Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver. Timothy Lea
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complete and utter agreement with anyone.’
‘Ta, that’s very nice of you,’ says Sid. ‘Would you care for a drop of something? I’m certain my friend here would be happy to—’
To my relief, the bloke holds up a hand. ‘Thank you, but no. I hardly touch the stuff.’ That is certainly true when you have Sid sitting next to you. The bloke smiles and shakes his head admiringly. ‘Working for yourself, it’s the only way. I ought to know.’
‘You’ve got your own business, have you?’ asks Sid.
The bloke’s face clouds over. ‘Not for much longer, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s not easy these days, is it?’ says Sid, putting on his head mourner face.
‘It’s not that,’ says the bloke. ‘The business is going like a bomb. It’s the wife.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ says Sid. ‘She’s-er, um-er, has she?’
‘Nothing like that,’ says the bloke. ‘She wants us all to go to Australia. Our eldest girl married an Australian. She kept writing all these letters and it got Mavis going. Now we’re off. I’ve got to sell up.’
‘Your wife’s adamant, is she?’ says Sid.
‘No, C of E, but it doesn’t matter out there as long as you’re not black. She hasn’t half made up her mind, though. Every morning she’s in the back garden with her boomerang. She can throw it right round the house and make it come back again. You wouldn’t credit it unless you’d clocked it coming in through the front gate. The vicar copped it right behind the earhole.’
‘Fascinating,’ says Sid. ‘Tell me, what is the business?’
‘Road haulage,’ says the bloke. ‘We’ve got a couple of lorries and we freelance round the country. Marvellous way of seeing a bit of scenery and getting paid for it. It’s like a caravan holiday sometimes.’
I should be warned when I see mist rising from Sid’s mince pies.
‘It’s just you, is it?’ he says.
‘Me and my boy. We’re our own bosses; work when we like. I don’t mind telling you, I’m going to miss it. Nice little business it was. Some lucky bloke’s going to get a bargain.’
‘About time we moved on, isn’t it Sid?’ I say.
‘Belt up!’ Sid doesn’t even look at me. ‘You haven’t sold up yet?’
‘No, they only confirmed the travel arrangements yesterday. I haven’t had much time to think about it. I suppose I’ll have to put an advertisement in the paper.’
‘Probably the best idea,’ I say, starting to stand up. ‘I hope you—’
‘Sit down!’ Sid yanks me down beside him and leans forward eagerly. ‘Well, Mr—’
‘Rogers,’ says the bloke. ‘William Rogers.’
‘Well, Mr Rogers.’ Sid takes a deep breath. ‘I’m very interested in what you’ve just said. I think we might be able to come to some arrangement.’
‘You know somebody who might be interested?’ says Mr Rogers.
‘I’m very interested,’ says Sid with the finality of a corpse pulling the coffin lid down on itself. ‘Are you sure you won’t have a drink?’
‘Oh well, maybe just this once. I’ll have a scotch, ta.’
‘A large one?’ says Sid.
‘Well – ta.’
Needless to say, it is Timothy Sucker who is despatched to buy the ‘I’m so frisky’ while Sid and Rogers practically hold hands under the table. There is something about the Rogers bloke that I don’t trust. For a start off, anyone who has listened closely to Sid for a few minutes and is still prepared to do business with him must be round the twist. There is also the way he handles the scotch. He throws it down his throat like he is trying to knock a spot off the bottom of his Cousin Kelly. It does not square up with the image of a bloke who hardly touches the stuff.
‘Ta,’ he says, slapping his glass down on the table. ‘Well, that’s all settled then. My girls will show you the merchandise.’
‘Settled?’ I say.
‘Yes,’ says Sid. ‘You know me. I don’t mess about. I’ve agreed a very reasonable price with Mr Rogers and his daughters are going to take us round the garage.’
‘I wish I could do it myself,’ says Mr R. ‘But the wife’s mother is coming round and I want to be at the bedside in case she says anything. You know what they’re like. They read unpleasantness into anything. I didn’t know she was in the garage when I was trying to back the car in.’
‘I thought your daughter was in Australia?’ I say.
‘The eldest one,’ says Mr Rogers. ‘You don’t miss a trick, do you, sonny?’ He gives me a look that is so old-fashioned that it is practically wearing woad.
‘Don’t take any notice of him,’ says Sid, kicking me in the ankle. ‘He’s seen too many Perry Mason programmes. Now, let us know where we can link up with your girls and we’ll start the ball rolling. I must say, I’m very excited about this.’
Another large scotch later, Mr Rogers has made a telephone call to alert his daughters and is informing us of the address to go to. ‘It would be a big help if you could pay in cash,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to get clobbered for a lot of tax just before I leave the country.’
‘You’ll have to give us a bit of a reduction,’ says Sid.
Mr Rogers whistles through his teeth. ‘You strike a vicious bargain, don’t you? I can see you’re no mug.’
Sid looks pleased with himself but I have my doubts as to whether Mr Rogers’s assessment is either genuine or correct.
Half an hour later, my doubts are even greater. Sid and I are rattling the fencing that surrounds a bomb site in British North Battersea. It also surrounds what looks like a scrap metal dump but is apparently the home of ‘Squaredeal Used Cars’.
‘This can’t be the place,’ I say. ‘Let’s go home, Sid.’
‘Belt up,’ says Sid. ‘The bloke said they shared the premises, didn’t he? I wonder if that’s them, over there?’
‘You mean, those two clapped out old wrecks?’ I say, staring at a couple of ancient lorries rusting away in one of the railway arches.
‘That’s not a nice way to talk about two charming young ladies.’
I spin round and see that Sid was referring to a couple of birds who are hurrying towards us. They look as if they are no strangers to the make-up counter of Boots and are clearly not of a shy and retiring disposition.
‘Hello, boys,’ says the one in the scarlet plastic mac. ‘I’m Babs and this is Suzanne. Sorry we’re late. Did Fred – I mean, Dad, give you the key?’
‘No,’ says Sid. ‘I’m Sid and this is my assistant, Timmy. Why are you looking at me like that?’
The bird called Suzanne is indeed staring into Sid’s mug like it is a ‘What the Butler Saw’ machine. ‘It must be the light,’ she says. ‘It’s uncanny.’
‘You saw The Exorcist too, did you?’ I say. ‘A lot of people have commented.’
‘Paul Newman,’ she breathes. ‘What do you think, Babs?’
‘I think he’s more like Steve McQueen, myself,’ says the other bird. ‘Either way, it’s very distracting. How can you be expected to do business with a bloke whose irresistible magnetism reduces you to a shapeless jelly?’
‘Not shapeless,’ says