by Timothy Lea
‘All right,’ I say. ‘What is it? I suppose I should be touched that you realise you can’t get on without me.’
‘That’s it,’ soothes Sid. ‘I try to appear hard but bascially I’m a bundle of sentiment. What used to be purely a business relationship has grown into something deeper and far more fulfilling – give us a kiss!’
‘Get off me!’ I shout. ‘Stop messing about and tell me what you want me to do.’
‘Dead simple. Just a little doddle to start with. Pick up a consignment from the docks and tool up the M1 to the Hai Bali Tabernacle at Nuneaton.’
‘The Hai Bali Tabernacle?’ I say.
‘Yeah, they’re a load of religious freaks. Very nice but a bit round the bend. They’re health food nuts and all that caper.’
‘So what am I taking up there, Sid?’
‘I believe it’s very nice. Some geezer left them his country seat. Nobody would do that for me. They wouldn’t even leave me what dropped out of it.’
‘What’s the load, Sid?’
‘You won’t have any trouble finding it. Just turn off at—’
‘Sid, stop beating about the twat fuzz! What am I carrying?’
‘Fish,’ says Sid.
‘Fish? I thought you said they were on a health food kick. They don’t eat fish, do they?’
‘They don’t eat fish that’s been caught,’ says Sid.
‘Blimey! You’re not saying that this lot gave itself up, are you?’
‘In a manner of speaking,’ says Sid. ‘It’s the Bango fish, you see. The Bango fish is like a lemming.’
‘You mean it’s round and yellow?’
‘A lemming, not a lemon, you berk! Lemmings have the death wish, don’t they? They dive off cliffs and swim out to sea until they snuff it. The Bango fish is the opposite. It jumps out of the water and lies there waiting to be picked up.’
‘Like Natalie Perkins down at Streatham Baths.’
‘Exactly. Only I believe there’s a bit more flesh on the Bango fish.’
‘What a remarkable creature, Sid.’
‘I’ve never tried it, Timmo. Mind you, I have heard a few things. That bloke who bottled Don Tidworth had a go and was very favourably impressed.’
‘Liked the taste, did he?’
Sid looks shocked. ‘I didn’t ask for the details. Blimey! You are a dirty little sod, aren’t you?’
‘I was talking about the Bango fish, Sid – not Natalie Perkins!! I was making reference to life’s rich tapestry, its lights and shades, the ever-varying—’
‘All right, all right! If I want to know the rest I’ll buy the book. Now, stop farting about and get down to the docks. There’s no time to lose.’
When I get down to the docks, I see what Sid means. He forgot to tell me that there had been a strike. The niff is worse than a marathon dancer’s nylon socks after a jitterbug session. The crates of fish don’t have to be loaded on to the back of the lorry, they hop up by themselves.
‘You’d better drive fast, mate,’ says one of the dockers. ‘If the pong catches up with you, you’ll be a gonner.’
He is not kidding. At the first traffic lights, the bloke next to me falls off his motor bike. It must be bad because when I have to stop outside a fishmonger’s, one of the kippers folds up and touches its toes.
I am just approaching the M1 when I see the bird. She has shoulder length hair and a sheepskin coat that is browsing round her ankles. A leg protrudes temptingly from the front of the coat and the eye can travel about twelve inches above the knee without bumping into any sign of a skirt. It is a journey that is very easy to make. As I swing dangerously near to the curb, the bird brushes some hair from her eyes and rolls a lazy thumb skywards.
The lorry has very good brakes. Much better, for instance, than the Morris 1100 that is right behind me. Of course, the bloke at the wheel might have been clocking the bird, as well. I do suggest this but he seems to take great exception to the idea. Possibly because of the reaction of the old boiler sitting next to him. You could lose all interest with her about.
