Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver

Two evenings later, I am proved correct. We are sitting in the saloon bar of the Highwayman – all the toffs go in the public bar, these days, because they reckon it’s where the locals hang out – and I am allowing the maestro of moan to treat me to a pint and a torrent of ear-bending rabbit about how badly he has been put upon.

‘Sometimes, I feel like chucking it all in,’ he says. I can’t help wondering what ‘it’ he is talking about but I don’t say anything. ‘It’s no good belonging to a large organisation in this country. If you’re a boss then you can’t get anyone to work for you and if you’re a worker then the bosses are trying to exploit you all the time. People don’t have any confidence in each other any more.’

‘That’s my pint you’re drinking,’ I say.

Sid puts the glass down and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Are you sure?’ he says, suspiciously.

‘Positive,’ I say. ‘You know that bloke who went to the karsi?’

‘I don’t know him,’ says Sid.

‘I thought you must do,’ I said. ‘You’d drunk half his pint before he even stood up.’

Sid picks up his empty glass, looks round nervously and starts edging down the bench. ‘Big bloke, wasn’t he?’ he says. I nod. ‘Just shows how overwrought I am. I don’t know what I’m doing.’

‘I’d better get you another pint to help calm your nerves, hadn’t I?’ I say.

Sid nods. ‘Ta. I think a Mahatma Ghandi might slip down all right now you make me think of it.’

‘Instead of?’ I ask.

‘No, as well as. I can’t drink brandy by itself.’

‘You poor bastard,’ I say. ‘You really suffer, don’t you?’

Sid is never swift to detect when one is being sarcastical and he merely nods and starts prospecting for crunched up crisps in the bottom of a discarded packet. I get the drinks in and notice that the big fella has come back from the karsi – you would hope him to, wouldn’t you? – and is looking at Sid and his empty glass with equal interest.

‘Ta,’ says Sid when I get back to the table. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking.’

‘I’m not certain it suits you,’ I say.

‘About what I was talking about earlier,’ says Sid. ‘I reckon the only thing to do is to be your own governor. That way, nobody can let you down or mess you about. You’re responsible for everything that happens.’ A faraway look comes into his eye. ‘You remember what it was like when we were cleaning windows?’

‘You mean, all those birds?’

Sid frowns. ‘I wasn’t referring to that. I was talking about how easy it was.’

‘It was pretty easy with the birds,’ I remind him.

‘No forms, no taxes, no clocking on, knock off when you like.’

‘And who you like,’ I chip in.

‘Money isn’t everything. I’ve said that before.’

‘You say it every time you’re skint,’ I remind him. ‘There’s two lots of people who never worry about mazuma: those who’ve got so much of it they don’t know what to do with it and those who haven’t got any.’

‘Very philatelical,’ says Sid. ‘But, frankly, I’m not interested in what you pick up from those religious programmes before the Sunday film. It’s job satisfaction I’m after.’

‘Hear, hear!’ The words do not issue from my shapely cakehole but from the big geezer whose beer Sid nicked. He is leaning towards us with an expression on his face that can only be described as rapt. ‘I couldn’t help overhearing what you were saying because I was listening very carefully,’ he says apologetically. ‘It’s seldom that I find myself in such 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.’