I thought he was going to be with me forever. ‘Is your wife expecting you?’
His laugh didn’t seem quite real. ‘She always is, though she hopes I’ll never arrive. When I’m not there she sits by the telephone waiting for the police to call and say I’ve been killed. Or that I’ve been found by the roadside with a heart attack. It’s understandable. I don’t know what I’d do without her.’
‘Why don’t you get a divorce? Maybe it would make things more exciting.’
‘We’d only marry again.’
‘At least you’d have another date to remember. You can’t have too many. The more you have, the longer your life will be. After all, you’ve only got one. You might as well make it as long as possible.’
The line of his lips straightened. A half-second glance in the mirror gave me a fully developed snapshot image to add to my vast store of underground photographic material, many of them taken from as far back as I could remember. His eyes were glazed, and as he stroked his olive-drab cheek they became sadder. ‘You make me sick.’
It was as if he had hit me. My foot accidentally slid off the clutch. I recovered, said nothing, and maintained my harmony with the bends of the road. Rain stopped, so I switched off the windscreen wipers.
‘They were getting on my nerves,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’ll sleep when I get home. Anyway, it was good of you to give me a lift. You see that house just ahead? Set me down there, if you would be so considerate.’
He could be charming when he liked, and I was sorry for him. I wondered which of the two cottages in the distance he would head for. ‘I hope you go on all right.’
There was a bit of cinder-ground for me to park in, so I got out and opened the door as if he was Edward VII. He walked along an unpaved lane, while I sat in the car and looked at my map before driving the last few miles to Goole. This took almost as much time as doing fifty miles on the A1 because a car in front pottered along at twenty and it was impossible to overtake with so many lorries coming from the opposite direction. But as soon as we got to the outskirts of Goole, and past a thirty mile an hour speed limit, he increased his rate to fifty and left me behind, a phenomenon I’d often come across.
Caught in the usual scrag-end outskirts at a red light I watched a woman with grey hair and a blue overall-coat flicking a yellow duster at her door knob. She looked at me as if I ought to be at work instead of driving a Rolls-Royce. That’s how they are around here, I thought. Then I got caught in a gaggle of Volvo lorries going over a wide bridge by the docks. Before I knew where I was I was across the river into Old Goole. Then I had to turn back, whereat a similar gaggle of Volvos swept me west again.
I turned right into the centre and pulled up not far from the town hall, where I oriented myself from the map and got to an unprepossessing thoroughfare on the outskirts called Muggleton Lane, on which I was to wait. It was nine thirty, so I set my alarm clock for five to ten, then put my head back and dozed. The sun shone on me, and I faded from the world, but after what seemed a few seconds the gentle pipping brought me back to life. Following instructions, I got out of the car, opened the boot and sat in the rear left seat reading a newspaper with the headline ‘Terrorists state terms’.
Two minutes after ten o’clock (bad marks for being late) a powder blue Mini-van with a coat of arms on the side drew parallel. To my surprise Eric Brighteyes (otherwise Alport) who I had met a few days ago on the train into Liverpool Street, got out and opened the van door. He wore a blue boiler suit and a yachting cap, and gave no sign that he knew who I was, though I would have recognised him anywhere. ‘Give me some assistance with these dog powders,’ he said.
We took ten square packages, done up in brown paper and post office string, and laid them in a double row in the boot of the Roller. As I was signing the form on his clipboard he rubbed an open hand down over his face — once. ‘Forget you’ve seen me. Right?’
I slammed the boot. ‘No problem.’
We’d been together for two minutes, and he drove away in a cloud of blue smoke. All I had to do was exit from Goole the same way I had come, and though I anticipated getting lost in the maze of waterways and lorry routes, I was soon in the clear and on my way towards Doncaster.
Eight
Relieved at the completion of phase one, I lit a cigarette. The staff work had been exemplary, otherwise it might not have been such a skive. I was obviously working for a good firm. It was hard to believe that the British economy was in such a parlous situation with talent like that around. There was more of it in the country than was needed to compensate for the bone-idle, happy-go-lucky, feckless, come-what-may, jaunty, fuck-you-jack, how’s-your-father, let’s-have-a-lovely-strike sort of person which I had been up to a few days ago, and with which this country at any rate will always be overrun and no doubt affectionately remembered, at least according to the newspapers.
Fortunately the situation is generally saved by those with flair, improvisation, creative ability, hard work, love of money, flexibility, lack of panic in a tricky situation, luck (of course), a refusal to regard long hours as anathema and imaginative attention to detail when drawing up a plan or programme — which I hoped was the sort of person I was fast becoming.
Then of course there was the third type, which no country could afford but which England had somehow learned to tolerate, the one (he or she) who mixed up these qualities but was only held in check by a job that cradled them from start to pension and kept them out of harm’s way. It certainly made it a cosy and exciting country to live in, I thought, wondering which category I fell into and not really caring as I set out on an intelligently planned route to south-central Shropshire where I was to offload Moggerhanger’s batch of packages from abroad.
I saw someone standing close to where I had put down Percy Blemish, and my spine turned to ice at the idea that it might be him again, this time heading south. I didn’t want any more hitch-hikers in the car. Moggerhanger and I were now absolutely in one mind on the matter, though in my old Home Rule banger I gave plenty of lifts, which was no great sacrifice since I was never going very far. However, I decided to make an exception for an elderly woman of about sixty, because by the time I got close I hadn’t the heart to shoot off and leave her, especially as a sudden squall of icy rain from Siberia clattered against the car. ‘Where are you going?’
I hoped it would be to the next village.
‘London.’
‘I can take you as far as Doncaster.’
‘It’s very generous of you.’
‘Get in the back.’
I glided on my way.
‘It’s a very uncertain kind of day to be out on the road,’ I said.
She had lovely features, but her face was haggard and lined. I’d never seen anyone who looked less like a hitchhiker. She wore a travelling cape and carried a good leather shoulder-bag. ‘I suppose the bus services around here are lousy.’ Silence between two people seemed more and more difficult to maintain. ‘It doesn’t seem a very convenient area to me.’
‘It’s not London, I agree,’ she answered, ‘but I’ve lived here for some years, and I don’t think I have much reason to complain about the amenities. There’s a certain starkness in the scenery, but it can be very beautiful at times.’ It pained her to speak, as if she was made for better things than talking to someone from whom she had begged a lift.