The Backseat

By Claire Rye

If you consider that history is merely a collection of stories then you could imagine the tales a 50 year old car could tell.
This book follows the journey of a 1959 Chevrolet from status symbol to scrap metal.
An existence that started with the unremarkable creation in a Michigan factory and continued from family car to antique clunker to finding salvation in the form an accidental rebirth on the other side of the world.
Through this collection of short stories we gain insight into the lives of its owners and the secrets of the passengers who found themselves in the backseat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Claire Rye
• Release date: Jan 25, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370887064

Claire Rye

Claire Rye’s self-assessment as an "old-school head banging, vegetarian, nature loving, history fan and sci-fi geek" captures the eclectic nature of her interests and influences.Understandably, her self-published novels are diverse in genres. Ranging from fantasy, science fiction, mystery to erotica.Claire’s non-conformist writing style means each book is unpredictable. However, regardless of the category of story, the quirky yet relatable characters and surprising revelations make for a rewarding journey.Claire Rye started to explore the world of writing in 2015 when her flair for the written word was discovered accidentally. She kept an informal blog while travelling through the United States and Europe. Claire found that her love of the unconventional helped her to look beyond the superficial. She discovered the ability to see ‘the story behind the story’ of the people and places she encountered.An overwhelmingly positive and excited response to her travel blog triggered a curiosity that lead to an expansion of her story telling.Claire Rye was born in Sydney Australia and currently lives on the Gold Coast. She continues to travel and develop her writing skills. You can find out more about Claire Rye and her works at www.clairerye.net

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The Backseat

Copyright 2017 Claire Rye

Published by Claire Rye at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Copyright © 2017 by Claire Rye

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

www.clairerye.net

Publisher’s Note: All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

The Backseat/ Claire Rye. – 1st edition.

ISBN 978-1981102228

Contents

The End

The Beginning

Virgil T Weatherford

The First Time

The Drifter

True Love

The Bride

A Father’s Son

Siblings

On The Road

Fate

A Homecoming

The End

Mrs Florence Richardson pulled back the lace curtains that covered her kitchen window and looked out onto the quiet suburban street. It was not yet cold enough to snow, but the wind chill factor was below freezing and seemed to be keeping the good folks of Flint Michigan indoors.

On any other morning she would expect to see Mr Bateman, from three doors down, walking his scruffy little dog Patches or Mrs Clarkson tending to her rose bushes, the pride and joy of her front yard. She looked over to Mr Smith’s patio. The milk and paper were gone. He must have opened the door and grabbed the supplies before disappearing inside again. No time for a wave to the neighbours, to stand in the sun or admire his manicured lawn.

Winter had come early and the sudden cold morning had meant Mrs Richardson’s suburban pantomime was closed. She ran the hot water into her sink, instantly steaming up the glass of her little window. She swirled her hands around in dishwater; she found it relaxing to play in the water.

Mrs Richardson was happy despite the cold. Her house was warm and impeccably clean, and she took pride in every corner of her family home.

The photos on the walls where a chronological history of her adult life at the one address. Her marriage to Arthur in 1915, the birth of their first, second and third child. A whole wall dedicated to the achievements of those children and every Christmas day until the last of them had left home fifteen years ago. The collection of photo frames on the mantle of the fireplace then took over her life’s story. Picture after picture of adult children, grandchildren and extended family, some of which Mrs Richardson had not seen in so many years and she could barely remember being related to.

The dutiful housewife plated up breakfast. Pancakes, fried eggs and bacon with a generous smothering of maple syrup. She set the meal on the kitchen table next to the morning paper and prepared the toast.

Arthur Richardson appeared from the bathroom, dressed in a grey blue long sleeve collared shirt and matching grey blue pressed trousers. He skidded across the linoleum floor and mentally cursed his wife for not allowing him to wear his work boots inside.

Florence Richardson looked at her husband of forty-four years and smiled as he nervously tugged at his shirt. He had worn the same work clothes for the last forty-one years of service at the General Motors factory, but this morning he was acting like he had never seen them before. She could tell he was nervous, but it was best to not to talk about it. After a lifetime together, she knew her husband would expect her to act like this was just as any other day and not bring any attention to the fact that tomorrow would be his first day of retirement.

She wondered what he would do with his time now. The subject of retirement was a sore point and she dared not ask her husband outright. He was nothing more than his job, and she feared that retirement would highlight that. She had already made plans to visit the grandchildren and she did have an ambitious gardening project that would need his assistance, but after that there was a void. She was secretly terrified of having to entertain him for his remaining years.

Mrs Richardson handed her husband his lunch and waited for a kiss on the cheek. Mr Richardson delivered the kiss goodbye and walked out the door for his last day at work.

The walk to work was a long and bitterly cold one. Arthur had walked this path almost every day since he started working at the factory when it opened in 1913. Back then he was a sixteen-year-old boy employed to sweep up line tracks. At first he had no choice but to walk, his legs being his only form of transport; walking was just the way it was. Within five years he had bought his first car, and soon after that he met Florence. He never drove to work as his walk to work took him straight past her parents’ house, and she would wave from her bedroom window. Sometimes she would meet him at the letterbox for a quick chat, and after a few months of courting she would wait for him with cookies for him to eat after his lunch.

They married within a year and by pure coincidence bought a home close to the plant. The proximity meant Arthur could continue to walk to work, so he did.

The children were born soon after and in quick succession. Arthur walked to work to allow Florence the use of the car to run errands for the house and their three children. What started as a necessity had become a pleasure and even when Arthur had other options he continued to walk to work simply because he enjoyed it.

Arthur’s feet trod the familiar path without thought of where they were going. This morning he tried to take in his surroundings, reminisce of the many trips he had made along this road. The streets were