Confessions of a Long Distance Lorry Driver

by Timothy Lea

  ‘Really?’ I say. ‘That’s not what I’ve heard. Frisky, I grant you, but nothing to start them piling tables against the door at the Over Sixties Club.’

  ‘I’m talking about job opportunities,’ says Sid, coldly. ‘I know it gets vertigo, but try and drag your mind above crutch level, sometimes.’

  ‘I’m all ears,’ I say. Sid looks as if he is going to say something unpleasant and then controls himself.

  ‘Booze,’ he says. ‘That’s what you’ll be carrying. Have you heard of Parsimon and Mandrake?’

  I rack my brains. ‘Is it one of those home-made wines?’

  Sid shakes his head exasperatedly. ‘No, you berk! They’re wine merchants. They’re opening a new branch in Basingstoke and you’ve got to deliver the gargle.’

  ‘It’s a bit of a risk, isn’t it?’ I say. ‘I mean, it’s an open lorry.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say that because you’re such a grumble,’ snorts Sid. ‘It so happens that they’ve chosen us because of the particular advantages that our transport bestows.’

  ‘Very nicely put,’ I say. ‘What advantages?’

  ‘I used a bit of intelligence,’ says Sid.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I say. ‘That means you’ve got none left.’

  ‘Watch it,’ says Sid. ‘Just watch it. I read in the paper that these geezers had had a couple of lorryloads of tiddley half inched. So I put two and two together.’ Sid looks into my face expectantly and clenches his fists. I surprise him by saying nothing. ‘I was able to explain to them that it was because their lorries were so recognisable that they had all these problems. I said that we were specialists in appearing shabby and broken down so that no tealeaf would ever reckon we had anything worth nicking.’

  ‘Brilliant, Sid,’ I say. ‘Quite brilliant. I suppose you told them how we looked after the Crown Jewels, none of which have ever been nicked?’

  ‘Of course, Timmo. I also informed them of all the work we’d done in conjunction with the Bank of England. A building that has never been knocked off to my knowledge.’

  ‘There’s nothing there to knock off,’ I say. ‘Don’t you read the papers?’

  ‘Never mind about that. You put on this nice beige over all I’ve got you, and tuck your hair in the back of the collar. You never thought about getting a Gatsby haircut, have you? They’re very becoming.’

  ‘I didn’t like the film, Sid.’

  ‘They go down well with the silent majority, too.’ Sid looks at me thoughtfully. ‘I don’t quite know how to phrase this, Timmo, but I’m a bit worried about your record.’

  ‘You mean, The Love Theme from Confessions of a Window Cleaner?’

  Sid winces. ‘No, you berk. I mean your criminal record. That lead nicking and the spell inside. If that came out it could be very bad for the image of the firm.’

  ‘You were inside, Sid. Bentworth Grange. I remember you telling me.’

  ‘Ah, but that was when I was just a kiddy. Youthful high spirits. There’s a smack of the mature criminal about you, Timmo.’

  ‘What are you getting round to, Sid?’

  Sid takes a deep breath and tries to square his rounded shoulders. The effort is to much for him. ‘What I’m trying to say, Timmo, putting it as nicely as I can, is that if you so much as leave a fingerprint on a bottle of mineral water, I’ll break every bone in your bleeding body.’

  For a moment I am speechless. How could Sid imagine such a thing before the thought has even entered my mind? ‘If that’s how you feel, we might as well forget the whole thing,’ I say, speaking with simple dignity. ‘As for your beige overall you can shove it up your—’

  ‘Timmy, please! You know what I’m trying to say. This is a very important job. It could lead to much bigger things. We can’t afford any slip-ups. I’m not blaming you. It’s your environment. Look around you. Half the stuff in this room has been nicked. It wouldn’t be surprising if you had the same easy-going attitude towards other people’s property. Let’s face it, stuff goes very easily when your dad’s about.’

  Sid is referring to Dad’s habit of moving the lost property office where he works to our home. Over the years we must have accumulated more stuff than they have.

  ‘You’re trying to say that we’re a bunch of tealeaves, aren’t you?’ I tell him.

  ‘I’m not trying to say it, I am saying it!’

