Greta Lyons, of all people, knew something was badly wrong. Her husband wasn’t exactly secretive about his work, when things were going well, he was positively gushing. When things were going badly, he simply stopped communicating at normal levels, saying just enough to be polite. Always polite, never angry, she’d only seen him lose his temper two or three times in their whole married life. And they were nearly all to do with cars breaking down at inopportune times. Was there ever a right time?
The body parts don’t fit together. Production is at a standstill. That was all he had said to her. She had no answers, she felt powerless to help. All she could do was be there and act as normal as she could.
And the fact that he was working crazy hours. There were long hours: 12 to 14 hours away from the house, that was normal. And there were crazy hours, sometimes sleeping at the factory, more often than not, when he did come home, she wouldn’t see him at all apart from in bed.
A Saturday night meal after the dogs had been walked and the children were in bed was their sacred time together. He normally opened up a bit more with a glass of wine or two. She knew Jack Beardsley and his family, that Jack was the metalworker at SS Cars. Can he not help? She offered this in response that first weekend when he’d told her about the problems.