Of course, by the time I have got the bloke’s bonnet out from underneath my back number plate, the bird has been picked up by some other lucky sod. It’s tragic, really. I could sense that we were made for each other. You know how you can, sometimes. ‘Laura, on the train that is passing through’ – though not while it is in the station, of course. The bloke who has run into me even tries to say that it is my fault but I am not having any of that. I know my rights. In the end it is the fish that get me out of it. The bloke’s old lady is so pissed off with the pong that she tells him to forget about me and get the hell out of it. I can’t say I blame her, I wish I could do the same.
I get on the motorway and it is all very uneventful. Mile after mile with nothing to do but think about things that never come into your mind. When, and if, Sid ever gives me any moola I will have to buy a wireless.
It is not long before I start feeling like a cuppa and by the time we get to the Supercon complex of restaurants and filling stations my tongue is hanging down the front of my shirt – it makes a change from wearing a tie.
I feel like a leak so I peel off and follow the sign that says ‘Gents’. By the cringe! What a dump. I was not expecting a bloke in a white jacket to hand me a towel but when you look at the wall you expect to see ‘fuck’ spelled properly, don’t you? I mean ‘fuk’ just isn’t good enough with the amount we spend on comprehensive education. I don’t begrudge paying the taxes but I do expect to get a little more for my money. I would not mind getting a towel, either. I know that there must have been soap here once because I can see the two little metal arms that used to hold the dispenser. The Towelomat looks like a tin of sardines that somebody tried to kick open when the opener bust – they always do, don’t they? I am glad I don’t want to do anything more creative than a slash because the inside of the cubicle that I am looking at – it is very easy to look inside because the only thing that remains of the doors is the hinges – reminds me of a lost property office for turds. As for the niff – well, I feel like rushing out and taking a lungful of Bango fish.
The cafeteria isn’t a big improvement. The strongest thing about the tea is the taste of the paper cup and the smell of grease makes me think that they must have just boiled a channel swimmer. If they did, they definitely served up his flippers in the sandwich I am eating. I am wondering why someone wanted to dip the sugar sprinkler in his tea so that the holes clogged up when I see the bird I was about to fall in love with earlier. She is sitting very erect with her hands cupped round her teacup and an expression of complete boredom on her mug. I try and smile at her and she looks through me like I am the invisible man. Obviously, nobody has told her about my magnetism. I must do something about that. I am very partial to birds who treat me like an attack of cystitis on their wedding night because I admire their taste. I reckon that anybody who laps me up must be desperate, and who wants to go about with desperate birds?
The bird sips her tea slowly and closes her eyes. One of the things I like about her most of all is that she does not seem to be with anyone. The bloke who gave her a lift must have pushed on. Either that or he tried to get fresh and copped a smack in the kisser, or – even more exciting possibility – got what he wanted and then pushed on. I wonder if she does? She must do. She looks very experienced. When you get close you can see that she wears a lot of eye make-up and that clinches it, doesn’t it? I mean, once they start wanging about with the old eye pencil they’re writing ‘I want it’ all round their mince pies.
I knock back my cha like it is a couple of fingers of rye and start to mosey towards her table. For one thing the tea is diabolical and for another, you can’t let a thing like that lie about and expect to find it when you want it. She doesn’t look up as I come towards her which is just as well because it means that she doesn’t see me barge into one of the tables and get sworn at by a bloody great navvy with his jaws locked round a bacon sandwich. I leave him to pour his tea
back into the cup and prepare to make with the verbal fireworks. There was a time when I was tongue-tied with birds but now the chat just pours out. The secret is to practise what you are going to say first so that you don’t have any of that awkward mumbling – mind you, it is best to do it with your mouth firmly shut. One bird told me she nearly gave me the brush because she saw my lips moving as I came towards her and thought I had some kind of nervous tic.
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Is anybody sitting here?’ The delivery is faultless. I hit all my stresses and I sound so relaxed and friendly that for a moment I think it is someone else talking.
‘Yes.’
This in an answer I am not prepared for. ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘Yes, well-um, er, yes.’ It would be a good idea if you could practise the second thing you say as well. ‘Er – I can’t see anybody.’
The bird half rises to her feet and leans across the table so that she is looking down onto the seat opposite. She stares at it for a moment. ‘You’re right. They must be in the toilet.’