  Sid is really asking for a punch up the throat. It is lucky for him that he is talking to a devout coward.

  ‘Just a minute, George Washington,’ I tell him. ‘Before I put you forward for a Duke of Edinburgh’s Award, where did that nice beige overall come from?’

  Sid turns scarlet. ‘I can’t remember exactly.’

  ‘Still got the hanger in it, and all,’ I say. ‘And the price tag. Skidmores. That’s the place down the High Street, isn’t it? Where they hang all the stuff outside the shop? I bet if I went and asked them if they’d had anything nicked recently they’d give me a very interesting answer.’

  ‘All right, Kojak,’ says Sid. ‘I’m not saying I’m perfect. I’m just saying watch it, that’s all. And mind how you go with that overall. If you mess it up, you’ll have to nick the next one yourself.’

  When we get round to Parsimon and Mandrake I can see what Sid is worrying about. All that booze is a very tempting sight. Carton after carton of it. Brandy, rum, vodka. All guaranteed to make you irresistible to birds and give you brewer’s droop at the same time – not that the ads ever mention the last bit. It is sad when you think about it, isn’t it? Booze gives you the desire and takes away your ability to fulfil it. It is like getting a crush on a waste disposal unit.

  This is a two lorry job and Sid gets me loaded up first.

  ‘We don’t want to travel in convoy,’ he says. ‘That might arouse suspicion. You go on ahead and I’ll follow behind. If you run into any problems, I’ll be able to help you out. Don’t stop unless you have to. There shouldn’t be any problems once you hit the M3. Any questions?’

  ‘Only one,’ I say. ‘Are we going to get fighter cover?’

  Sid says something very unpleasant and I am not sorry to start wending my way towards my appointment with the motorway. The booze is under cover so there is no reason why anybody should suss me out unless they have X-ray eyes.

  All goes well till I get to the motorway and then I begin to feel peckish and in need of a pee. It is always the same, when you can’t have something – you immediately want it. I keep an eye on the rear mirror for Sid, but there is no sign of him. I think about stopping for a slash beside the motorway but decide against it. Percy is always very bashful about appearing in public and the wind can play some very nasty tricks with your directional equipment. There are few things worse than risking frostbite of the chopper and ending up with a turn-up full of wee and a coach load of school girls taking the piss out of you more effectively than you seem to be capable of doing for yourself.

  When I get to a turn-off five miles short of Basingstoke I take the A30 and keep my eyes open for a likely caff. The load can’t come to any harm if I sit somewhere where I can keep an eye on it. Within a few miles I come across a likely spot. The Lazy S. There are a stack of lorries parked outside so the nosh must be all right. I tool up to the end of the row and turn off the Yarmouth. I must say that Enid has been no trouble, so far. I give her a friendly pat as I walk round the load to make sure that everything is still lashed down securely. Everything seems to be in order so I step behind a blooming great furniture van and – blimey! I walk straight into an elephant.

  As elephants go it is very normal. Large and grey with a hide like weathered cardboard and a few obvious indications that there is a fortune waiting for the man who makes jumbo size toilet tissues a reality rather than a description of the stuff humans use.

  What is unusual about it is the bird perched across its neck. She is dressed like a gypsy with big gold earrings, a head scarf and a flouncy dress that rides up provocatively around the place where her legs meet – I fo
rget what it is called, now. She has dark flashing eyes and a pair of well-rounded knockers that jut out proudly, obscuring part of my view of the sky – not that I am so worked up about it that I intend to complain to Patrick Moore.

  She and her elephant are at the head of a procession that includes a smaller elephant, a couple of llamas and a chimpanzee led by a sad-faced bloke dressed up as a clown. As they trudge along, it is difficult to decide which looks sadder, the chimp or the bloke. While I am taking in the spectacles, the lead elephant suddenly veers off to the right and sticks its trunk under my tarpaulin. Saucy behaviour, I am certain you will agree.

  ‘Watch it, Dumbo,’ I say. ‘Keep your hooter to yourself.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says the bird, giving the beast a sharp tap on the side of the bonce. ‘You must be carrying alcohol. Rajah is very partial to a tipple.’

