Late Night on Watling Street

by Bill Naughton

“I’m getting down for ten minutes,” I said.

  “I’ll give you a game, Bermondsey,” said Walter.

  They went off, up beside the counter for their darts game. I put my cap on the table and rested my forehead on it, and shut out all the light with my arms. Even if you don’t sleep the eyes and head get rested. You need some relief when you’ve been driving a ten-tonner through the night. Ethel must have come up and sat at Jackson’s table, because after a bit I could hear their voices.

  “What made you blow your top?” he said.

  “I won’t stand by and see a young chap taking the micky out of an older one,” she said. “I don’t like you being that way, Jacky.”

  “Before I forget,” said Jackson, “I’ve something here for you. Hope they’re not too squashed. I had to keep ‘em out of sight.”

  There was a bit of rustling and then Ethel whispered: “Roses! how lovely, Jacky! Well, I never expected roses!”

  Even with my head down I could smell roses.

  Ethel must have given him a hand squeeze. He went on: “Come off with me tonight. I’ll wait for you outside in my tub. We’ll drive off together. Don’t worry about clothes —look, see, I’ve enough money in that book to buy you all the clothes you want.”

  Post Office savings book. But I knew how he felt. The thought of having a woman in the warm cab there beside you, as you drive through the night, is the most tempting thought a driver can get. At least, that I can get. It’s so cosy in the cab of your own lorry, with the faint warm smell of diesel oil, but it gets lonely. If only you had a woman beside you. For part of the time anyway.

  Ethel went on about Lew. “When I first came in that door,” I heard her say, “I wasn’t much to look at. I’d had things rough, I can tell you that, Jacky. And Lew is the first man I’ve ever met who has treated me with respect.

  He never tried anything on. And that’s what I liked about him.”

  “Am I trying anything on?” said Jackson. “I’m asking you to come off with me.”

  “And the day we got back after the marriage,” went on Ethel, “he already had a new sign up outside. It said, ‘Lew’s and Ethel’s.”

  “Come off it,” said Jackson. “He made the ropiest cup of tea between here and Gretna Green. The place was fallin’ apart, an’ so was he. You’ve pulled it all together. You’re straight with him.”

  “Another thing Lew gave me,” said Ethel, “was security.”

  Jackson seemed to fly off the handle at that. “Security? What the hell are you talking about? I come bashing down Watling Street tonight—never a bloody stop except to snatch your roses. One thought on my mind—will I see you? How do you think that rat Babyface caught me again?—and you talk to me about security.”

  “Sorry, Jacky,” said Ethel. “What happens if they take your licence?”

  “No licence, no job,” said Jackson. “But we’ll see about that. They won’t get me working under a roof that easily.”

  Just then the juke-box let go The Tennessee Waltz again. I looked up with a start, as though I’d been asleep. Willie was standing beside it. He called across to Walter: “That’s not the record I picked, Walter.” It was just then I looked towards Jackson. He looked real poisonous. He got up and walked slowly towards Willie at the jukebox.

  “Jacky!“ whispered Ethel. He took no notice.

  Walter had spotted him. He left the darts game and hurried casually across to Willie beside the juke-box. Willie had seen Jackson, and he looked white.

  “Enjoy yourself, lad,” said Walter. Then he turned and faced Jackson. I got up and walked across. Same as they used to say, Lancashire helps Lancashire. Walter was only a bantam; Jackson was on the big side and tough.

  “Move over, Scouse,” said Jackson.

  “What d’you want?” said Walter.

  “I’m going to stop that bloody thing,” said Jackson.

  “I don’t think you are,” said Walter. His eyes never left Jackson as he handed the darts to Willie. I could see what Walter had in mind. He’d grab Jackson’s coat lapels in a tick and pull him down and tup him with his head. And Jackson wouldn’t be able to see for blood. I could almost hear the crack of Jackson’s nose in my ears, even before it happened.

  Ethel slipped round.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Willie’s paid to hear a tune,” said Walter, “and he’s goin’ to hear one.”

  “Yeh, but it might not be the one he’s paid for,” said Jackson.

