The house in the western outskirts of Invercargill is for sale. The sign outside says so. Barry and Shirley Keen are looking for something a little less demanding than the property next door to Barry Leitch and his motor restoration business.

There appears to be no life on this mournful day with cold temperatures and steady rain. The garage door is open and inside I see a powder blue Triumph Herald — unmolested. Unmarked. Original. That’s a clue I have come to the right place. Barry Keen, a man described by George Begg as “safe, reliable – but bloody fast; a natural” always liked Standard-Triumph cars.

The back garden is immaculate, an old school saying comes to mind — “a place for everything, and everything in its place.”

Through the open door of an outbuilding I hear quiet conversation and walk in. There’s a Toyota truck and two men — one is Barry Keen. Short and stocky, blonde hair thinning and turned grey, he looks, grins and says “You’re a hard man to pin down,” and walks towards me with a rolling gait and hand outstretched.


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