  ‘His senses mislead him,’ I say hurriedly. ‘This is washing up liquid, every last bottle of it.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ The bird shakes her head. ‘Poor old thing. He’s getting a bit past it.’

  ‘It’s sad when they get like that,’ I say. ‘I’d buy him a pint but I’m a bit pushed for time.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ says the bird. ‘Are you fond of animals?’

  ‘I like the big ones,’ I say. ‘I think I get it from my Aunt Edna. She had a soft spot for elephants.’

  ‘What a remarkable woman,’ says the bird. ‘Is she still with us?’

  ‘Yes and no,’ I say. ‘Not a hundred percent. You know how it is.’

  ‘Of course,’ says the bird. ‘Well, I must be on my way.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘Don’t let me hold you up.’

  ‘If you could, I’d be able to get you a job with the circus,’ says the bird.

  We enjoy a little laugh at this pleasantry and take our leave of each other. It has all been very civilised and if I ever have to talk to a woman who is sitting on an elephant again, I hope it will all go as smoothly.

  I am pretty certain that the lady did not come from the same country as the elephant because she has ‘Gladys’ embroidered on the back of her dress – the bird that is, not the elephant – and none of those verbal mannerisms which suggest acquaintance with Eastern climes. I would put her down as springing from South Norwood at a pinch – in fact, even without a pinch.

  I watch the procession making its way down the road towards Basingstoke and go into the Lazy S wondering whether, when they talk about the lure of the big top, they are referring to Gladys’s knockers. They would certainly keep the rain off you for a couple of hours.

  When I get inside the Lazy S, the atmosphere is what Mum would call ‘fraught’. One of the llamas apparently disgraced itself on top of the juke box. It was playing a Gary Glitter record at the time but nobody is trying to make an issue of it. I just hope it is not a form of criticism that catches on. I was planning on sinking a quick fry up but the llama has managed to change all that. I buy a chocolate bar and throw it away after one bite. Best to get back on the road and finish the job.

  When I come out of the caff, the rain is pissing down and I am soaked, even though I sprint to Enid. The windscreen wipers jerk into action and creak from side to side half a dozen times before packing up. Great! I suppose they never needed windscreen wipers in the old days. Mum was always telling me about those summers when the sun never stopped shining and there were no atomic tests. I think about hanging on till the rain stops but the sky looks like a lead sponge and I can’t see it drying out in a hurry. Added to that, I am an impetuous little sod. I wind down the window and stick my bonce out just far enough to clock an eyeful of rain and a gander at what is happening ahead. It is not easy but I think I can manage. I ease out the clutch, Enid gives a ladylike squeak and wheezes out of the parking lot. The frog and toad is like a shake and shiver (frog and toad: road; shake and shiver: river. – Ed.) and after a few hundred yards I am reckoning myself a prize berk for having started out on this caper. The Queen of Spain is chucking down even faster and I can hardly see anything. At least I am in a nice snug driving cab and not on the back of an elephant. I don’t fancy Gladys’s job.

  No sooner has the thought of the shapely curve carnival flashed across my impressionable mind than I catch sight of a caravan moving even slower than I am. I overtake it and come abreast of another one being towed along in a sea of spray. I am concentrating so hard on getting past it rather than through it that I don’t keep my eyes on the road ahead. Suddenly, dead in front of me, is an elephant. I accelerate to get past the caravan, try to cut in front of the car that is towing it in order to avoid jumbo, and go into a four-wheel skid. CRASH! I hit something much harder than an elephant and feel Enid tilt up and over while I crack my head against the driving wheel. The sensation of turning over and over seems to go on for minutes and then I feel myself crumpled up like a piece of paper pushed into the toe of a wet boot. Above my head is an open skylight and through it I can see the grey sky and feel the rain on my face. A head and shoulders appear, looking down at me anxiously.

  ‘Are you all right, mate?’ I try stretching a few favourite limbs and nod, managing to bash my head on the dashboard. ‘I think so,’ I say.

