Timothy Lea - Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver

‘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 Sid gallantly.

‘He makes Dave Allen sound like Alf Ramsey,’ simpers Suzanne.

‘How are we going to get in?’ I say, deciding that my stomach can’t take much more.

‘We’ll have to climb over the top,’ says Babs. ‘Give us a leg up, Suzanne.’

Without 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.