  Jackson had a savage look on his face. But Walter was determined and on the aware.

  “Don’t make any trouble,” said Ethel. “Please go, and let me lock up.”

  Jackson turned and looked at her. Walter was ready to make his grab. I stepped in.

  “Come on, Walt,” I said.

  “Not till the bloody tune’s up,” he said.

  So we all stood there for half a minute until the woman on the record stopped singing.

  “You can all go now,” said Ethel.

  “Ee, but we haven’t paid yet, Ethel,” said Willie.

  “Ee, lad, so you haven’t,” said Ethel, taking him off a bit.

  That seemed to break up the tension.

  “What about the old darts?” said Clive.

  Walter took the darts off Willie.

  “Is it me?” he said.

  “Yip,” said Clive, “You want seventy-nine for game. Not be a minute, Ethel.”

  Walter toed the line. He threw a nineteen, then a twenty, and a double-top with the last dart.

  “Who’d ‘ave bleedin’ thought it!” said Clive, putting down his darts.

  We all paid and walked to the door. “Have you a minute, Bolton?” said Jackson. I nodded. He slipped back and had a last word with Ethel. Maybe a hug. I went up beside Walter.

  “I was right there behind you, Walter,” I said, “but I reckoned you didn’t need me.”

  Walter took off his cap and patted his head: “I had this ready for him,” he said.

  I went across to my tub. Then Jackson came up.

  “I was going to ask you,” he said; “you ain’t got an old driving mirror, have you?”

  As soon as he said it I remembered I had one in my toolbox. And it struck me that he must have seen it when I once lent him a spanner. He took out his fags and handed me one. Then he shone the torch in my tool-box. I got the driving mirror out. It was one that had been wrenched away when I drew too close to a wagon at the sidings one day. The metal arm haa been ripped from the bracket.

  “That do you?” I said.

  “It might,” he said.

  I didn’t ask him what he wanted it for. If he wants me to know, I reckoned, he’ll tell me.

  “You’ve been done for speeding?” he said.

  “More’n once,” I said.

  “The cop who charges you has got to have a witness— that so?” he said.

  “His mate,” I said, “that’s all.”

  “There’s got to be two of ‘em in court?” he said.

  “If you plead ‘not guilty’ an’ make a case of it,” I said. “But how many drivers do? You know damn well you’re guilty.”

  “But they’ve both got to be there,” he said. “Haven’t they?”

  “Look here, Jackson,” I said, “if you’re goin’ on about Babyface doin’ you tonight, forget it. You—”

  “Look here,” cut in Jackson, “if you want to question his witness and his witness fails to appear, or either one of them fails to appear—”

  “Then it’s ‘failure to produce witnesses’,” I said, “and you get ‘Case Dismissed’.”

  “That’s what I wanted to know,” said Jackson.

  “But I’ll tell you one thing you’re sufferin’ from, Jackson,” I said, “that’s a bad dose of copitis.”

  “You said it,” he said. “I could murder the bleedin’ lot of ‘em.”

  “It won’t get you nowhere,” I said. “We’ve all had it some time or other. Anyway, they won’t take your licence just for
speedin’.”

  “It’s not speedin’. He’s doin’ me for dangerous drivin’,” said Jackson.

  “That’s a bit more serious,” I said.

  “An’ not only that,” said Jackson.

  “What else?” I said.

  “I’d a fiver folded up in my licence when I handed it over,” he said.

  “A fiver! You must be crazy,” I said. “It should be a quid. An’ you get the licence back with a caution an’ no quid. What’s wrong with that? I’d sooner give a cop a quid than a magistrate a fiver.”

  “I’d sooner cut their bleedin’ throats,” said Jackson, “the lot of ‘em. Babyface is trying to make out I wanted to bribe him.”

  “I suppose you said you kept it in your licence for safety?” I said.

  Jackson nodded.

  “Then,” I said, “it’s your word against his.”

  “Against his and his mate’s, and I know whose they’ll take,” he said. Then he picked up the mirror and had a good look at it. “We’ll see,” he said. “They ain’t heard the charge yet. There’s another three weeks to go. Anything could happen in that time.” He waved the mirror and went off.

