Matilda

'You couldn't,' the father said. 'You're too stupid. But I don't mind telling young Mike here about it seeing he'll be joining me in the business one day.' Ignoring Matilda, he turned to his son and said, 'I'm always glad to buy a car when some fool has been crashing the gears so badly they're all worn out and rattle like mad. I get it cheap. Then all I do is mix a lot of sawdust with the oil in the gear-box and it runs as sweet as a nut.'

'How long will it run like that before it starts rattling again?' Matilda asked him.

'Long enough for the buyer to get a good distance away,' the father said, grinning. 'About a hundred miles.'

'But that's dishonest, Daddy,' Matilda said. 'It's cheating.'

'No one ever got rich being honest,' the father said. 'Customers are there to be diddled.'

Mr Wormwood was a small ratty-looking man whose front teeth stuck out underneath a thin ratty moustache. He liked to wear jackets with large brightly coloured checks and he sported ties that were usually yellow or pale green. 'Now take mileage for instance,' he went on. 'Anyone who's buying a second-hand car, the first thing he wants to know is how many miles it's done. Right?'

'Right,' the son said.

'So I buy an old dump that's got about a hundred and fifty thousand miles on the clock. I get it cheap. But no one's going to buy it with a mileage like that, are they? And these days you can't just take the speedometer out and fiddle the numbers back like you used to ten years ago. They've fixed it so it's impossible to tamper with it unless you're a ruddy watchmaker or something. So what do I do? I use my brains, laddie, that's what I do.'

'How?' young Michael asked, fascinated. He seemed to have inherited his father's love of crookery.

'I sit down and say to myself, how can I convert a mileage reading of one hundred and fifty thousand into only ten thousand without taking the speedometer to pieces? Well, if I were to run the car backwards for long enough then obviously that would do it. The numbers would click backwards, wouldn't they? But who's going to drive a flaming car in reverse for thousands and thousands of miles? You couldn't do it!'

'Of course you couldn't,' young Michael said.

'So I scratch my head,' the father said. 'I use my brains. When you've been given a fine brain like I have, you've got to use it. And all of a sudden, the answer hits me. I tell you, I felt exactly like that other brilliant fellow must have felt when he discovered penicillin. "Eureka!" I cried. "I've got it!"'

'What did you do, Dad?' the son asked him.

'The speedometer,' Mr Wormwood said, 'is run off a cable that is coupled up to one of the front wheels. So first I disconnect the cable where it joins the front wheel. Next, I get one of those high-speed electric drills and I couple that up to the end of the cable in such a way that when the drill turns, it turns the cable backwards. You got me so far? You following me?'

'Yes, Daddy,' young Michael said.

'These drills run at a tremendous speed,' the father said, 'so when I switch on the drill the mileage numbers on the speedo spin backwards at a fantastic rate. I can knock fifty thousand miles off the clock in a few minutes with my high-speed electric drill. And by the time I've finished, the car's only done ten thousand and it's ready for sale. "She's almost new," I say to the customer. "She's hardly done ten thou. Belonged to an old lady who only used it once a week for shopping."'

'Can you really turn the mileage back with an electric drill?' young Michael asked.

'I'm telling you trade secrets,' the father said. 'So don't you go talking about this to anyone else. You don't want me put in jug, do you?'

'I won't tell a soul,' the boy said. 'Do you do this to many cars, Dad?'

'Every single car that comes through my hands gets the treatment,' the father said. 'They all have their mileage cut to under ten thou before they're offered for sale. And to think I invented that all by myself,' he added proudly. 'It's made me a mint.'

Matilda, who had been listening closely, said, 'But Daddy, that's even more dishonest than the sawdust. It's disgusting. You're cheating people who trust you.'

'If you don't like it then don't eat the food in this house,' the father said. 'It's bought with the profits.'

'It's dirty money,' Matilda said. 'I hate it.'

Two red spots appeared on the father's cheeks. 'Who the heck do you think you are,' he shouted, 'the Archbishop of Canterbury or something, preaching to me about honesty? You're just an ignorant little squirt who hasn't the foggiest idea what you're talking about!'

'Quite right, Harry,' the mother said. And to Matilda she said, 'You've got a nerve talking to your father like that. Now keep your nasty mouth shut so we can all watch this programme in peace.'

They were in the living-room eating their suppers on their knees in front of the telly. The suppers were TV dinners in floppy aluminium containers with separate compartments for the stewed meat, the boiled potatoes and the peas. Mrs Wormwood sat munching her meal with her eyes glued to the American soap-opera on the screen. She was a large woman whose hair was dyed platinum blonde except where you could see the mousy-brown bits growing out from the roots. She wore heavy make-up and she had one of those unfortunate bulging figures where the flesh appears to be strapped in all around the body to prevent it from falling out.

'Mummy,' Matilda said, 'would you mind if I ate my supper in the dining-room so I could read my book?'

The father glanced up sharply. 'I would mind!' he snapped. 'Supper is a family gathering and no one leaves the table till it's over!'

'But we're not at the table,' Matilda said. 'We never are. We're always eating off our knees and watching the telly.'

'What's wrong with watching the telly, may I ask?' the father said. His voice had suddenly become soft and dangerous.