Andy and Claire (Vince book six)

By Eric Bray

This is the final part - (or is it the beginning?) of the Vince series, following the life of Vince and George's son, Andy, and his ensuing offspring.
Although based in the same location, part of Anglesey, it follows a very different format and theme. Your favourite characters still appear now and then, but there is less violence, and more philosophy in these pages.
I hope you read the previous five books first, as they lead up to this one, but it isn't essential.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eric Bray
• Release date: Jan 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465974792

Eric Bray

Born in 1950, after school,I served my country in the Royal Navy, the least said about which the better. Since then I have made plastic drain-pipes, driven a fork truck, worked as a courier in the multi-drop rip-off game, and for the last two years have watched a conveyor belt going around. I have now achieved retirement. I began writing for amusement during my lunch-breaks, and rose to the challenge of becoming published when I commented on a book I had purchased, saying something along the lines of - "I could do better than that!" - when someone said - "Go on, then!" My other hobbies are scuba-diving, designing, building, and flying radio-controlled model aircraft, ham radio, photography, and avoiding gardening.

Book preview

Andy and Claire

(book 6 of the Vince series)

Published by Eric Bray at Smashwords

copyright 2012 Eric Bray

The continuation and final part of the Vince and George series. (No 6) although Oki and Pete make a brief appearance in ‘Charlie’.

This collection of writings is purely a work of fiction.

One or two of the businesses mentioned, which take no significant or active part in the plot, are genuine, as are similar geographical locations. They are included merely for authenticity.

All characters and events are entirely a figment of my imagination, and as such, bear no intended resemblance to any person, dead, living, or not yet created, or event from the past, present, or future.

Finally - my apologies to the People of Anglesey, for the liberties I have taken with their country, their language, and place names.

Chapter-------------------title.

1------------------Was your journey really necessary?

2------------------Officially open for business

3------------------Claire

4------------------Me

5------------------Together.

6------------------The letter.

7------------------Seven days.

8------------------Push the boat out.

9------------------The file-binder.

10-----------------Nuevo Rich.

11-----------------New wheels.

12-----------------Exposed.

13-----------------Up North (west)

14-----------------Much later

15-----------------Three years on.

16-----------------New beginnings.

17-----------------Katie’s bit.

Katie’s story

Setting the scene.

Starting here.

Rescue Mission.

Back at Base.

Six months on.

Sam’s story.

*****

Chapter one.

Was your journey necessary?

In the dark, the broken white lines painted on the tarmac, and only dimly illuminated by the headlights of my tired old Vauxhall Chevette, were difficult to see. The teeming rain did nothing to help the situation as the windscreen wipers flogged endlessly across the smeary glass. The problem was made considerably worse by the blinding cloud of spray thrown up by the wagon and trailer in the middle lane of the Motorway, which was travelling half a mile an hour faster than the Artic in the nearside lane. ‘Eddie Stobart’ was roaring along, intent on his own business and deadlines, and had no intention of lifting his boot off the noise pedal for an instant, never mind for long enough to allow ‘Norbert Dentressangle’ the opportunity to draw ahead and drop into the lane ahead of him. I contemplated the possibility of moving over into the outside lane, and blasting past, leaving the pair of them to continue blocking the road for another fifty miles or more. A glance at the speedometer, which was wavering at around 72 mph, and the big orange and white Range Rover with the silhouetted strobe-bar, switched off, on the roof, caused me to reconsider. Instead, I dropped back a little more, to give the screen-wipers a chance at combating the muck being thrown up, and also in the hope of allowing my engine to breathe a less waterlogged mixture. I didn’t want the paper air filter to get saturated, in case it decided to collapse, choking the tiny 1256cc engine. That would mean that I would have to get out, open the lid, wield a screwdriver, remove the long, rectangular filter-box cover, discard the soggy mess within, re-assemble the box, and then wring my sodden clothing out, as I had neglected to bring a raincoat. For an instant a niggling doubt crept into my mind, regarding whether I had actually PUT my toolbox into the back, or had I left it in the junk-room, at home? If I had not, then I didn’t have a screwdriver with which I could – I pushed the thought aside, and forgot about it, as there was nothing I could do, either way.

Inch by inch, ‘Norbert’ crawled past ‘Eddie’. Another junction came and went. We started up the long gradient past Daventry, where the fields were full of radio masts that were invisible in the dark, but marked by a myriad of red lights, and the speed decayed a little. Inch by inch, ‘Eddie’ regained the lost ground, as he seemed to have a few more horses in his engine, but a few less revs than ‘Norbert’. I decided that when they got down to sixty-five, I would pass them. The Range Rover sat behind, waiting to pounce at the slightest hint of a misdemeanor.

We came over the crest, going at sixty-six. Right, Now! Mirror, sig-, a BMW ambled past at seventy. Then a Jag, then a Pontiac, then a Volvo. A gap - mirror, sig - no, damn it! Sixty-nine mph! ‘Norbert’ began to inch up on ‘Eddie’ again.

