Scrap CH THREE part 35

Scrap CH THREE part 35
Every morning at exactly five past seven Mrs Saunders from number 8 goes by wearing her tight t-shirt and even tighter hot pants on her daily jog into town, along the seafront and back again, a distance of some three miles. Every morning Dawn watches in amusement as the young woman bounces along, most of her efforts directed in an up and down movement rather than a forwards motion. ‘There she goes again,’ Dawn says to Heather, who has joined her behind the net curtain in the living room, ‘I could walk faster than that. It must take her ages to get wherever she’s going. I feel sorry for her in a way: obviously nobody has told her how to do it or she would move a lot quicker than that.’ Heather sips at her mug of tea and smiles, ‘she’s trying to stay fit,’ she explains, ‘tries to convince herself that she is still in the first flush of youth and that people mistake her and Grace for sisters instead of mother and daughter.’ Janet comes in from the kitchen and scolds the other two for being mean, ‘at least she makes an effort,’ she says. Dawn says she gets all the exercise she needs running around after them lot and leaves them to attend to her breakfast duties.
‘Have you seen anything more of Patrick since he got home?’ Heather has always had a soft spot for the young lad despite her sister’s warnings that she is definitely not his type. ‘I think his mum is doing her best to feed him up before the new term starts,’ she replies as she takes a seat by the window, ‘he’s due back at college in a week or so. He’s dreading seeing his dad again so he may shoot off early if he can scrape enough money together.’ Heather says that Ken has a few surprises in store when he returns from Spain so one more won’t make a lot of difference. ‘Has Robbie been on at you about his little girlfriend?’ Janet rolls her eyes skywards, ‘he’s been nagging everyone about her. Her dad’s only here on a visit then he’s going back to Nigeria so I don’t know where he’s got the idea that the man is going to live in London. Precious has been with Mrs Smith for nearly two years so why would her father want to uproot her now in her final year at primary school? He must have got it wrong but you know what Robbie’s like.’
The boy’s ears must be burning because he appears in the doorway and coughs loudly to get his sisters’ attention. ‘Excuse me butting in,’ he begins, ‘but Mr Mbele said he has been offered a job with London Transport and if he decides to accept it he will be moving to Brixton and sending for Precious, then we’ll lose the best player in our year and won’t have a hope of winning the trophy this season.’ The girls look at him in horror, ‘so that’s the real reason you don’t want her to go?’ Heather is shocked, ‘you horrible little toad, and we thought you cared about your little friend.’ Robbie makes loud huffing noises, turns and stomps upstairs to sulk in his room. He’s not going to tell them that Precious is the love of his life, is he?
Scotty still hasn’t got round to putting up a practice goal in the garden and the thought of that distracts young Robbie from the peculiar feeling he keeps getting whenever he thinks of Precious Mbele. He will have to raise the matter with him next time he has the chance. He would forget his own head if it weren’t screwed on so it’s a good job he has Robbie to remind him.
The two pals are busy loading up Ken’s trailers for the last time, both of them lost in thought and both intent on squeezing an extra pallet of oranges for the final trip as lowly drivers. Being Friday the stevedores are in slack mode and easily distracted. They get away with the scam without any feeling of guilt and park up at the yard, diesel up and get into Frank’s car for the journey home. They both have deliveries in London so it’s easier to travel together and save a bit of petrol. With more strikes looming even Frank is feeling a bit nervous and suggests they get some cans filled up ready for emergency use. ‘Good job I kept that lock-up,’ he says, ‘it’s come in very handy lately.’ Scotty asks what all the commotion was about the day before and Frank says he has no idea but they didn’t find anything. ‘We’ll have to be on our guard in case,’ says Scotty, ‘we can do without that lot on our backs.’
Oranges are always a good seller at Spitalfields and bring in enough cash to tide the men over for a good few weeks until the money starts to come in from their new venture. It seems strange driving back to Ken’s yard for the last time and not having to bother with any further duties. They have made a short detour via the lock-up to extract most of the diesel from the tanks to help in case of emergency for their own use. The mechanic is busy in the workshop trying to keep one of the old flat-bed four-wheelers on the road for a few more runs and gives them a wave as they stroll past on the way to the office where they drop their keys off with Mark who has been looking after things in Ken’s absence. He hands over their wage packets and the men check the contents before bidding him a good day. Mark has been congratulating himself on lining up two new drivers to take over on Monday but Ken will not be as pleased with his choices as they are both rats leaving the sinking ship of British Road Services, the national outfit which has been brought to bankruptcy by strikes and disruptions of various kinds. They won’t get the same perks they have been used to at BRS.
‘Tonight we celebrate,’ says Scotty as they drive towards home, ‘no more being nagged at by Ken, no more nursing crappy old lorries and praying they keep going, no more working our guts out to make someone else rich.’ It’s a satisfying notion and the pals chat about their plans all the way back to the new housing estate. ‘We’re going up in the world old mate,’ adds Frank, ‘and nothing can stop us now. See you later and we’ll drive up to the Bay together. I suppose it’s my turn again?’ Well they won’t want to roll up in Scotty’s clapped out old banger will they?
Frank gives the 4 litre R a wash and polish then does the same for himself before turning in for his beauty sleep. He doesn’t need to wind the clock up today and soon drifts off with a grin on his face anticipating the evening ahead. Someone said they were having a proper group playing at the Bay so it should be a good night.
Scotty groans as he tries to sneak indoors unnoticed but Robbie has been waiting to pounce and wastes no time in reminding his father about the goal he promised to set up. He necks a bowl of cornflakes then finds some timber in the new shed, which he lashes together with an assortment of rusty nails, bashing the uprights into the beautiful lawn which has been knitting together nicely since the turf settled in. He then drapes a portion of old fishing net which he chored from the docks over the structure and pronounces it done. Robbie casts a critical eye over his efforts and decides it will have to do. 'Come on then, let’s have your best shot,’ laughs Scotty as he fills the goal with his bulk. Robbie lines the ball up and whacks it past his dad’s left ear. They spend fifteen minutes taking turns in goal then a loud shriek issues from the kitchen door. ‘Look what you’ve done to my lovely new lawn,’ bellows Dawn. The two international players survey the wrecked turf and decide to postpone their training session for the day. Robbie picks up the ball and legs it to the council playing field, leaving his manager to cope with the fall-out.