  It was a fortnight later, about two o’clock in the morning, a pitch black night, and I was belting along Watling Street, hoping I might make “Lew’s” in time, have a bite to eat and get a look at Ethel. She’d begun to get into my thoughts a lot. I was going at a fair lick, because you can see better on a dark night, since your headlights carve out the road for you, and you don’t get those dicey shadows the moon makes. I had my eye watching out for Babyface, for I knew I was on his beat.

  Suddenly, ahead down the road, I saw a lorry’s headlights flashing on and off, giving me the danger signal. I flashed back, braked and watched the road behind me and the road ahead. You can’t be too careful on a trunk road at night. I once knew a young driver called Sam who got out to mend his tail light on the road. It was the last ever seen of him. Another wagon was belting down the road behind him. The driver, a Geordie, not seeing any light, came hammering along. It was too late to do anything about it when he saw the lorry. He went clean into the back of it as Sam was fixing his tail light.

  I drew up in a safe clear spot. In the beam of my headlight I could see a lorry skew-whift across the road. There was a black car that had crashed into the back of it and with such force that it seemed to be buried under the chassis. I lit a fag. As I was getting out a driver came running up to me.

  “Leave your headlights on, Bolton,” he called. “They need all the light they can get.”

  “That you, Ned?” I said. “What’s happened?”

  “A right bleeding smash up,” said Ned. He whispered, “It’s old Jackson. Police car run into the back of him. They’re trying to get the bodies out.”

  We walked down together to the smash up. The police and ambulance men were on the job. They were trying to jack up the back axle of the lorry so that they could get the car out. The police car hooter was going all the time. The blue plate on the back of the car with the word “POLICE” on it was intact, but that was about all that was. Nobody would ever drive that car again. As for the two blokes inside, well, one glimpse was enough.

  “Babyface?” I said to Ned.

  “It was,” said Ned. “Poor old sod. His mate, too.” He gave me a knowing look, but said no more.

  I heard someone talking in a husky voice and I turned and saw Jackson. He was talking to a young patrol cop who was making notes in his book.

  “Well, I’ll tell you all I know,” said Jackson. “I’m coming along at a fair crack. No use wrapping it up, I had my toe down, because I wanted to get to the caff down the road before they close. I usually have egg and chips about this time. But I was keeping my eyes open and the road was dead clear in front and behind me—so far as I could see. I could have sworn to it. And I was just coming along there, when on the bend here, dead in front of me, I saw what looked like a body curled in the roadway.”

  “A body?” said the cop. “Where is it now?”

  “I looked after,” said Jackson. “See—under there.”

  He pointed under his lorry. We all looked.

  “That old overcoat?” said the cop.

  “I can see what it is now” said Jackson. “But catch it in your headlights an’ it looks different.” The cop nodded.

  “I’ve known many an old geezer get drunk and go to sleep in the middle of the road,” went on Jackson. “Anyway, I slammed on my brakes at once. Then I got the shock of my life. Something hit me from behind. I couldn’t think what had happened. It wasn’t a tap, it was a real bash. Even with my brakes on it knocked me across the road.”

  The patrol cop looked sympathetic.

  “What did you do then?” he asked.

  “It took me a minute or two to come round,” said Jackson. “The shock and one thing and another. Then I got out of the cab and walked round to the back. It’s dark, see, and for a bit I couldn’t make out what had happened. I could hear this horn blowing away in my ears, but I didn’t know where it was coming from, not at first. Then suddenly I began to make it out. I looked inside the car and saw ‘em. It was a shock, mate, I can tell you that. How are they? Will they be all right?”

  “Take it easy,” said the cop. “We’re doing all we can.”

  Jackson wiped his face with his hand: “Is it all right if I walk down the road and get myself a cup of tea?” he asked. “I feel all out.”

  The cop said: “Just a minute, I’ll see.” He went up to a police sergeant and one of the ambulance men. Jackson turned and winked at me, then he went on wiping his forehead. The patrol cop came back and said, “So long as you are not too far away.”

