruarc’s belligerent attitude had produced a nervous reaction that easily overcome the anti-perspirant she’d hastily applied that morning.
Hunger gnawed at her stomach. She’d had two apples since yesterday. One for dinner in the dark – no electricity either – and one for breakfast.
Mandy forced herself to smile a welcome to her first customers.
“Good morning! How can I help you?”
