Scrap 54

Scrap 54
Frank is waiting his turn to load and decides to enjoy a quiet coffee and a read of The Sun in the dockyard café. He is sitting in the sunshine by the window minding his own business when in strolls Ginger Jarvis, who makes a bee-line for him. ‘Thought you’d be on that Holland run with your mate,’ he says, sitting opposite and taking a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. He lights one without offering one to Frank, who promptly lights one of his own and blows the match out so the smoke hits Ginger in the face.
‘Didn’t fancy a trip to the other side then?’ Ginger is determined to get a response. Frank puts his paper down and glares at the intruder. ‘Not that it’s any of your business but I don’t happen to like boats,’ he says. Ginger cocks his head on one side, trying to read the headline on the back page but Frank leans his arm on it. ‘Of course I could have picked up a load,’ he lies, ‘only Laurel didn’t want me being away two nights on the trot.’
Frank has heard rumours concerning Laurel and a certain Beanpole Brett and is sure that Ginger’s absence would be more than convenient but he makes no response. ‘I heard there’s good money in it,’ continues Ginger. ‘I see that Scotty has been flashing the cash since he started the run. He’s working for Olav Merck isn’t he? I hear he imports all kinds of goods, not just fruit and flowers.’
Frank finishes his coffee and picks up his paper. ‘I’ve got work to do,’ he says and with that he returns to his truck and drives to the loading bay, leaving Ginger frustrated and more intrigued. Frank knows more than he will let on.
Ken Chapman has been looking for his driver and is relieved to find him at the dockyard. He helps finish the sheeting and roping of the load of oranges then invites Frank into his van for a chat. ‘I hear you’ve got a nice motor for sale, is that right?’ Frank says he has a smart Ford Cortina which has been newly repainted after an accident. Ken knows all about Frank’s accident repair side-line, but as long as it seems Kosher he is not bothered. For some reason Ken doesn’t want the buyer to know where the car has come from so Frank gives him the keys and agrees to supply the log book once the deal is done.
‘Are you sure you don’t want any of the Dutch runs?’ asks Ken, ‘it’s good money.’ Frank gives the same reason he gave Ginger, though the real reason is that he is dead against drug dealers. ‘Suit yourself,’ says Ken, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow for the log book, I’m sure I can get the price you want.’
Frank has an hour to kill so he drives over to see Scotty but he is out. As he turns into Ginger Jarvis’s road he recognises the red MGB of Beanpole Brett parked outside Ginger’s door. There is no sign of Ginger’s camper van. He drives slowly past the house and notes that the front bedroom curtains are drawn shut.
Still not in the mood for sleep, Frank decides to treat himself to fish and chips from Barnes in town. There is a queue, as is usual for this time of day, and Frank uses the time to read through his newspaper. He looks up as raised voices are heard. ‘You are not going to work for that man. You work for Papa, it’s family business. Who paid for you to take driving test, eh? Papa.’ The sound of chairs scraping on tiles can be heard, and cooking pans being slammed down on a table. ‘Mama, I’m sick of stinking of fish and chips. I need a life of my own. I’m thirty six and I’ve never had a girlfriend.’ Everyone in the shop is listening to the drama. ‘You still a young man Barry, plenty time for that. We need you here.’ A young woman’s voice joins in the argument. ‘That’s right, go and leave me to do all the work while you swan off in a big truck showing off to your mates.’
The back door slams and it is obvious that Barry has left the room, bringing the cabaret performance to a close. Frank pays for his fish and chips, doses the food with salt and vinegar and returns to his car, where he props the meal on the passenger seat to eat as he drives along.
Just round the corner he sees Barry walking towards the dockyard. He stops and offers him a lift, which is accepted happily as rain is beginning to fall. Barry holds the food as Frank stuffs handfuls into his mouth. ‘What was all that about then?’ he asks. Barry absent-mindedly picks at a few chips as they go along. ‘I got my HGV licence last week and your Ken Chapman has offered me a job. The folks are not happy, expecting me to work in the chippie for the rest of my life. I can’t wait to get started and get out of there.’
Barry Barnes is the fattest man Frank has ever seen. Raised on a constant diet of fried food, pasta and ice cream he weighs over thirty stone. He knows this because he got on the scales at the scrap yard, being too heavy for conventional ones. Danny had suggested that Barry go on a diet but that is easier said than done when you live at home with Mama and Papa who are always tempting you with food.
‘Which lorry will you be driving?’ asks Frank. ‘You do know that Ken’s trucks are all on their last legs?’ Barry laughs off the suggestion, saying that he is used to repairing old diesels, having to keep Papa’s van on the road for the past 20 years he knows all about ropy old motors. ‘He’s letting me have the Ford D1000,’ says Barry, a note of pride in his voice. ‘Well be careful with that one,’ warns Frank, ‘the handbrake has been dodgy for months. There’s a big block of wood behind the driver’s seat. Make sure you chock the wheel with it if you have to get out and bleed the diesel. It’s always getting airlocks in the system. Mind how you go when you tilt the cab because if the handbrake goes the whole thing can roll back on you. I had a near miss with it weeks ago. I told Ken about it and he just said to put another block of wood behind the wheels.’ Barry laughs, ‘I’ll be alright; I’ve driven worse.’
Frank drops Barry at the dockyard canteen. Between them they have finished the fish and chips and Frank is ready for his bed. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ says Barry. ‘Take care with that motor,’ repeats Frank. That bloody skinflint still hasn’t had the handbrake fixed, but at least Barry has been warned.