  Jackson said, “I’ll be in the caff.”

  “Better let me have your licence,” said the cop.

  “I’ll get it out of my coat pocket,” said Jackson, “in the cab.” He turned to me. “You’ll give me a lift down the road, Lofty?”

  The cop warmed up: “Come on,” he said, “let’s get the road clear, or we’ll be having another smash up. Tell the other drivers not to line up along there.”

  Jackson got into my cab. I drove round by his lorry and down the road to Lew’s. He was thinking about something and he said nothing as we went down the road, and I didn’t feel like talking either. When I drew up to a halt outside Lew’s he turned to me and digging his hand inside his coat he carefully pulled something out.

  “‘Ere you are, mate,” he said.

  I looked. In his hand was the driving mirror I had lent him. The glass was broken.

  “It came in handy,” he said.

  I didn’t say anything. He looked like a man at peace with himself.

  “I had it planted down below the floorboards,” he said.

  “Oh, aye?” I said.

  I wasn’t as surprised as I made it sound.

  “It was there waiting for Babyface,” he said. “I knew whenever he crept on my tail, even if he had all his lights out, I’d spot him down in that mirror. Half an hour ago I caught him creeping up behind me. Right, I thought to myself, I’ll draw you on, Charlie. I stuck in the booster gear and put my toe down. They fell for it and crept right up behind me. I was coming down Long Hill and I knew the exact spot he’d overtake me, just near the bend at the bottom. So as we were drawing near to it I got every ounce I could out of the old tub. We were fair cracking along, I can tell you. Right mate, I thought, you’re trying to do me, but I’m going to do you instead. So I steeled myself for the shock, then I slammed both feet down at once and swung on the handbrake at the same time.”

  Jackson scratched his nose:

  “I’ve got some lovely anchors on the old wagon. They drew me up like that. They’d have had to be bloody good drivers to stop that quick. They didn’t have a chance. They crashed right clean in the back.”

  I felt I needed a bit of fresh air after that lot, so I got out of the cab. Jackson got out at the other side and walked round to me.

  “Firs
t thing I did, when I stopped,” he said, “was to take that old mirror out and put the floorboard back straight. Breaking that mirror brought ‘em bad luck all right. Then I took that old topcoat that I had specially for the job and planted it on the road under the lorry. It’s not mine.”

  He followed me round as I kicked at my tyres, and tested my loading ropes.

  “Well, here’s your mirror, mate,” he said.

  I could hardly bear to look at it, let alone take hold of it.

  ‘If you don’t want it, I can soon lose it for you,” said Jackson. He was back in a minute. “Take a bloody good detective to find it now,” he said.

  “Jackson,” I said, “what’s the idea telling me all this?”

  He smiled softly at me and then he said, “A bloke don’t want to walk round with a basinful of that on his mind. I know I’m safe with an old driver. Come on, let’s see if Ethel has the egg and chips ready.”

  I followed him. At the door he turned and said to me, “Nothing I like better than getting one across the law. Y’know what it means for my dangerous drivin’ charge?— Case dismissed.”

  I went in after him. There were half a dozen drivers in. Walter and Willie, young Clive, a driver and his mate from Glasgow, and an old driver from Hull. They all gave nods and waves to me. But as for Jackson, not a word was spoken. Not a sign was made. You felt everything going dead quiet. Lew was wiping the tables and kept right away from where Jackson sat. Ethel was behind the counter and she never gave him so much as a glance. She looked across to me and waved her hand. Jackson looked at her, but she didn’t seem to see him. I knew then the word had gone round. It doesn’t take long. He might have got one across the law, but he hadn’t got one across Watling Street. Nobody would split, but already, North and South, they were putting the poison in for him. Within a week he’d be lucky to get a civil cup of tea anywhere along the A5. And I could see by the look on Jackson’s face, he knew one thing at least—no matter what the police found or didn’t find— he’d never get anywhere with Ethel now. And his driving days on Watling Street were over. And, looking across to the counter, where Ethel was working with her sleeves rolled up, I couldn’t help thinking to myself, Bolton, this is where you might move in.