It occurs to me that she is taking the mickey. ‘I thought you might want a lift,’ I say. ‘Pardon me for breathing.’
‘That’s all right, but don’t make a habit of it.’ The lady speaks with a brummy accent and is clearly a comedienne.
‘Do you mind if I sit down till your friend comes back?’
‘You already have.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea or something?’
‘No thanks.’
‘Where are you heading for?’
‘Anywhere.’
‘I’m going to Nuneaton.’
‘All right, let’s go.’ The bird stands up and looks at me expectantly.
‘What about your friend?’
‘Fook him.’
‘Oh-er, yes, all right.’ It occurs to me that this bird has a very variable temperament. I know it is a woman’s something or other to change her mind but you don’t usually come across bints who put the idea into practice with such relish.
We walk across the restaurant and everybody is looking at us. She really is a knockout bird, this one. I then notice that there is a long strip of toilet paper unwinding behind us. It is coming from underneath her coat.
‘You a soccer fan, are you?’ I say.
‘What do you mean?’ She looks down and her features huddle together for an instant. ‘Booger!’ She feels inside her coat and pulls at something. The toilet paper streamer flutters to the ground and a plastic ashtray clatters across the floor. I move decisively towards the door. Something tells me that the lady may have light-fingered tendencies.
‘What’s your name?’ I say.
‘I don’t have one.’
I push open the reinforced glass door with what appears to be bullet holes in it. ‘You must have.’
The bird pulls her coat around her and looks up at the front of the building. ‘Supercon,’ she says in a take it or leave it voice. I don’t think it is her name.
I start walking towards the lorry park. ‘You haven’t got a car, then?’ she says.
‘Not with me.’
‘I was talking about now,’ she says sarcastically. ‘Have you got a wireless?’
‘Not yet.’
She shakes her head, sadly. ‘Some booger nicked my tranny.’
‘You have to be careful,’ I say.
We are not exactly racing forward with the speed of a forest fire words-wise but I don’t reckon that Cary Grant would make a lot of headway with his bird.
‘Pooh!!’ she says. ‘Do you smell that?’
‘Bango fish,’ I say. ‘They’re very interesting. They dive out of the water and nut themseves.’
‘If I smelt like that I’d nut myself,’ says the lady. ‘Is that what you’ve got?’ She makes it sound like the measles.
‘I’m taking them up to the Hai Bali Tabernacle at Nuneaton,’ I explain. ‘They can’t eat flesh that has been killed for the table but these fish are all right because they’ve done themselves in. Fascinating, isn’t it?’
If the lady agrees with me she is not at pains to reveal the fact. ‘Urgh!!’ she says. ‘I’m not travelling with them. I’d throw up.’
‘You soon get used to it,’ I say. ‘Once we start moving you won’t know they’re there.’
‘Don’t make me laugh. You’ve got a bleeding cheek expecting anyone to travel with a load of rotting fish!’
‘Having trouble, Shirl?’ The speaker is leaning out of the cab of a twenty ton truck and has a wallpaper of tattoos all the way up a forearm that looks like weight lifter’s thigh.
‘This daft booger’s messing me about.’
‘Well, hop up here, then.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Come up here and you’ll find out.’
‘Piss off!’
‘Right.’ The lorry begins to ease forward.
‘Hang on a minute!’
The bird disappears round the front of the truck without a glance in my direction and I see the driver lean across to open the door. Seconds later, his bonce juts out of the cab and he winks at me. ‘Ta rar, lad.’ There is a squeak from the air brakes and the monster motor swalches across the tarmac and points its blunt nose towards London. Exit another great romance. Something about the bloke and his lorry makes me feel insignificant. I am like the bloke in the Charles Atlas advertisements who gets the sand kicked in his mush. I feel like Wee Georgie Wood standing next to Cassius Clay in the shower. What you might call a percy-cution complex. It is all very sad because I had reckoned that the life of a long distance lorry driver would be a regular nooky fest. Oggins mad crumpet lining the highway so to speak. Apart from Shirl, or whatever her name was, Supercon was very short on unaccompanied frippet. Come to think of it, it was very short on lorry drivers too. Not surprising when you consider the fare provided. I will have to reserve my judgement until I hit a real honest-to-goodness transport caff.
