I felt better with Grantham left behind and me dipping south along the Great North Road. The land was black and bleak and waterlogged, and the tarmac cluttered with lorries so that I got scared yellow overtaking with hardly the speed or charge to do so, which made me realize for the first time that my cronky old car wasn’t exactly the high-powered javelin I’d supposed it to be at first, out of heartfelt affection for it. I told myself though, that I mustn’t lose faith in my piece of machinery, otherwise it might be tempted not to do its best, or even let me down if I got discouraged without real cause.
A heavier rain drifted in from the Fens, and one or two drops came through the makeshift patches in the roof, though not enough as yet to have me worried. But I swore at having forgotten the roll of sticky paper. Against the roadside stood a solitary figure in a cap and mackintosh, a small case at his feet. He lifted his thumb, so I drew in and stopped, forgetting to flash my indicators. A lorry close behind, weighing several thousand tons, pressed its horns in rage, making such a noise that the top of my head nearly unscrewed itself. The man smiled: ‘He’s in a bit of a hurry. They always are, though.’
‘The bastard,’ I said. ‘Where are you going?’
He was about thirty, tall and thin, gnarled hands as he put them on my window. ‘South.’
I liked his succinctness. ‘So am I. Get in if you like.’
‘I will,’ he said, ‘if you don’t mind.’
‘My name’s Peter Wolf,’ I said, as he slammed the door so I thought it would drop off.
‘Likewise,’ he said.
‘What do you mean,’ I asked, ‘likewise?’
‘Mine’s Bill Straw,’ he said, with the most obvious idiot grin I’d ever seen from someone who was plainly alert and all there. I was nervous with another person in the car, in case I had an accident, so till I got used to him, I drove like a man of sixty-five who’d been a careful saver all his life. ‘Come far?’ he asked.
‘Derby,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘Leeds. Business or pleasure?’
‘Business,’ I told him. ‘I work for an insurance firm. Just spent three days in Derby wrapping up a contract for Rolls-Royce. Hell of a job. Cigarette?’
‘Please. Thanks. Going down to look for work, myself.’
‘What do you do?’
‘Anything,’ he told me cheerfully. ‘Just done two years as an interior decorator. That’s why I’m so pale. It’s a lousy job among all that paint. Don’t know what I’ll do in London. It’s a big place.’
I nodded. ‘You can say that for it.’ The one time I had been was on a school trip as a kid of twelve, when I’d seen Buckingham Palace (from the outside) and the Crown Jewels at the Tower of London (also from the outside). ‘There’s plenty of work there.’
‘There’s work anywhere,’ he said with a glum wisdom, ‘and that’s a fact. But I’m going south because it’s healthier. Can’t this grim bus go any quicker?’
‘If you’re in that much of a hurry,’ I said, ‘get out and walk. ’Appen you’ll pick up a Bentley to get you there for lunch.’
‘Come off it,’ he laughed. ‘I wain’t desert you.’
‘Take your pick. I’ll be stopping for a cup of tea and a swiss pudding soon.’
‘I could do with a bite as well,’ he said, in such a way that I knew he hadn’t got the money to pay for it.
The transport café was full, with a line of men at the counter. I felt their sarky looks at my collar and tie and best grey suit, as if I had no right to be getting in their way, so I handed Bill Straw half a crown and said: ‘Get two teas and two cakes,’ while I sat at a table and waited. There was a Daily Mirror a foot from my hand, and I reached for it to read the front page, but a huge driver coming back from the counter with his breakfast of eggs, chips, sausages, bacon, beans, tomatoes, fritters, and fried bread bawled out: ‘If you want a paper, buy one, mate, like I have to.’
He loomed over me. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘keep your shirt on.’ I stood up, as tall as he was, though not quite as meaty. ‘Nobody’s trying to make off with your paper. I was moving it out of the way so’s I could have somewhere to put my tea.’
He recognized my Nottingham accent: ‘I just thought you was one of them posh bleeders trying to save threepence.’
‘Not me,’ I said, as he chopped and scooped at his breakfast. Bill Straw came back and sat by chance where I could get a better look at him. ‘You didn’t sound much like an insurance nob to me just then,’ he said, ‘when you stood up to that pansy lorry driver.’
‘Keep your trap shut, for Christ’s sake, or he’ll have you on toast.’
‘He won’t,’ Bill said. ‘I’ll carve him up. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it now.’ I believed him. His face was thin, as though he’d fought with a razor now and again in his life to get what he wanted. Yet he had a few days’ growth of beard, and I thought he should use one at his own face to start with. His suit was threadbare in all places at once, and his filthy shirt was drawn together with a tie so old that it had a hole in the front. ‘Good of you to treat me,’ he said. ‘First bite since yesterday.’
I pushed another half-crown across: ‘Get something else, then.’
He jumped up: ‘I shan’t forget this,’ and almost ran to the front of the queue, so that I expected to see him get churned into little pieces and spat out through the windows. But he bustled at the nearest men, and gave them a strong sort of funny look, and it must have made things all right for him, because within minutes he was back with two eggs on fried bread which he scoffed almost before the plate was down. ‘You’re number one,’ he said. ‘You might not know it, but you’ve saved my life. It’s the turning point.’
‘Stow it,’ I said. ‘Forget it.’
‘I shan’t,’ he said. ‘I never will. You’re the good sort, I know, who’d like me to forget it, but I wain’t. Never.’
I was surprised at the colour it put into his cheeks, and offered a fag to complete his meal. ‘You don’t seem to have earned much as a painter and decorator.’
‘Maybe I wasn’t doing that sort of work at all,’ he smiled. ‘When we’re on the road again I’ll tell you a story. It’s so bloody long it’ll keep us going to Timbuctoo, never mind London.’
From outside came the sound of a lorry about to drive off, and under the noise of its engine I heard the ripping of tin and a crunch of gravel or glass. Someone at the counter said: ‘There goes Mad Bert. I expect he’s chipped somebody’s wagon.’
A man went to have a look, and came back laughing, while Mad Bert in the meantime seemed to have gone on his merry way towards Doncaster. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘it’s only a little black Popular. He’s taken the front bumper off, dented the side, and smashed the lamp. I expect Bert’s all right though.’
I jumped up and went outside, all eyes staring me through the door. The rain blinded and choked me. Apart from anything else I wondered why I’d chosen today to start on my travels. It was even worse than had been reported with such poker-faced glee. The left back wheel had been buckled, its tyre flattened and ripped.
Bill Straw followed me out. ‘The destructive bastard. Got a spare wheel?’ I nodded. ‘Let’s change it then,’ he said. ‘I’ll not desert you, don’t worry. You looked after me, now I’ll help you. It ain’t so bad. She’ll go like a bomb again.’ He bent down and pulled the bodywork straight so that the fresh wheel wouldn’t catch on it. The meal seemed to have given him strength, and I was glad of that at least.
In ten minutes we had the new wheel on. ‘The other’s buckled,’ he said. ‘You might as well throw it away. Ain’t worth a light.’ I agreed, and he bowled it towards a fence and left it there.