I groaned, and dropped back, as my little engine was beginning to protest at being forced to breathe so much water. All right, then, plan ‘B’. At the next Services, I’d pull off, have ten minutes, and a coffee, and give the two truckers time to get out of the way. Hopefully, it would let my engine dry out a smidgeon, as well. Petrol? The gauge said I had three-quarters of a tank, so no problems there.

Another junction came and went, with ‘Eddie’ and ‘Norbert’ still side by side, neither prepared to concede to the other.

Bumpa! The car twitched. Bumpa, bumpa, bumpa, - What the hell? Then I realized we had reached the concrete slab section of the motorway, and the bumping was my wheels tramping over the expansion joints between the blocks. My heart went back down my neck to where it was supposed to be. Headlights behind, then ‘White Van Man’ came storming past, in the ubiquitous Ford Transit, sucking an enormous ball of spray behind, as he slammed past at somewhere around the ton mark. I waited for the blue strobes, but the coppers didn’t twitch, the bastards!

The M5 joined us, as we drove through the infamous ‘spaghetti junction’ at Birmingham, and we fed onto the M6. ‘Eddie’ and ‘Norbert’ were still hard at it, side by side.

A sign at the side of the road read ‘Tiredness can kill, take a break!’ followed by the ‘Services, one mile’ board. I started trying to get over into the nearside lane, my indicators flashing, but Mrs. Ford Escort wouldn’t let me in. Mr. Fiat was tucked up tight behind her, well less than the recommended two seconds back. I lifted off the go pedal, and dropped back, still trying to move over. Behind, a horn blared, and the Range Rover hit his ‘main beam’ switch, dazzling me completely. As I slowed, Mr. Fiat moved ahead, but now Mr. Metro wouldn’t let me in, either. Services, half a mile. I eased over, crowding Mr. Metro until I could hear his tyres buzzing on the rattle strip on the edge dividing the carriageway from the hard shoulder, but he refused to let me in. The Range Rover moved right, and accelerated past, giving me a glimpse of the logo on the side panel. It wasn’t the cops at all, it was ‘Harry’s Breakdown Service’ in a d.i.y. pick-up, the saloon body sawn off at the door-frames, and a crane mounted on the back, where the rear seat used to be.

I squeezed up into the nearside lane, tight up the backside of Mr. Metro, receiving an angry ‘teet’ from the VW Golf that had been tailgating him, and just made it into the Services slip-road as it peeled off, away from the carriageway. I stood on the brakes, feeling the Chevette start to slither, then came off them before it got away from me, cranked it left, caught the tank-slapper, and trundled to a halt in a parking bay. The Golf stopped behind me, trapping my car in, but I wasn’t bothered. I wasn’t planning on going anywhere for a short while. I allowed the engine to idle for a short while, letting it cool down, then chopped the ignition and removed the key, before levering myself out of the seat. I half fell out of the car, then went through the usual ‘sat in one position for too long’ posturing, as I tried to loosen up my stiff limbs and back.

AY! YER SILLY BOOGER! WHAT YER THINK YER DOIN?

I turned to face the noise. Are you talking to me?

AY. SILLY BOOGER. YER COOT ME OOP! It was Mr.VW Golf.

Well, you saw me indicating, for long enough. Why didn’t you let me in?

WHY THA FOOK – Yorkshire began

Because, I interrupted the tirade, for all you know, I was about to break down, or run out of fuel, or something. It seemed a reasonable comment, to me.

STOOPID FOOKER! Yorkshire began, as I locked the car door.

I turned to face him again, and said Go away, and stop shouting and swearing at me!

HOO THA FOOK –. He swung a fist the size of a side of beef, so I ducked under it, and poked a finger into his diaphragm. He whooped, folded up, and sat down. I warned you!

A smattering of applause and a couple of cheers followed that, and I looked round to see a mini-bus full of codgers that had stopped behind the Golf. Way to go! called the driver, as he squeezed his vehicle past. The silly sod deserved that, I saw you trying to turn off!

I left Yorkshire sitting in a puddle, gasping for air like a stranded fish, and went in search of the ‘Gents’.

When I returned to my car, Yorkshire, and his Golf, had gone, and so had my windscreen wiper blades! Being a good, prepared motorist, I had a spare blade in the boot, and soon had it fitted to the arm. The other bare one had to go without, but a piece of cloth, formerly my handkerchief, would stop the steel arm gouging an arc in the windscreen.

When I was ready, I fired up the little engine, waited until it stopped misfiring, and then reversed out of my parking spot. I was about to rejoin the M6, when I saw a familiar VW Golf on the hard shoulder, just before the end of the slip road. It was unoccupied, and then I saw him, a hundred or so yards on, by the emergency telephone. I pulled up behind his car, nipped out, and ‘borrowed’ HIS wipers, in exchange for mine, then departed hastily, before he could lumber back. I gave him a single-finger salute, as I passed.