Slightly cheered, I brace my nostrils and return to Enid – this being what I have decided to call my crate. There is something prim and dignified about the name that suits the old rust cart down to the valve caps. It may not be the fastest thing on the road but it does have a kind of battered class.
The rest of my journey till I turn off the motorway is uneventful. Perhaps urged on by the pong behind her, Enid chugs along at a solid fifty-five mph and I begin to turn my mind to the scene that awaits me at the Hai Bali Tabernacle. I have always had the feeling that these ‘alternative society’ set-ups are no more than an excuse for an unlimited ration of in and out and I will be interested to see whether there are patches of flattened grass all round the parkland.
There is a sign soon after I leave the motorway and a mile later a crumbling red brick wall shuts off my view of the first few feet of rolling grassland peppered with clumps of tall trees. This must be the place. Another couple of miles and I come to the gatehouse. There is a metal pole barring the entrance and an officious looking geezer springs into view as I shove on the anchors. He has a mouth as tight as the washer on a three inch screw and eyebrows like cigarette burns on a plastic work surface.
‘Down here!’ He jerks a thumb towards the ground at his feet and it takes me a second to realise that he is not drawing my attention to a dog turd. This is not quite the welcome I was expecting but I suppose I had better show willing. It is my first job and I don’t want there to be any slip ups. I switch the engine off and climb out of the cab.
‘Right! Everything off.’
Blimey! If he expects me to strip down to the buff in this weather he has got another think coming. Blooming nudists! I don’t mind them wandering about starkers. Why should they grumble if I wear clothes? Still, like I said, I don’t want any trouble. Probably best to do like the man says.
‘What the heck do you think you’re doing?!’
‘I’m taking my clothes off,’ I say, lowering my trousers to knee level.
‘I meant, everything off the back of the lorry, you fool!’
The bloke clearly has no sense o
f humour. It is quite a humorous misunderstanding when you think about it, isn’t it? No? Oh well, please yourselves.
‘You want me to deliver it here?’
‘No! I want to check your vehicle.’
‘It’s only Bango fish,’ I say.
Stoat-features starts to walk round to the back of the lorry. ‘The make of fertiliser is immaterial,’ he says. ‘It’s what you might be trying to smuggle in with it.’
What a funny man. I am about to ask him for further details when I fall over – I have forgotten about the position of my trousers.
When I stand up, the gatekeeper is recoiling from the back of the lorry with a handkerchief held to his hooter. ‘Urgh! It’s disgusting!’ he croaks. ‘Get it round to the home farm immediately.’
‘You don’t want to search it, then?’
‘Get out of it!’
The bloke is turning the colour of green blotting paper. Either he is very sensitive or my bracket must be getting used to the niff.
‘That’s a nice uniform,’ I say. ‘Do they make it in your size?’
The bloke does not say anything but waves me on my way with a sign presumably meant to tell me that the turning to Home Farm is two hundred yards up the road. In fact it is nearer half a mile before the road forks and I see a collection of farm buildings huddled together near open fields. Quite why they want the fish here, I don’t know. Maybe they mix them up with potatoes to make some kind of fishcake. There are certainly a lot of spuds about. In one of the fields, a tractor is ploughing up thousands of the bastards and a gang of bints is following on behind loading them into sacks. One little darling takes a shufti at me and in no time they are all whistling and shouting. It is surprising really. I mean, I know I am fascinating and all that but you would think that they would be up to the thigh-balls with fellas. I give them a relaxed wave, narrowly avoid driving into a ditch, and pull up behind a row of tin shacks. There does not seem to be anyone about so I climb out of the cab and – ‘Psssst!!’
Somebody is trying to attract my attention from a half-opened doorway. I cross the yard and detect the not unfamiliar outline of a bird beckoning to me from the shadows.