  I have a vague recollection of being hauled out of the cab and finding Enid lying on her side against a roundabout but nothing after that until I open my eyes and find myself staring at a pair of legs that end just above crutch level. It gives me a nasty shock, I can tell you. The bird’s (she must be a bird because legs like that don’t belong to any fellers I know) fun box is pulsating like it has a heart beat and for a few seconds I wonder if I have snuffed it and ended up in some economy style heaven – half a bird is better than nothing, and be thankful for what you’ve got, you ungrateful little basket!

  I then see that I am in a caravan and that the bird is performing some exercise in which she tilts backwards until her forehead is practically resting on the floor behind her. She straightens up and I find myself looking at Gladys.

  ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, without bothering to check. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘You hit the roundabout,’ she says, doing the splits. ‘I’m afraid it was partly Rajah’s fault. He must have thought he was in the ring and sat down on the patch of grass in the middle.’

  ‘What about the – my load?’ I say.

  Gladys waves a scolding finger at me. ‘You’re a fibber, aren’t you? Trying to make me think that poor old Rajah was losing his grip. You’ve got enough drink on that lorry to stock a brewery.’

  ‘I was worried about being jacked off – I mean hijacked,’ I say. ‘Is it all right? I’d better go and—’

  ‘Best not to move for a few minutes.’ Gladys presses me back against the bed with surprising firmness. ‘Sometimes these things can have delayed effects. There’s been a few breakages but nothing too serious.’

  ‘What’s that noise?’ I say.

  ‘You mean, the sound like an elephant trumpeting?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I say.

  ‘That’s Rajah. He’s very high-spirited.’

  ‘As long as he’s not high on spirits,’ I say.

  Glady’s eyes open wide for a moment before she laughs. ‘Oh yes, very good. You do have a sense of humour, don’t you?’

  ‘You’ve got to, these days,’ I say. ‘Tell me, why are you doing all those exercises?’

  Gladys hugs one of her legs to her chest so that it is scraping the ceiling of the caravan. ‘It’s part of my act,’ she says. ‘We’re only a small circus and we all have to do more than one thing.’

  ‘You have to bend over backwards to help each other,’ I say.

  ‘That’s right. It doesn’t disturb you, does it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that disturb is the right word,’ I say.

  ‘Some people say that it makes them feel uncomfortable.’

  ‘I think it’s very artistic,’ I say. ‘You obviously have a natural bent for it.’


  A long time ago I came across – literally, as it so happens – an acrobatic dancer called Sonia and memories of this stimulating encounter are not slow to come flooding back. Could history be on the point of repeating itself?

  ‘What are you thinking?’ says the bird.

  ‘Nothing,’ I say. In fact, I am wondering if you could get into her like that. I mean, with one of her legs at the slope arms. It would probably be like trying to put on a french letter while it is still in the packet.

  ‘You must be thinking about something.’

  ‘If you must know, I was thinking how nice it would be if you got into bed with me.’

  I hear my voice almost as if it belongs to someone else. I meant what I said but I didn’t mean to say it, if you know what I mean. Sometimes there is a bit of a devil inside you that takes over before the ‘pleased to meet you’ merchant starts clearing his throat.

  Gladys drops her foot to floor level and puts her hands on her hips. ‘You’ve recovered quickly, haven’t you?’ she says. There is no anger in her voice. No surprise. She might be a nurse looking at a thermometer.

  ‘Is your name Gladys?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. How do you know?’

  ‘I saw it on your back. When you were on the elephant.’

  Sometimes, I think that being able to communicate with words is actually a bar to making progress with birds. They get in the way. If you were a caveman you would just wack her over the nut with your club and drag her back to your cave. If you were an animal you would run round her three times wagging your tail and then jump on her. She would know what to expect and it would all be very simple. Words add another dimension that complicates everything. It can become like letting the grub grow cold because you are worried about which fork to use.

  ‘Move over, then.’

  She whips up her T-shirt and my mince pies enjoy a banquet of naked knocker. She must have been thinking the same as me. Thank goodness she was prepared to do something about it. I bet there are millions of couples who get right to the brink and then funk it. They walk home kicking themselves, knowing that one little word or gesture would have tipped the balance. I can talk about it because I have done it myself. Everybody has, one time or the other. I move across the bed so fast that. I bash my bum against the side of the caravan. Somebody has thoughtfully removed my shoes and jeans. I wonder who?