I kept the Chevette trundling along at a comfortable fifty-five, while the engine warmed up again. I could feel it baulking and mis-firing because of all the water in the works, but now it had stopped raining, and providing it wasn't re-soaked by spray-balls, it would dry out soon. I was following nobody, and a glance in my mirror showed that there was nobody behind, either. All the traffic had mysteriously disappeared.

I was just about to wind the speed up to seventy-something, again, when I saw the sign ahead, warning of road works, and a fifty limit. So I stayed at five over, a wary eye open for cameras.

Military-like lines of reflective cones appeared, suggesting soldiers lined up on parade, in my lights, as they stood waiting patiently for the promised work to begin. A glance at the speedo, and ease off a little, as I was creeping up towards sixty. Lane three began to squeeze in towards two, and then the cones were pushing two into one. No matter, I appeared to have the road to myself. Up ahead, red lights flared, then as a curve straightened out, I could see more red lights. I came off the power some more, but I was still gaining, rapidly! Brakes! Gears! Hazard lights on then turned on my rear fog lights as I slithered to a halt, slightly askew, behind a line of other rapidly halted vehicles. I kept my foot on the brake pedal, and prayed, as a long-drawn-out howl of rubber sliding on tarmac announced the arrival of another vehicle at the rear of the queue. The Ford Cortina just barely nudged me, as it dragged to a crooked halt. The queue wasn’t moving, so I got out to survey the damage. A Saab halted a few feet behind the Cortina, then a sixteen-ton MAN box van lurched to a halt behind that, his tyres steaming.

Mr. Cortina apologized, as we looked at the damage. We both had a tiny crease in the respective bumpers.

Forget it! I said. It isn’t worth bothering about.

Fairy snuff, mate! We briefly shook hands, and then re-embarked, as the line ahead began to move.

With howling tyres, and hissing airbrakes, an artic juddered to a halt scant feet short of the back of the MAN. Mr. Iveco sat there for a moment, eyes wide with shock, and then let out an explosive huff of air. The sound wasn’t audible, but the ballooning of his cheeks was visible. The ton-up Porsche Carrerra wasn’t so lucky, and chose the coned off lanes as an escape route, in preference to the back of the Iveco. Cones scattered in all directions as it whizzed through, the ABS brakes chattering audibly. It came to rest to the side of, but in front of, my Chevette, in lane two and a half. One cone teetered on its roof, and then fell to the tarmac. Another had found itself a ledge between the rear spoiler and the bodywork, its fat end upwards.

The dolly-bird driver clambered out, and then began tugging at the jammed cone, until the beady glass eye of the camera, on a pole, attracted her attention. Oooh, shit! She cursed, as the camera tilted up, to continue its vigil down the road.

The movement along the line finally reached us, and we trundled off again, in fits and starts. Mrs. Carrerra slotted in in front of the MAN. Hesitantly, we covered another mile, and then the speed began to pick up again as the cones peeled off, back to the centre reservation. A pair of signs, one on either side of the road, read ‘END’, though what of wasn’t clear, as apart from the cones, there were no works proceeding! There had been nothing inside the coned off area, if you discounted the errant Carrerra.

We linearly passed the de-restricted speed sign, and Mrs. Carrerra growled past us all as if we were stopped. White Van Man, presumably another one, was close behind, its diesel engine hammering furiously.

Behind, Iveco was trying to pass MAN, who was up my backside. I trod on the loud pedal when the road opened up, and left them to it.

At Knutsford Services, I caught up with ‘Eddie’ and ‘Norbert’, they had swapped places, but were still hard at it, neither able to get away from the other.

I flicked a glance in the mirror, then floored the go pedal, and moved to the outside. My Chevette made it up to 82 but I passed them, at last, and began the long climb over the 'Big Dipper' of the Thelwall viaduct. Once clear of the trucks, I backed off the power, keeping a wary eye on the climbing temperature, as the engine began to protest at the workload. Over the Ship Canal we went, then down the other side of the slope. Junction 21A, the M62, came and went, and I was heading up the slip road to the ordinary roads. Round the ‘doughnut’, and thirty seemed like a snails-pace.

At five to nine, next morning, with my eyeballs feeling as though they were full of grit, I was at the office, waiting to see what my days schedule was, when Ollie, the Supervisor, wandered over. The Boss wants you.

Ok, where is he?

Where do you think?

In the stationery cupboard, with Julie? I ventured, getting a wry grin in response. Julie is his ‘P.A’, and has a very flexible job description(and disposition!).

Julie wasn’t in the cupboard, she was sitting behind her plastic mahogany desk, poking at the keys of her computer. In a corner, a printer was going zzzip, kerchunk, zzzzip, kerchunk, as it vomited sheets of A4 into a tray. She spared me a millisecond for a glance.

The Boss wanted to see me.

Uh! she pointed at a chair, which I presume was an invitation to wait.

An hour later, I was still waiting.

He swaggered in at ten past eleven, flicked a kiss to Julie, and then saw me sitting there. Whaddayawant?

You wanted to see me.

He looked blank.

So Ollie said.

Oh, yeah! That were yesterday. Don’t matter, now!

I climbed to my feet.

