The owner of the site, a bald, avuncular, only intermittently competent man called Sam Probert, quite likes having Barry there as a sort of eccentric in residence. Once in a while Barry will attempt to perform some odd jobs around the place, and in return Sam Probert makes a small reduction in the rent.
A car is parked next to Barry’s caravan. You cannot see the car properly since it is wrapped in one of those fitted car covers, but there can be no doubting from the shape that it’s a Volkswagen Beetle, rather a special one actually, one with the nickname ‘Enlightenment’, although Barry hasn’t driven it for a few years, not even removed the cover for some months. In recent times Barry has rather changed his feelings about Volkswagens and life on the road.
As he sits outside his caravan he is surrounded by a small crowd of children, the offspring of the holidaymakers at the site. This is not an unusual occurrence. Barry enjoys something of a reputation as a harmless eccentric and quite a good storyteller. The kids gather round and he talks to them.
“Don’t call me Ishmael,” he says. “That’s not my name, not any more. I was called that once but it was a long time ago. It was a good enough name for a Zen Road Warrior, as I then styled myself, but now I’m my old self again, Barry Osgathorpe, and that’s a good enough name for me.”
And then he tells some rather tall and lurid stories about his life on the road, tales of car chases and petrol bombings, of violent confrontations with police and other members of ‘straight’ society, of crowds of people who briefly followed and worshipped him, of strange practices with sex and drugs, of a woman called Marilyn whom he loved and lost, of how he had once very nearly had his own chat show on television.
The kids eat it up, and indeed he does tell the stories with an undeniable flair. Whether any of the kids believe the stories to be true is debatable, but that doesn’t spoil their enjoyment. However, having told these action-packed adventures he always says, “And let that be a lesson to you kids. Remember that speed kills. Remember that the motorcar is not our friend. And be sure to tell your parents to drive with care.”
Generally the kids let him get away with this. They are perfectly accustomed to having inappropriately worthy morals tagged onto the end of stories they hear. But on this occasion, as the troop of kids wanders away, one of them stays behind to ask Barry some questions, and Barry is initially rather pleased by this.
“What’s so wrong with motorcars?” the kid asks directly.
He is a cheerful but serious, red-haired little tyke, no more than ten years old, with dirty knees and a blue American football shirt.
“Well,” says Barry very patiently, “for one thing they use up the earth’s precious resources.”
The kid thinks for a moment and says, “But my Dad says that these days motorcars are designed to be recycleable. Almost every part can be melted down and reused.”
“I don’t know about that,” says Barry.
“Well, my Dad does. He says from that point of view they’re one of the most ecologically friendly products we have.”
“Well, I’d want to see some chapter and verse on that,” says Barry, “but in any case they emit toxic gases and contribute to the greenhouse effect and global warming.”
“My Dad says it’s not quite as simple as that. Did you know for example that Roger Revelle, the only begetter of the theory of the greenhouse effect, changed his mind shortly before his death?”
“Er, no,” says Barry.
“He recanted. He said, and I think I’m quoting accurately, “The scientific base for greenhouse warming is too uncertain to justify drastic action at this time. There is little risk in delaying policy responses.” Basically he was saying, play it cool.”
“How old are you?” Barry asks.
“Nine and a bit,” says the kid.
“What’s your name?”
“They call me the Ferrous Kid.”
“Do they really?”
“Well no, but I wish they would.”
“Okay Ferrous,” says Barry, “I’ll try to make it simple for you. Look at it this way; we’ve only got one planet. We must share it with all the animals and trees and birds, and with every other living thing.”
“Well, my Dad says that wildlife thrives alongside every stretch of motorway in the world.”
“Does he indeed?” says Barry. “Well you tell him from me that motorways are evil, ugly things that scar and mutilate the landscape.”
The kid thinks for a while before replying, “I think my Dad would say ‘not necessarily’. I think he’d say go take a look at some of the freeway architecture in Los Angeles, and tell him if some of that doesn’t constitute a brilliant work of art.”
“I think I can answer that for him without going to Los Angeles, thank you very much,” Barry says tartly.
“And my Dad would certainly say that some cars are works of art. He’d say look at a 1938 Talbot Lago T150SS with the Figoni and Falaschi body, look at a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost Piccadilly Roadster, even look at a perfect example of a humble Volkswagen Beetle, and tell him if that isn’t a thing of beauty. And then he’d say isn’t it worth a bit of pollution for the sake of beauty? Okay, he’d say, certain problems attach to the motorcar but it’s not exactly the work of the devil.”
Barry has gone into a world of his own. It seems to be the mention of the Volkswagen Beetle that did it. Then he’s swiftly back on the case.
“That,” he says, “is a matter of debate. When you see how many people die every year because of the motorcar, I think even your Dad would have to admit that it’s an evil thing.”
“Well,” says the kid thoughtfully, “I think my Dad would say that AIDS and cancer and heart disease and diabetes kill people too. And I think he’d say he’d rather snuff it quickly and cleanly in a road accident than hang around dying of some long, slow, terrible wasting disease.”
Barry thinks for a long time. The kid has actually, finally said something he agrees with, and of course, the mention of the Volkswagen Beetle is still much on his mind.
“Maybe I should meet your Dad,” he says.
“No,” says the kid. “He’s a complete dickhead. That’s what my Mum says anyway.”
♦
There is one woman whom Barry did not love and lose. Her name is Debby, Barry’s current, and extremely longstanding, girlfriend. He certainly hasn’t lost her, since she comes to his caravan several evenings per week and stays the night, but he’s not sure that he really loves her either. He’d like to, because he believes love is the greatest thing, and Debby seems to think very highly of him. She moved to Filey in order to be near him. She got a job in a local building society and shares a flat in town with three of the other girls from work. Barry would like to think that his relationship with her is a good thing and that it has a future, but he has his doubts. Tonight, having dined on several different varieties of Pot Noodles, he asks her, “Are you sure I’m really what you’re looking for?”
“I’m not sure I’m exactly looking for anything,” she replies.
“But you know I don’t have any money or any prospects.”
“I suppose that’s true,” she admits.
“Five years from now, ten years from now, I could still be living in this caravan.”
“Would that be so terrible?”
“I thought you might consider that a terrible way to spend the next ten years.”
“I might,” she said, “but I have a perfectly pleasant shared flat in town.”