Chapter Text
In those early years of the Problem, priorities had to be reevaluated. The sudden need for public protection from Visitors outweighed any desire for advancements in the realm of screens and machinery. And so it was silently decided that modern technology would fall by the wayside as the bigwigs scrambled and corporations were formed to supply the demands of the United Kingdom’s newest necessities: iron, silver, salt, lavender, light.
Although forward technological movement was firmly halted, no one saw the need for regression. What were a few ghosts to stand between people and their enjoyment of music and video? No industry was completely abandoned. Things like televisions and cassettes continued to be produced for years and years in the way they had been when the Problem struck.
It was much the same with cars.
This was why, in the early aughts, a certain Donald and Celia Lockwood were able to purchase a deep green Morris 1100 four-door saloon that wasn’t already ancient. The model had been omnipresent in 1960s Britain and might have been replaced with something newer and shinier in the years following had progress in the automotive industry not stalled.
It was this very same car that sat in front of 35 Portland Row now, receiving a bath at the hands of three teenagers. Anthony Lockwood stood at the head. The car had come into his possession some years ago, left to him by his family. To his left was one George Karim, who was, as far as Lockwood was concerned, the best researcher in an any-mile radius, wielding a bucket of sudsy water. And to his right, standing half-inside the car in an attempt to reach the centre of the roof with her sponge, was Lucy Carlyle. She was the best… well, Lockwood could finish his sentence there, if he was being honest with himself.
George had gotten his driving licence not too long ago, the ceremonious event that had spurred this rather unceremonious team car wash. He and Lucy each had a sponge, while Lockwood had proclaimed himself The Dryer and armed himself with an old hand towel. (He had initially grabbed one of George’s nice kitchen towels, but a strong glare and mild desire to survive the afternoon sent him looking elsewhere.)
It was impossible to say how much of the 1100 was actually getting clean. Having sat in street parking for years with no one to drive it, most of the grime the car had accumulated had been washed off by rain, but it had been unanimously decided that soap was deserved for the occasion. The methods by which that soap was applied, however, were not particularly efficient. Washing a car was mostly about the experience, anyway.
And what an experience it was. The summer afternoon was warm. Lockwood, being Lockwood, had refused to wear a shirt that wasn’t a white button-down, but he had compromised with the heat by rolling his sleeves up to the elbow. Lucy privately thought this had a very dashing effect. She herself was wearing a tank top that allowed Lockwood to find the shape of her arms quite distracting, while George, doing his best to avoid getting any water on himself, sported a sensible tee and, thank god, trousers.
“Workin’ at the car wash, yeah!” the two of them sang in unison. Currently, they weren’t working so much as dancing, with Lucy having climbed all the way out of the car to twirl around it and George doing an odd little number resembling a disco finger dance. In his opinion, you weren’t truly dancing unless you felt like you were making a fool of yourself. Lockwood clearly didn’t share this opinion as he sashayed smoothly over to Lucy and took her hands to twirl with her, his hand towel laying forgotten on the ground. George joined a moment later. “Come on and sing it with me!” he and Lucy continued, and Lockwood obliged. “CAR WASH, woooh! Car wash, yeah!”
As the sun got lower and lower in the sky, the trio headed back inside with their bucket and sponges. The car was left, dubiously, washed.