Where was yer, yesterday?

You sent me to that meeting, to make that presentation.

Oh, yeah, and?

They spared me two minutes. I got as far as Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the -, then they called time, and chucked me out. I don’t think our new product is very high on their agenda. I suspect that a crisis is imminent, but what, I couldn’t find out."

Grmmpfh! He waved a dismissal.

As I opened the door, he added another question. That took you all day? He used English, for once.

Three and a half hours down, three and a half back. I didn’t start ‘til turned one p.m., they kept me waiting for another hour. At five thirty I was on the way back. I stopped for a meal, and was back for ten thirty, or so.

Grmpfh! He went into his inner sanctum, and closed the door. As I went out, the intercom buzzed, and Julie took her shorthand pad in to his office. I saw myself out, and went for lunch.

After lunch, I filled in an ‘Out of Pocket Expenses’ claim form, and handed it in, Stapled to it were two petrol receipts, a restaurant bill, and a till ticket from the garage for two wiper blades. I left it on Julie’s desk, under an ashtray full of paperclips, and carefully ignored the giggle from the other office.

In response to my query, Ollie looked slowly around the empty, deserted warehouse, and suggested that I found something to do for a while, and then quietly vanish away until tomorrow. He gave me a sheaf of papers on a clipboard, for tomorrow. I retired to the canteen, hopefully to find a clean table where I could sort them into some sort of workable order.

I stretched it out for an hour, and drank two cups of mechanically substituted coffee that tasted like diluted paint stripper, then gathered everything up, and faded through the exit portal.

The Boss was outside it, talking to Ollie. Whereyougoin?

I’m checking fire exits, and extinguishers, against the inventory! I replied, brandishing my clipboard.

Grmpfh!

I went and sampled another mechanical coffee, then went to recycle it, in the rather smelly loo. This time, they had gone, so I did, too.

The steel handrail in the open stairwell servicing the flats clanged hollowly as my clipboard banged against it. I trudged up the stone and concrete stairs, three floors, to my flat. Inside, I scooped up the new pile of junk mail, double-checked it WAS junk, and then dumped it, unopened, into the nearly full bin. I threw the clipboard at a chair, and then switched on the stereo while I decided what to have for the evening meal. Following the bassy plop from the speakers as the amp woke up, the tones of Johnny Walker rambled on about some personal affront he had suffered earlier that day. A glance at the t.v. listings paper convinced me that J.W. was the better option, for now. The film at nine-thirty, following the news, was maybe worth a look.

At twenty past, I finished my solitary evening meal, and watched the last knockings of the news. The weather was more of the same, rain, rain, and more rain, with occasional rainy spells in between showers. After I had washed the pot, singular, I switched off the rubbish film, which had proved to be an American comedy, one of those where they tell you when to laugh, in case you missed the joke, and tried to raise the enthusiasm to read a book.

I got as far as page ten before my eyelids drooped. It was too early to go to bed, and too late to go out. The answerphone sat, dumb and happy, on the table, making me wonder if I should call somebody, but I couldn’t think of anyone to call, so I didn’t bother. Instead, I did the usual things, then went to bed.

The frantic chirping of the digital alarm clock rudely woke me at seven thirty. I looked blankly at the book I had taken with me, as it lay where it had fallen, still on page ten. I couldn’t recall a single word, so I closed it, and put it back on the shelf, as I crawled out, to begin the day.

By eight-thirty, I was on my way to Wigan, and the first verbal contest of the day. By nine fourty-five, I knew it was a lost cause, and began winding up. Ten saw me on the road again, en route to job number two, a small sports clothing factory up a back-street in Horwich, a little town just outside Bolton. I got short shrift there. The Guv’nor wasn’t about to invest in new heavy plant, when he barely had the work coming in to fully occupy the machinery he already had, especially from a place that was on the financial skids. That seemingly common knowledge was news to me!

Job number three. I waited nearly fourty minutes before being admitted to the ‘Pur hasin Man ger’s office.

Yeah? He sounded bored.

I’m from –. I identified myself, and the Company I represented.

Oh, them lot what’s going bust. Whatever you’re flogging, no thanks. You won’t be around to fix it when it busts!

Our quality machinery does not -.

Oh, yes? Why are you going under then? The door is that way.

Job number four didn’t even bother letting me in.

Number five, in Blackburn, was an Asian gent, with an accent you could cut with a knife. You lot again, I think he said. We had one of your lot in, this morning! I’ll give you the same answer, Bugger off!

Off I buggered.

Preston, and then Chorley, was next on the list. I flicked a glance at the dashboard clock. Five past four. Chorley was out, then, and Preston was iffy, it depended on the traffic.

I nearly made it, but the motorway was snarled up at Charnock, so I arrived at a minute past.

Sorry, ‘e’s gone ‘ome, nah! said the gate intercom. Oo shall I say what called?

I said my, and the company’s, names.

Oh, them what’s gone pop? Ok.

We haven’t gone pop. It’s a vicious rumour!

