Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver. Timothy Lea
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another word, the bird proceeds to insert one of her feet in the mesh and reveal as much of herself as she can while straddling the swaying fence. She is wearing stockings with a black rose on the suspender straps and frilly red panties, I can tell you that without sending for my magnifying glass.
‘Careful,’ says Sid. ‘You don’t want to do yourself an injury.’
‘It’s you who wants to be careful,’ says Suzanne. ‘You’ve got more to lose than we have.’ With these saucy words the bird in the short fur coat with the bald patches proceeds to follow her sister over the fence.
‘Hold on, I’ll give you a hand.’
‘Oooh!!’
‘Sorry,’ says Sid. ‘I didn’t mean to do that.’
‘That’s all right,’ says Suzanne. ‘Your hand was a bit cold, that’s all.’
‘Sid!’ I whisper. ‘You’re not taking these girls seriously, are you? They look as if they’re on the game.’
‘You mind your language!’ Sid is bristling like a turkey’s cock. ‘Just because they reckon me, there’s no need to let your naked envy show through.’
It is no good trying to reason with Sid when he is in one of his moods and I say nothing but follow him over the fence. It’s a good job there aren’t any bules about because they might entertain suspicions.
‘Here we are,’ says Babs. ‘This was the best model they ever made, you know. After 1955 they started introducing plastic components.’ She leans against one of the mudguards which falls to the ground in a shower of dust.’
‘Every part replaceable. It’s so much easier if you do have a little accident. With some of these modern ones you have to buy half a lorry if something goes wrong.’
‘Just in case we do have a prang,’ I say, ‘Where’s the nearest blacksmith’s?’
Babs looks at me coldly. ‘Daddykins said you were sarcastic.’
‘Don’t mind him,’ says Sid. ‘I make the decisions round here.’
‘I should think you could make anything round here,’ says Suzanne running her fingers up the sleeve of Sid’s Gannex.
‘Do you want to get the feeling of the controls?’ says Babs. ‘It’s lovely and snug inside. Do you remember when Daddy used to give us a ride, Suzanne?’
‘That’s where they score over the modern ones,’ says Suzanne. ‘They don’t sacrifice the comfort. After all, you’re going to spend a lot of time in the cab, aren’t you? You might as well be cosy.’
Sid is obviously going to be like warm putty in these birds’ hands and it is with something approaching eagerness that he wrenches open one of the doors. Fortunately, I step to one side just in time and the hunk of crumbling metal crashes harmlessly at my feet.
‘Do you want to see the controls?’ Suzanne is addressing me as if she does not care very much one way or the other.
‘It has some, does it?’ I say. ‘I thought maybe you pressed up and down on a couple of pedals.’
‘Oh my, we are funny, aren’t we? Proper little comedian.’
Sid has scrambled into the cab in a cloud of rust and Babs is following, showing everything she has got and a bit more she must have borrowed from someone else. It occurs to me that they may not be re-emerging in a hurry and that I might be wise to take advantage of what shelter is available. It is very parky on the bomb site.
‘Come on, then,’ I say. ‘Let’s have a look at it.’ I open the door – very carefully – and pull myself up into the second of the two relics of the golden years of the British motor industry. ‘You’re very high off the ground, aren’t you?’ I say, as the bird climbs in beside me.
‘What do you mean!? I’m just over five foot.’
‘Not you,’ I say patiently. ‘I was referring to the height of the cab from the ground.’
‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Nice arrangement of dials and all that.’
‘Do you know what they all do?’ I ask.
‘I know where the heater switch is.’ She leans forward and turns a knob. The windscreen wipers start scratching backwards and forwards with a high-pitched squeaking noise.
‘Interesting,’ I say, ‘I suppose the friction heats up the windscreen and it slowly spreads through the whole lorry?’
‘You are unkind,’ she says. ‘I’m not Graham Hill.’
‘No, he’s got a moustache, hasn’t he?’ I say. ‘Look, I’m not expecting mechanical wizardry but you’re supposed to be selling me this crate. I don’t reckon you even know how to start it.’
For a moment, I think the bird is going to clock me. Then, she pulls open the glove compartment and shoves a key in my mitt. ‘You start it.’
‘Where do I put this?’ I say, indicating the key.
‘I know where I’d like you to put it,’ says the bird.
‘I wouldn’t want to run the risk of hurting you,’ I say. ‘Let’s try this hole here. It looks a bit smaller.’
Before she can really get into her stride, mouth-wise, I insert the key in the ignition and turn it in a clockwise direction. To my surprise, there is a noise like my bronchitic Uncle Norman clearing his throat into a megaphone and the engine slowly roars into life.
‘There you are, clever dick!’ says Suzanne drawing her legs up underneath her. ‘I bet that shook you.’
‘I bet it shook you and all,’ I say. I twiddle one of the other knobs and there is a smell of burning dust and old mouse droppings, combined with a current of warm air around turn-up level.
‘There, you see! Everything works.’
I don’t say anything but I have to confess that the old bus has a kind of bashed up charm about it. The seats are so shiny that they might have perspex over them and all the numerals on the dials are picked out in old-fashioned lettering. I can quite see myself chugging round the countryside in this. It is practically a collector’s piece.
‘Well, what do you think?’
The bird has turned to face me and is brushing a wisp of hair out of her eyes. Curled up on the seat she looks quite attractive. Small but well constructed. The fur coat has flopped open and I can see the soft swelling of one of her knockers slotted into the top of her dress.
‘Not bad,’ I say.
‘It’s warm, isn’t it?’
She is right, it is warm. I look beyond her to the driving cab of the lorry Sid is in. The window is steamed up and I can just make out the imprint of two upside down boots. Sid always was a fast worker.
‘Do you think you’re going to like it, Down Under?’ I ask her.
The bird gives me a playful nudge. ‘You don’t mind what you say, do you?’
‘That’s what they call it, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘I dunno,’ says Suzanne. ‘They call it so many things, don’t they?’
‘I suppose they do,’ I say. To tell the truth I can’t think of anything else other than ‘Down Under’ or ‘Aussie’. There is some word like ‘antipathies’ but I don’t reckon she could be referring to that. She doesn’t immediately strike you as a likely candidate for ‘Mastermind’. ‘How about your sister, is she looking forward to it?’.
Suzanne glances towards the next door lorry. ‘Not any more,’ she says. I follow her eyes and wonder if we are talking about the same thing. The window is