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‘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.’
‘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.
‘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.