Nowt ter do wi’ me, pal. I just answer t’ ‘phone! The speaker sighed, An’ ‘e’s still gone ‘ome!

I had to perform a thirty-six point turn in the narrow driveway, with a thirty-six ton artic loaded with paper trying to crowd past.

I pulled in at the first safe place I came to, and tried to make the required daily call, to report progress. The ‘phone rang, and rang, and rang. Finally an automated voice broke in, telling me the number called wasn’t answering! Then it suggested that I check that I had dialled the correct number. As the number, stored in the ‘phone’s memory bank, had worked many times before, it seemed rather odd. I redialled, and eventually got an automated voice telling me---. That was very odd! There was always someone there until nine p.m., after which, incoming calls were switched through to the Security Lodge. I began to suspect that the firm HAD gone under, and nobody had bothered to tell me! I tried manual dialling, with the same result, then set off for home, via Charnock services, where I drank something they called coffee, and a chewy thing that they claimed was a freshly made ham sandwich. I must admit that the label didn’t say when it had been freshly made! I stuck it all down with a Yorkie bar, which tasted like a Yorkie bar, then chucked the wrapper, the triangular sandwich shaped plastic box, and the plastic cup out of the window, in the general direction of the overflowing bin, before driving off into the streaming traffic. It took nearly two hours to cover the thirty odd miles home, the ‘Ham’ sandwich repeated at every bump and jiggle, and my intestines began to growl and bubble evilly.

Back at base, I halted the car in front of the closed gates, climbed out, glugged, and then blew wind at both ends, before fingering the shiny new lock fastening the rusty old gates shut. What the hell? I muttered. The gates were only ever closed at Christmas, when we closed down for a fortnight.

Another Rep, from a different department, whom I vaguely knew, pulled in behind me, in his Ford Granada, and then took his turn fingering the new lock, and looking blankly about. Well, fuck me! He exclaimed.

No thanks, I’m biased towards women!

That got me a down-the-nose, disdainful stare, followed by a sniff.

It looks like they didn’t tell you, either!

Tell me what? Granada asked.

The firm has gone pop, or so I keep being told!

Oooh, shit! He groaned.

Big mortgage?

That earned me another haughty glare, and a sniff, after which, he went to his car, and tried the telephone. I presume he got the same result I had, earlier.

I shuffled my Chevette through 180’, and went home, leaving him listening to the answering machine.

Out of habit, and more in hope than anticipation, I joined the queue of cars, motorcycles, and bicycles outside the gates, at ten to nine, next morning. Everyone stood around in departmental bunches, looking concerned, and confused.

Ollie was arguing with the dirigible-sized ‘Jobsworth’ on the other side of the gate. He was dressed in a ‘Security’ uniform, and possessed a huge bunch of keys which dragged at one side of the drooping trouser belt. Look, I’m the Union Rep, and I need to get to my desk, where all my files are!

Tough!

Look, I need the files, it’s got the ‘phone numbers in, so I can start sorting this mess out!

Tough!

Come on, let me in, so I can get the files!

No.

Ollie kicked the gate, from frustration, and turned away. His gaze ran across the gathered throng, and he shrugged, then he saw me. Ah, the fount of all useless knowledge! He jested. I don’t suppose you have the ‘phone number of the Union office, in town, in your head?

No. I replied, But it’s in my ‘phone! I switched it on, and started poking buttons until the memory regurgitated the desired one.

Ollie tapped the string of numbers into his own ‘phone, and hoped for a reply.

I sat in my car, and waited, trying to recall how much money I had in the bank, and when the bills were due. I suspected that the answer to ‘A’ would not be sufficient to cover the answer to ‘B’. I had four pounds and eleven pence credit in my ‘phone, and two hundred and something to pay off on my visa. Then there was the rent, the gas, the electric, the land-line ‘phone, the -. A flashy Jaguar trundled down past the line of vehicles, to the gate. ‘Jobsworth’ promptly appeared, and opened it, to allow the Jag through, then the gate was firmly closed and locked again. The Jag rumbled sedately off to the office block.

Slowly, the word filtered down the line, ‘Official Receiver!’

So we had gone bust!

Surreptitiously, people checked how much cash they had in purses and wallets, as the finality sank in. I didn’t need to check, I knew! I had one fiver, two one pound coins, and three pence, left over from purchasing petrol yester – no! The day before!

A shrill whistle grabbed my attention, and I looked up to see everyone drifting together, in response to Ollie’s gesticulations.

OK! He bawled. Quiet! – Shurrup! – Quiet!

When the noise level from the grumbling and mumbling had dropped to an acceptable level, he began, - Listen, damnit! Let me say my piece, before you all keep interrupting! Shurrup an’ listen! Give me a chance! Like I said, I didn’t know, either! Shut it, Charlie! And nor did the Union. Honest! Really! Will you – thank you. So, they are getting things in motion right now. I’m to take a roll-call, see who’s here, and then you can please yourselves - hang about here, and see, or go home and wait. Now, Dumbo, in there, won’t let me in to get the files, so will you all leave your names, addresses, and ‘phone numbers with me before you go, so I can contact you later? We all saw the flash car, and know who was in – No, I don’t know his name! – in it, but we all know what – Or his ‘phone number, thank you Charlie! – what that means!

