Alan Hunter - Gently where the roads go

Gently slid the 105 into the park, locked it, stood for some seconds looking at the vehicles. Then he went in. He entered a long room with a service counter opposite the door. Behind the counter stood a woman, and on the counter leaned an airman, talking to her. They both stopped talking to look at him. He went up to the counter.

‘Yes?’ she said, her face a blank.

‘A cup of tea,’ Gently said. ‘What are you serving?’

‘Well, I can do you egg and chips. Or a pie. Or some cold meat and salad.’

‘Egg and chips,’ Gently said.

‘Bread and butter?’

‘No, just egg and chips.’

She hadn’t taken her eyes off him, and now, suddenly, the eyes smiled. Not the mouth, which was small and tight, but the eyes: they unexpectedly flowered.

‘You’d like your tea now, I suppose.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’ll have it to go on with.’

She felt under the counter for cup, saucer and spoon without letting her eyes wander away. The airman, a sergeant, looked down into the glass which rested half-empty in his hand. The jukebox hammered to a stop, gritted, clicked and was not restarted. She poured the tea, pushed a sugar bowl towards him.

‘You haven’t been here before, have you?’ she asked.

Still the eyes and not the face. The face was flattish but with a delicate chin.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This is my first visit.’

‘I just thought your face seemed familiar,’ she said. ‘I’ll bring your egg and chips if you’ll sit down. It shouldn’t take five minutes.’

He sat down. He felt hot. He sipped the tea, looked at the room. It held about twenty small square tables, each with four chairs to it. The walls were lined with plasterboard which had been at some time distempered cream and on them were hung a few cockled advertisement cards featuring soft drinks and potato crisps. There were seven other customers, crews of the vehicles parked outside. Four of them sat at one table, eating and talking, one was reading a paper, one had his feet up, snoring. The other one had been playing the jukebox, but now sat solemnly drinking tea. The one with the paper sat at the end of the room and wore a ring that flashed when he turned a page. The room smelt of fried chips, coffee, tobacco-smoke. It was lit by two bulbs and there was one behind the counter.

He kept sipping the tea. The woman had gone through a curtained doorway. From behind it came the hiss of an egg broken into hot fat. The four drivers together were talking about breakdowns which always occurred on a Saturday or a Sunday. The sergeant, a young man with a flushed complexion, remained leaning on the counter and paying attention to nobody. Beyond where the egg was cooking a door opened and closed: softly. Then somebody attended to the egg.

She brought out his order on a tin tray and set it briskly on the table. She was wearing a sleeveless black dress and beneath it her small breasts rolled nakedly.

‘Some sauce?’ she asked him.

‘Just pepper and salt.’

‘You’d better let me fill your cup up.’

Her voice was neutral-toned, fastidious, with a slight contralto huskiness. Several of the men had an eye on her, including the one who was reading a paper. He lowered the paper at the sound of her voice, stared furtively, raised it again. She wasn’t pretty. She had a slight figure. She wasn’t young. Her expression was unpromising. But her eyes smiled, sometimes. From the whole depth of her body.

‘You’re sure you wouldn’t like some bread and butter?’

She hesitated by the table, stooping towards him. The sergeant suddenly put his glass down hard, straightened himself, made a dab at his tie. She looked at him indifferently.

‘Oh — are you going now, Johnny?’

He picked up his hat and pulled it on before replying: ‘I reckon I am.’

She shrugged slim shoulders. ‘You weren’t here for very long!’

‘No,’ he said. His mouth was petulant. ‘Think I’ll be on my way,’ he said.

‘You can stay if you like.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll be on my way.’

‘Just as you like.’

He made a business with his tie. ‘Goodnight, Wanda,’ he said.

‘Goodnight, Johnny.’

He finished with the tie, walked out smartly, looking at nobody. A moment later came the racket of the moped and the sound of it being fiercely accelerated.

‘He’s jealous of you,’ Wanda muttered, but without looking at Gently. ‘He’s a damned little fool, as he’ll find out. I didn’t ask him to come up here.’

‘Why should he be jealous of me?’

She shrugged again. ‘They get ideas, these kids. They all think you’re going to sleep with them. What about that bread and butter?’

‘No thank you,’ he said.

Her eyes found him, smiled. ‘You don’t have to worry about your figure.’

‘I’m not that hungry,’ he said. ‘It’s warm.’

‘Well, don’t be backward in asking for anything.’

She took the tray, retired to the counter, began to wash and dry saucers and cups. The drivers who sat together, and who had fallen silent, now resumed their conversation. The man beside the jukebox came for another cup of tea. The snorer woke up, stared, went back to sleep. The man with the ring tilted his newspaper to get a good look at Gently eating. He was sitting at the far end of the room and was wearing what appeared to be brand-new dungarees.

‘That’s a fresh egg,’ Wanda said. Gently’s table was nearest to the counter. ‘I get them from a man up at Everham. Are you certain I haven’t seen you before?’

Gently grunted, drank some tea.

‘You’re not a film star,’ Wanda said. ‘I shall probably place you, if I think hard. You’re not in a hurry to go, are you?’

‘No,’ Gently said. ‘My time’s my own.’

‘I’m glad,’ Wanda said. ‘I like company. I never keep open later than eleven. Sometimes, if it’s slow, I close earlier. I shall probably close early tonight. You’re the type who smokes a pipe, aren’t you?’

Gently nodded. ‘I smoke a pipe.’

‘Yes,’ Wanda said. ‘A real pipe-smoker. A man should always smoke a pipe.’

Gently smoked his pipe. The trucks, the articulated, left. Eventually the man by the jukebox, a neckless cockney, looked at a pocket-watch and woke the sleeper.

‘Time to roll, Alf. We got to see a man.’

The sleeper came to himself with a start. He stared at Gently, blinked his eyes, picked up his cap and took from it a tab end. He lighted the tab end and coughed.

‘I been asleep, Len,’ he said.

‘Blinking telling me,’ Len said. ‘Like a flipping diesel you sounded.’

‘Snoring was I?’ Alf asked.

‘That’s being polite,’ Len said. ‘Never met a bloke like you. But on your feet chum. We got to roll.’

Alf rose, yawned, stretched, coughed again, drank some dregs from a cup. Wanda, who’d been behind the curtain, ducked through it again. She’d a comb in her hand.

‘With you,’ Alf said. ‘Bye, Wanda. Might be through here again Tuesday.’

‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t,’ Wanda said.

‘Do us a favour,’ Alf said. ‘Bye for now.’

‘He’s got his old woman back,’ Len said. ‘You don’t have to worry about him, Wanda.’

‘Bye,’ Wanda said.

‘Bye,’ Len said.

They went out. Len slammed the door.

‘Regulars,’ Wanda said, coming out from the counter, putting the comb through her hair. A scent of sandalwood came with her. She had touched up her lips with pale red lipstick. ‘We used to be a smart place here, you know, until the war put an end to it. My husband ran it. We’re divorced. He divorced me. The place has gone down. Is that 105 yours?’

‘Yes,’ Gently said.

Outside the furniture van was moving out of the park.