Lesley Cowling
When I spotted the neat little Honda Ballade, all sparkling in mint white, parked alongside Jan Smuts Avenue at the plush premises of Car Gallery, I didn’t think of all those snide jokes about used-car salesmen.
The car was exactly like the much- loved Honda stolen from me two months before, so I did a U-turn and prepared to do business.
Everything went well. The car was a dream to drive and in beautiful condition. I had my insurance payout waiting and bank willing to give me an overdraft facility. Mindful of increased interest rates, I decided not to take the hire-purchase option, figuring I could pay the car off more quickly from a regular loan.
The salesman was prepared to wait a day or two while I organised a cheque – bank-guaranteed, he stipulated – and he would get the car roadworthied and fitted with security devices. I delivered the cheque and got the call: the car was ready.
Clutching the keys with a sense of anticipation, I walked with the salesman to where he said the car was parked.
And then the familiar sinking sensation as the empty space told its story: this Honda had dematerialised, just like the last one.
“So what do we do here?” I asked after a fruitless search. “Well, you hadn’t taken delivery and the car is not registered in your name, so I guess it’s our problem,” he said.
I gave him back the keys and he put all the documents together for Trevor Solomon, the owner, to sort out in the morning.
Next day, however, the story had changed. I was told variously that: the insurance broker was unhappy and said I had paid cash, therefore the car was mine; that Car Gallery would “see me right” with an Opel Kadett; that anyway they were entitled to hold on to the money for two weeks in case the car was found; that I should have insured the car myself from the time I paid for it.
Frantic calls to my bank to stop the cheque proved futile. Calls to two insurance brokers elicited the same response: “Get a lawyer.” The lawyer fired off a fax to Car Gallery demanding the return of my money.
So there I was: no car, no money, a nice little overdraft, and legal fees mounting as my lawyers sent letters and made phone calls to Car Gallery.
Finally I got the call from Car Gallery: I could pick up my cheque. But why had they made me wait in the first place, I asked Solomon. He said it was not that he was unwilling to pay me back, but that he had been advised by his insurance broker that the car was mine from the moment I had agreed to buy it and therefore I should bear the loss.
However, the possibility of a lawsuit had persuaded the insurance company to pay out. I was lucky – some dealers don’t insure their cars and I could have had a longer fight on my hands.
While the situation was being resolved, I had time to reflect on my stupidity: how could I have handed over a large sum of money without taking immediate possession?
Why did I not insure the car when I handed over the money? Why did I assume the law was on my side when in fact it was against me? And, most of all, why do I have such a fixation on little white Hondas?