We’re stuffed! Someone in the middle called.

Exactly! So you don’t need to be told not to go down to the Rose and Crown, and piss the last of your cash up the wall, do you? Right. Who has a pen, and some paper, and I’ll make a start! Don’t wander off until I’ve got your details, or I can’t reach you, later. Right, you first!

Slowly, people filtered away. I decided that the best place for me to visit was the Jobcentre, so once I had registered, I went there.

Bar staff, bar staff, cleaner, burger fryer, cleaner, shelf-filler, trolley collector, glass collector, school-leaver wanted, experienced gobbledygook operator, must have at least gobbledygook, fork-lift driver, for temporary. Transit multi-drop driver. Part-time caterer, cleaning duties incl., and more bar staff. There was nothing on the boards that was of even passing interest. I filled in sheaves of paper, all of them asking daft questions, or downright impertinent ones, and personal stuff about income, assets, outgoings, debts, C.C.J’s, pending court appearances, health problems, and all the other stuff you never tell strangers, until you have to go to the D.S.S. Once you step through that doorway, privacy is just a word that has no meaning. They want every tiny detail on paper, even how much you spend on magazines, papers, records, c.d.’s, d.v.d’s, everything. (Mind you, in my case, most of them were zero!) I applied for every payment I could think of that I might squeeze out of them. That meant more forms to fill in, asking the same questions again, in a different order. After that, I had to fill a form in, saying which forms I had filled in, and that I was applying for whatever the forms I’d filled in were for. When I handed that one in, I was given another form, which listed various things I had to do, and more forms to ask for, complete, and return. Why can they not have one form, for everything? It would save an awful lot of trees!

So, I spent another hour, answering the same intrusive questions yet again, and handed those in, only to be told to come back in a fortnight, unless I’d found employment by myself before then. In that case, I’d need to ask for another form to cancel all the previous forms that I had completed.

When I finally escaped, I had writer’s cramp, and a headache.

The car-park attendant demanded the sum of two pounds fifty, as I had gone over the allotted two hours free parking limit.

I offered my two pounds and three pence, and said where I had been. My dejected tone of voice must have been convincing, because he accepted it, clipped the ticket, and gave me two pounds change, with a knowing wink. Been there meself, mate. He raised the barrier.

The fuel gauge was indicating just under half a tank, so I debated whether to put my last fiver in the tank, and live on what food I had in the cupboards, or whether to save it for emergencies! Damnit! This WAS an emergency! I saved it, for now, and went home.

The Postie had called, in my absence, and left another pile of junk mail. Domino’s Pizza, free delivery for orders over – bin! You have won a guaranteed Caribbean holiday, just order this luxury fake fur – bin! Tom Champagne insisted that I might have won – bin. As an outstanding customer, you have automatically qualified for a ten thousand pound loan at 5074 percent a.p.r. – I wanted a gift, not a loan, of ten grand! Bin. Ah, bank statement. I wanted that! And the visa statement, please pay in full before-, or a partial payment by – they would be lucky if I could make the minimum payment! I’d have to tell them I had suddenly become unemployed, and pray. I made a note to start a list of all the people I would need to tell, and cross them off again as I got to them. The bank statement revealed that I was worse off than expected. The Company hadn’t deposited my last month’s wages, never mind this one, so it was a fair bet I wouldn’t get the next one, that I had just finished earning, either! No doubt the Directors, and the Shareholders, had taken their cut, and vanished into the woodwork, post haste.

My mobile trilled, so I answered it. Ollie was on the other end, so I let him say his piece, and then told him about the wages.

Oh, shit! summed it up nicely. How much cash you got?

I told him. An’ how much in the bank, if you don’t mind?

I didn’t, and told him, and added that the utility bills would leave me about a hundred in the red.

Ah! Silence for a moment. How much on your plastic?

I told him that, too.

Er, ah. He struggled. I’ll get back to you.

A little over two hours later, he called me back. Some of the others haven’t been paid, either, and some don’t know yet. I’m one of those! I’ve been told to tell you to call the Union office, on a different number, got a pen? He reeled off the number. And put yourself on the list. They’ll take it from there. I’m using the Company ‘phone, so it will probably go off when the Buzby’s (slang name for the G.P.O. telephones) notice they haven’t been paid. You can get me on the number I just gave you, if it does. They’re trying to get some sort of interim payment out to everyone who’s up the creek, but don’t spend it until you’ve got it in your sticky little palm, ok?

Ok.

Good luck, mate.

And you, Ollie.

In that t.v. advert, the character takes a chainsaw to the furniture and finds a pile of lost coins, so I emulated him, rather less destructively, by merely removing the upholstery cushions, and rummaging down the backs and sides. All I found was a lone penny, a used party popper, and a very stale crust off a sandwich. I considered saving the crust for later, and then decided that I wouldn’t get that desperate, and consigned it to the bin.

