Scrap

Scrap

It’s 4.30 in the morning. The autumn sun is rising over the marsh, pulling vapour from the sodden ground. It’s the kind of morning when you want to be tucked up in a cosy bed, dreaming peaceful dreams.
Bill Bowden’s four German shepherd dogs wake him with their frantic barking. He shouts at them to shut up but they bark even louder. He goes to the open window and peers out across the yard. His wife, Orla, groans. ‘Who is it?’
‘Fat frank and Scotty’, grumbles Bill. ‘Well tell them to bugger off and come back when we’re open.’ Orla pulls the covers over her head.
Bill stumbles down the dark staircase, grabs his ex-army greatcoat, pushes his bare feet inside his cold, stiff boots and sploshes across the muddy yard.
‘What are you blokes doing here this time of day? Don’t you ever sleep?’ He shivers as he forces open the corrugated iron gates. ‘Blimey, what ‘ave you got in there?’
Frank’s old 15cwt van is so overloaded the tyres are scrubbing the wheel arches. ‘Nice bit of copper,’ grins Frank, opening the back doors.
‘Get it under the lean-to and unload it quick,’ says Bill, ushering the van into the yard and chaining the gates firmly shut behind it. ‘I’ll find some light iron to cover it up or now.
‘It’ll need stripping,’ says Frank, as he hauls 6ft lengths of brand new cable from the van. At 6inches in diameter it is very heavy but he handles it with ease. ‘You must have an entire drum of it,’ observes Bill as he lends a hand. ‘Christ it’s heavy,’ he puffs. Bill is built like a bull but Fat Frank is twice as strong. He laughs at the older man. ‘Had to leave a lot behind,’ he admits, ‘Wouldn’t all fit in the van.
A police Land Rover speeds past the end of Bill’s unadopted road, blue lights flashing. ‘Wonder what all that’s about?’ he asks, as two more police vehicles dash past. ‘Oh no! It’s not this is it?’
Frank shrugs; ‘don’t see how it can be, this lot won’t be missed for hours yet.’
‘I hope not ‘grumbles Bill, rubbing his lower back. ‘Here, you two can finish off here, I’ll get a brew on.’
They finish unloading, throw some car doors and other rubbish on top of the pile and head towards the house.
The dogs have been lying in wait and leap out from the shadows, barking into the men’s faces. Scotty freezes, sweat running down his face. Frank laughs. ‘Shut up you daft lot.’ He pushes his way through. ‘Come on Scotty, they won’t hurt you.’ Scotty isn’t sure. ‘Tell that to the one that’s sniffing round my nuts,’ he whimpers, as Bill appears in the doorway carrying a bag of dog food.
The dogs immediately lose interest in the intruders as Bill empties a good portion of food into each of their bowls. ‘That’ll keep ‘em busy for a while,’ he grins. ‘Anyway they’re not keen on nuts, makes ‘em cough.’ He leads the men into the house. ‘Boots off,’ he orders, easing his feet from his own and forcing them into a pair of ancient brown leather slippers.
He plucks 3 bright red mugs from a pine mug tree, places them on the big pine table and pours strong tea into them. ‘Help yourself to sugar,’ he offers, slopping milk into the mugs. They remove the lace-edged seat pads before sitting on the new pine chairs. Frank offers round a pack of Rothman’s King Size and they light up. Frank immediately goes into a coughing fit. When it finally settles down he pulls a dirty rag from his boiler suit and wipes his face. ‘I’ll have to give these things up,’ he wheezes, ‘They’re bloody killing me.’
‘Coffin nails,’ nods Scotty, taking a deep drag. He grimaces as he sips his tea. ‘Bull’s milk,’ he splutters, heaping in more sugar, ‘Can’t stand the stuff.’
‘I’ll have it back then,’ says Bill. ‘Nothing wrong with a drop of sterilized. It don’t go off like the other stuff.
‘About time you bought your missus a fridge,’ says Frank, but Bill disagrees. ‘Managed all these years without,’ he grumbles, ‘this new kitchen cost a fortune as it is.’
Fat Frank shakes his head. ‘Well another couple of hundred wouldn’t break the bank then, would it? I got a mate can get you a brand new fridge freezer for two hundred notes.’ Scotty nods his head in agreement. ‘I got a new chest freezer for my missus, filled it with joints from the docks. Beef, lamb, pork, I can get whatever you want. With a freezer you can live like a king for next to nothing.’
‘I’ll think about it,’ says Bill. Scotty continues. ‘Bet the wife would love one. Lovely T-bone steaks, best lamb cutlets, ice cream desserts, the lot.’
‘I said I’ll think about it,’ Bill repeats. ‘Now I better sort you out with some notes for that copper.’ He leaves the room for a few moments, returns with a roll of tenners and counts out 40 of them. He hands the wad to Frank. ‘If it’s any more we’ll settle up later,’ he promises.
‘Ta,’ says Frank, and the money disappears into one of the many pockets in his boiler suit. ‘Let us know if you want that freezer.’
Another police car speeds past the end of the road, it’s flashing lights flickering across the kitchen walls. ‘Just what is going on out there?’ Bill asks. Frank shrugs. ‘Fucked if I know. Anyway, I better get going. Got to pick some mushrooms for my breakfast.’
‘You’re a boy,’ laughs Scotty, ‘Pocket full of dough and you wanna go crawling round a cow field picking mushrooms.’
‘Finest food a man can get,’ says Fat Frank, ‘Just the job with a bit of bacon and a few eggs. ‘Bill gets to his feet. ‘Alright lads, you’re making me feel hungry. Time you were on your way,’
Frank and Scotty return to the van. Its springs have recovered slightly and there is no sign of it having carried any copper cable. They say their goodbyes and drive off along the bumpy road.

Bill locks the gates and hurries back indoors. Orla calls out: 'You putting the kettle on love? I could murder a cuppa. Bring us up a nice brew and come back to bed; I fancy a cuddle.'

Bill is quick to obey. He has already made a mental profit of £800 and his wife is in the mood. What better start could there be to a day?