Scrap CH TWO part 33

CH TWO 33
Rosa is finding motherhood a Royal pain, what with the many stitches in delicate places and the kid bawling for hours on end for no apparent reason. Orla is keen to take over the responsibility and her daughter is more than happy to accept the kind offer, relieved to get back to work and the freedom of the open road.
Danny takes no interest whatsoever in the infant, his only input being to register the birth whilst Rosa was still in hospital. Thankfully he has not chosen an unpronounceable Irish name, instead deciding on Jason Francis, after Rosa’s brother and his own father. Other than that he has no interest in the squalling child who seems to have taken over the entire household. He and ‘Chewy’ have more important things on their agenda. They take their leave of the family and head out once again to destinations unknown and duration unknown. Rosa is glad to see the back of them, especially Davey ‘Chewy’ Tuohy. She can’t stand the way he leers at her or the fact that he never does any work but always has a pocket full of cash.
Getting in and out of the lorry is a little easier now but sitting on the plastic-covered driver’s seat is rather painful even with the addition of an old feather pillow. Still, it’s great to be free again and she sets off from the yard in high spirits to deliver her load of turf for Wembley Stadium. They are patching up the pitch in time for the FA Cup final and thankfully the load is all on pallets so it should be an easy one.
As she joins the M2 and picks up speed she sees one of Ken Chapman’s lorries up ahead. It is struggling with the weight of its load, the old Cummins diesel coughing out plumes of blue smoke from the exhaust pipe. As Rosa overtakes she glances to see it is Scotty at the wheel and he grimaces as her new rig glides by, she smiles and raises a hand in salute. He too is headed for Wembley Stadium but by the time he arrives she will probably be halfway home. He is counting the hours before he collects the new unit and trailer in a few days’ time and trying his best to nurse this old beast on its last few runs.
Rosa is drawing the curtains on her trailer as Scotty arrives with his load. They exchange pleasantries then part company, she to her next load and he to the task of un-sheeting. One of the grounds men wanders over to give him a hand, which he gladly accepts and they chat about who is likely to be playing on the turf come the final. ‘My lads are hoping it will be Arsenal,’ says the grounds man, ‘mine too,’ agrees Scotty, who has been a fan since childhood, ‘they’re doing great this season. I wish I could afford to go and watch them play but it’s too expensive with my brood.’ His helper sympathises; ‘even we don’t get tickets to the final,’ he says, ‘so we have to sneak in and hope nobody notices. It’s a downright liberty if you ask me: if it weren’t for us they wouldn’t have a pitch to play on.’
One of the other workers calls out that the forklift truck is ready to unload Scotty’s trailer. The two men stand back and watch as the pallet loads of turf are removed and stacked by the side of the pitch. ‘It’s a full time job then, keeping the pitch in order?’ Asks Scotty as he lights up a cigarette and offers them over. His companion takes one and lights it with an old fashioned flint lighter, takes a long drag and enjoys the sensation of nicotine spreading into his bloodstream. ‘Yep, a full time job and I’ve worked here since I left school at fifteen. My dad got me the job; he worked here too until he retired. He still tends his precious lawn and won’t let anybody else walk on it because most of it came from here after England won the World Cup. The pitch was stripped for souvenirs; I reckon half the people who work here have some in their gardens. Those who don’t have gardens even have a bit in a window box or a plant pot just so they can boast they have a part of the turf which was played on by their heroes.’
Scotty also has a patch in his garden but he doesn’t let on. ‘Me and my mate Frank brought the turf to re-lay it after the tournament,’ he recalls, ‘the ground was in a right state, looked like it had been gone over with a tank regiment. Did you get any other souvenirs, like autographs or anything?’ The other man says he has a programme from the day signed by Nobby Stiles but nothing else. ‘Of course we got the blame for all the stuff that went missing,’ he adds, ‘like the crossbar from one of the goals. Goodness knows what happened to that. Someone should have stacked everything away in the store but we were all so excited about winning the Cup it got left on the touch line. Nobody even noticed it had gone until weeks later when we were laying the new turf. Someone got themselves a nice souvenir; it’d be worth a fortune now I guess.’
The last pallet is off loaded and the men part company, leaving Scotty to replace the tarpaulin sheets and ropes on the trailer and secure them. As he drives off he chuckles to himself, remembering that windy day when he and fat Frank had unloaded their new turf and Frank had found a nice bit of timber with metal ends to hold down the tarpaulin on his motor. It now sits across the entrance to the yard from which the new turf is dispatched. It makes a nice barrier from the road.