Lacking any better ideas, I scanned the Sit’s Vac. Columns in the free weekly paper that occasionally appears, without much hope. The same old low-paid dead-end jobs paraded past my eyes, bar staff, cleaners, bottle-washers, burger turners, sweeps. Taxi driver, must have own car and Hackney license, labourer, fruit picker, seasonal. There was one possibility, multi-drop delivery drivers for National Company, new depot opening soon. The address was ten minutes away, on foot. With nothing to lose, except my dignity, and all afternoon to use up, I went round. The place proved to be Security Corps.

I asked the girl in reception for the Personnel Department.

Gotta ‘nappointment?

No, not yet.

Froo dere, up de stairs, an’ nask for Betty! She pointed at a door.

I went up the stairs, found Betty, a frumpy sixty-year-old, with a face like a de-hydrated prune, and said my piece.

Have you ever driven a seven and a half ton van?

I answered in the negative.

Got your license with you?

As it happened, I had, and presented the little red book.

My, that’s an old one! She flicked through the pages. "Clean, I see!

I’ve been lucky.

Take a seat, a minute. I’ll see if they’re doing interviews, while you are here. She flounced off through a tin door, which clanged shut behind her, making the tin walls rattle.

She clanged back in again, after a couple of minutes, hauled a long form from the one and only filing cabinet, and passed it to me. We’re only just getting set up. She said, So things are a bit haphazard, yet. Take that down to the canteen, fill it in, and bring it back.

At my query, she said, - Down the stairs, first left twice, through the fire door, and right.

There was no fire door, but the frame for a door was in place, so I assumed the next right was the – no! The sign read ‘Ladies’. I tried the next right, which opened to admit me to a junk cupboard the size of a ‘phone box.

What’cha lookin’ for, mate? He came out of the door marked ‘Ladies’.

The canteen.

In ‘ere, mate.

But the sign on the door -.

He turned and looked. Ah, the silly buggers have put the wrong door in the hole! I suppose the Ladies bog says ‘canteen’! Are you thinking of starting?

I said I was.

Takes all sorts! He went up the stairs, and Betty’s door clanged.

The canteen had a coffee machine, with the ‘no change’ sign lit. There were no tables or chairs. On the back wall hung a dartboard, the plasterboard around it peppered with small holes. An electric kettle balanced precariously on a window-ledge, connected to a socket on the inside wall by a trailing extension lead.

I perched on another window-ledge, and commenced filling in the form. When I got to the line, which read – Do not write below this line-, I took the form back upstairs, to ‘Clanging Betty’. She accepted it, and sent me back down to wait in the canteen.

After fifteen minutes, my buttocks were getting numb, so I stood to allow the blood to circulate. Another door opened. (This place had more doors than one of those stage ‘bedroom farces’). A cheery barrel on legs bounded in. I’m Frankie. Got your license?

I watched him flick through it. Ever driven a three tonner?

I said no.

Well, you’re about to. He led me through into the warehouse, to where three monstrous great trucks stood. This here’s the Ford Custom-Cab. We call it a three tonner, the Frogs call it a seven and a half metric tonner. Our tons are bigger than theirs! The end with the windows is the front, and the end with the shed doors on is the back! It’s got a diesel engine, and air brakes, and it’s just like driving a car, only bigger! Under here’s the brake cylinders, and you must drain them every day, but not in the warehouse, it makes a filthy mess on the floor. The fuel tank is here, the battery is in here, oil goes in there, water in there, and the screen washer is here. That’s all you need to touch, apart from kicking the tyres, to see if they’ve gone down. Hop in, and adjust the mirrors and seat to suit yourself, while I get the key. Set the mirrors so you can just see the back edge of the box on the inside of the glass. He bounced off, through the door again.

I had to climb in and out several times, to adjust the mirrors as advised.

All set? He was back, and handed me the key, after he had climbed into the nearside. Start her up.

I had to ask where the hand-brake was.

He laughed. That little blue lever on the lump behind the gearshift.

I started the engine, flinching at the racket and the shaking. Nice and quiet, aren’t they? He bellowed, The earlier model was a bit noisy! Off you go. Mind the brakes, they are a bit sharp until you get used to them!

Which way?

Through that open door, for a start! He grinned at high volume.

I selected first, and then groped for the handbrake down the side of the seat, before I remembered the little lever. It wouldn’t budge.

Lift the ring with your fingers!

I did, and the lever flipped forward with a sharp ‘pssst!’ We lurched forward as the clutch spring pushed my leg up towards the ceiling. It felt as though I was treading on an oak log. I wrestled with the huge steering wheel, trod on the feather-light accelerator, and was flung back in the seat. My foot came off the go pedal, and I was flung forward as the engine died. The pedal went down, and I was left behind, the pedal came up, and I managed to find the brake pedal. We stopped dead, a foot from the far wall, and I nearly head-butted the windscreen.

Now try it again, with a few less revs! Frankie chuckled, as he rounded up his escaped clipboard.

