Scrap CH THREE part 32

Scrap CH THREE part 32
Monday morning arrives all too soon and there are some bleak looking hung-over faces at the café gloomily waiting to hear their number called for loading. Ivy is struggling with a ‘new-fangled’ machine her boss has proudly installed on the worktop opposite the counter and Rita, her assistant is trying her best to show her how to use it. ‘It’s not dangerous,’ the younger woman insists, ‘but look how fast it heats up a mug of milk.’ She places the mug of cold milk into the microwave oven, turns the knob to 30 seconds and presses the ‘on’ button. Ivy leaps back out of range of the ‘harmful rays’ and Rita laughs as she waits for the ‘ping’ sound which announces that the time is up. She carefully removes the now hot mug and shows it to an appreciative audience which includes Fat Frank and Scotty, who have been intrigued by the new invention.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ asks Frank in a low voice as the pals take their seats and wait for breakfast to be served. Scotty can’t help but grin as he winks his reply and they settle down to read their newspapers. ‘Fucking hell, look what those bastards have done now,’ fumes Frank as he surveys the two pages of photos taken after the latest IRA atrocity, ‘where do they think it will get them, that’s what I’d like to know.’ Scotty is not the only one to agree as more and more drivers join in the debate and discuss what they would do with the cowards who are blowing up innocent people.
Ivy sets the breakfasts down and the newspapers are put aside in favour of more important issues. ‘I don’t care what they say,’ Ivy babbles, ‘them microwaves are not safe and you can’t tell me otherwise. A thousand pounds that thing cost him and it’s not him has to be exposed to the radiation. It could fry our insides for all he knows or give us cancer.’ The café concessionaire is rarely to be seen but he does try to keep up with the times and the new kitchen device has caused quite a stir. Ivy will never be convinced that a thing called a Magnetron is anything but evil and as long as she can get her assistant to take over responsibility for the contraption she will keep as far out of range as possible.
‘Doesn’t Vernon still owe you for those onions?’ Scotty asks, referring to Vernon Hall the concessionaire. ‘He does,’ agrees Frank, ‘and I think if he doesn’t cough up soon he’ll have to pay me in kind.’ They have almost finished their fry-up when Frank’s lorry number is called out and he scoops the remaining morsels into a slice of buttered bread, grabs his newspaper and hurries out the door.
The trailer is soon loaded with peaches for various drops in Wiltshire and Frank leaves the rig at Ken’s yard, returns home and takes a bath before falling into bed for a few hours. It’s rare for him to get a full eight hours so today when he is woken by the third of his alarm clocks he is surprised to find he has done just that. He quickly dresses and drives back to the yard where one of the boys has filled the diesel tank, saving him a few minutes. Scotty has already left for the London markets and Frank is in good form as he heads out, with the radio blaring and singing along to the pop songs.
It’s a long time since he last drove to this part of the country and he is trying to remember where it was that he saw the apparition when he rounds a bend in the road and a dog runs out, crossing his path and swiftly followed by an elderly woman who runs straight into the path of the rig. He stands on the brakes, shaking with fright, jumps from the cab and searches up and down the road but there is no sign of the woman or the dog. He lights a cigarette and leans against the trailer, trembling, sweat covering his face. It’s happened again and at the same place as all those years ago, in front of the thatched cottage with the white picket fence along the front garden. The gate is swinging in the breeze and he reaches over to secure it shut. There are no lights on inside the cottage but it is clearly occupied, although not by the old lady or her dog. He wonders who they were and how long ago they must have lived here, makes a mental note to remember the location in future and climbs back into the cab to resume his journey. He wonders if perhaps he imagined the scene but he isn’t that tired and this is the second time he has witnessed the ghostly apparition. It will be a good tale to relate at Halloween.
The depot appears deserted when he arrives but a sleepy looking old man emerges from a picket door on the loading bay to open up for him. Frank tells him about his sighting and the man says he has heard the same story many times but never seen the ghostly figures himself. He fetches the forklift truck and unloads the peaches. ‘Fancy a cup of tea before you get off?’ He asks as he takes down the last stack. ‘Cheers, I’ll get the curtains secured and follow you in,’ says Frank. He hasn’t had anything to eat since yesterday morning and hopes there are biscuits on offer but he is out of luck, still the tea goes down nicely and it makes a change to have a civil conversation with a night porter instead of the usual grunts and scowls.
The peaches are a bit hard but Frank is starving so he filches the softest ones he can find in one of the trays and eats his way through four of them on his way to the next drop. They are more like apples than peaches but they fill a hole and don’t taste too sour. He opens a can of cola and sprays half of it down his boiler suit, curses, brushes the foam onto the floor and almost hits a tree as he wanders dangerously close to a ditch. Well that woke him up and he takes a swig at the tepid cola before giving up and lobbing it out the window. He would much rather have a nice cold pint of bitter anyway.
His last drop of the night is at a depot in the middle of nowhere and it is quite a tricky business threading the 33ft trailer back up the lane and into the yard. An envelope has been taped to the roller shutter informing him that he can leave the goods on the floor but there is no sign of a forklift truck so he has to unload the 400 trays by hand, which does not please him. He noses about for something to nick to make up for having to work but finds nothing of value. ‘People don’t trust anyone these days,’ he says aloud to himself, and no wonder with the likes of him skulking about in the night.
The sky is beginning to lighten and as he slows to climb a steep hill he sees a figure in the distance with a heavy backpack trudging along. The long haired girl looks like the bag is heavier than she is and he takes pity on the early morning traveller. ‘You look like you need a lift,’ he says as he stretches over to open the passenger door. ‘Thanks, I’m knackered,’ replies the slight figure as the rucksack is swung up into the cab, followed by a rather scruffy figure. ‘Where are you headed?’ Frank moves up through the gears and looks across at the newcomer. In the half-light he can just make out wisps of hair on the top lip and chin and realises the shoulder length curls belong to a boy of about sixteen. There is something familiar about his voice and he takes a second look as the penny drops. ‘Patrick? It is you, isn’t it? Your mother has been out of her mind with worry about you; where the hell have you been?’ Patrick Chapman raises his weary blank eyes, his shrunken face looks almost grey and his clothes are hanging off him. ‘You look like you haven’t eaten or slept in a week,’ adds Frank, a note of concern in his voice. ‘There’s a bed up there behind the curtain, you get in and have a kip and you can tell me all about it when we get back to the Island. Patrick doesn’t have the strength to argue. He crawls into the bunk, pulls a blanket over his shoulder and falls into a fitful sleep. He will have some explaining to do when he sees his mother, that’s for sure.