I found reverse, eased up the clutch, which grabbed, the wheels went ‘squid’ on the floor, and we lurched away from the wall. I recalled the trucks parked either side, and found I couldn’t see a damn thing behind. Brake! Bam! We stopped. First, clutch, squid, lurch, and I had us headed for the doorway.

To you a bit, we’re nearly eight feet wide! Frankie prompted, and then used his right hand to assist in the steering. We missed the walls on both sides, somehow, then we were outside. You’ll soon get the hang of it, it is a bit tight in there!

I found that if I kept the knuckle of the nearside windscreen wiper just on the road-side of the kerb, that was about right, and if the centre white line went into the bottom right corner of the windscreen, that was about right, too. I lurched us into second, then third, wrestling with the steering wheel, then we were at a junction, and I had to brake. WHAM! Crunch the gears.

Take your time! Frankie said, You’re rushing it!

That was when I realized that he had been giving a running commentary, verbally controlling my hands and feet, directing me on positioning, controls, and the like. He had been telling my body what to do. Look in the left mirror when you go round a left bend, and the right one for a right bend, then you can see behind better. Look further ahead. Anticipate. He’s indicating left, doesn’t mean he’s going that way, kids on push-bikes, - He droned on, trying to instill years of experience into a ten minute session. Gradually, he talked less, and I thought more for myself, as I began to catch up with the truck.

When I bang the clipboard on the dash, look in the mirrors first, and if there’s anyone up our arse, for Christ’s sake don’t do it! I can’t see behind from here. Emergency stop, Ok?

Ok.

We trundled on, round a curve, over a junction, negotiated a roundabout, and Bang! Mirror, Transit! I said Transit! as it squirted past our snail’s pace, which seemed like about seventy.

A minute later, Bang! Mirror, brakes. Screech. Handbrake on, find neutral.

Ok, move off, park it over there, just past that junction.

Here it comes, I thought, reverse it round the corner.

As we pass the end, look down the side-street, see where everything is, then go past, stop, hazards on, and reverse round the corner, please. He rambled on, telling me about looking in the mirrors, look where the kerb is in the mirrors, can I see the back wheels, see the distance, see the kerb, see the bend, In my own time please, but today would be nice!

I managed it, and nothing got crunched.

That will do. Take us back, please. He scribbled on the clipboard.

I took a more direct route back, down a country lane. At one point, a Mini came the other way, making me suddenly aware of how wide the truck was. I eased over a little, and heard a sudden rattling noise from the nearside. A quick glance showed that the nearside mirror was carving a groove in the hedge.

Now you know how wide we are! Frankie said, with a wry smile.

We made it back, without any more excitement.

Park it between those pipes and those boxes, please.

I did. No, second thought! Put it in that gap between the other two, where we got it from, and back it in, ready for the next poor sod to have a go. When you’ve done, take the keys to Betty! He climbed down and left me to it.

With a bit of sweating, and some neck swiveling, I got the truck into the gap, more or less straight, without hitting either of the others or the wall behind.

Ok, you’ll do! He had been watching from a safe haven. Switch off, and take the keys up. He vanished through a door.

After a couple of false starts with wrong doors, I found Betty and returned the keys, only to be told that the Interviewer had been called away, and could I come back at nine tomorrow?

I said I could, as I was only ten minutes away.

Frankie came bounding past again. Enjoy it? He asked.

I’ll tell you when I’ve stopped shaking. The clutch is rather heavy, and my leg is aching!

It is a bit heavy, on that one! He disappeared again.

I had been at home for about a minute, when the ‘phone rang. It was Betty, asking me to make it eight, if I would, please.

I was there for ten to, arriving just as Betty was hanging up her coat. I waited, as requested, in the canteen, for about a minute, and then she came to find me. Are you available to start, today?

I said I was.

Good, follow me, please! She led me into the warehouse, and introduced Dave. Dave was nominally in charge of parcels deliveries.

Hi, have you been on the course, yet?

What course?

I’ll take that as a no, then! Okay. Parcel, that’s the number he pointed at a coloured sticker. Docket. He brandished a piece of multi-layered carbon paper. Docket number, him same parcel number, him belong same parcel! Address on parcel, and on docket, him same, too. Ok so far?

Yes.

That’s it! Customer gets parcel, signs docket, you bring docket back. End of job, easy peasy!

Yeah. I waited for the twist.

Have you seen Frankie?

Yesterday.

Been for a spin with him?

Yes, in a three or seven tonner.

Good! Go and see Betty, get the keys for that one, and see how many of these you can get rid of. Do you know Oldham?

No, but I’ve seen a sign pointing to it.

Then you know the area better than me!

But, I haven’t been interviewed, or signed on, or anything!

Oh, Betty’ll sort it.

I went and saw Betty. She hauled another form out of the filing cabinet, and said, Sign by the cross. She scrawled a big red cross on the paper. You can read it later.

I read it first, as I sign nothing I haven’t read and understood. I appeared to be signing a contract to work for Security Corps, on a provisional basis, for a