going to be like warm putty in these birds’ hands and it is with something approaching eagerness that he wrenches open one of the doors. Fortunately, I step to one side just in time and the hunk of crumbling metal crashes harmlessly at my feet.
‘Do you want to see the controls?’ Suzanne is addressing me as if she does not care very much one way or the other.
‘It has some, does it?’ I say. ‘I thought maybe you pressed up and down on a couple of pedals.’
‘Oh my, we are funny, aren’t we? Proper little comedian.’
Sid has scrambled into the cab in a cloud of rust and Babs is following, showing everything she has got and a bit more she must have borrowed from someone else. It occurs to me that they may not be re-emerging in a hurry and that I might be wise to take advantage of what shelter is available. It is very parky on the bomb site.
‘Come on, then,’ I say. ‘Let’s have a look at it.’ I open the door – very carefully – and pull myself up into the second of the two relics of the golden years of the British motor industry. ‘You’re very high off the ground, aren’t you?’ I say, as the bird climbs in beside me.
‘What do you mean!? I’m just over five foot.’
‘Not you,’ I say patiently. ‘I was referring to the height of the cab from the ground.’
‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘It’s nice, isn’t it? Nice arrangement of dials and all that.’
‘Do you know what they all do?’ I ask.
‘I know where the heater switch is.’ She leans forward and turns a knob. The windscreen wipers start scratching backwards and forwards with a high-pitched squeaking noise.
‘Interesting,’ I say, ‘I suppose the friction heats up the windscreen and it slowly spreads through the whole lorry?’
‘You are unkind,’ she says. ‘I’m not Graham Hill.’
‘No, he’s got a moustache, hasn’t he?’ I say. ‘Look, I’m not expecting mechanical wizardry but you’re supposed to be selling me this crate. I don’t reckon you even know how to start it.’
For a moment, I think the bird is going to clock me. Then, she pulls open the glove compartment and shoves a key in my mitt. ‘You start it.’
‘Where do I put this?’ I say, indicating the key.
‘I know where I’d like you to put it,’ says the bird.
‘I wouldn’t want to run the risk of hurting you,’ I say. ‘Let’s try this hole here. It looks a bit smaller.’
Before she can really get into her stride, mouth-wise, I insert the key in the ignition and turn it in a clockwise direction. To my surprise, there is a noise like my bronchitic Uncle Norman clearing his throat into a megaphone and the engine slowly roars into life.
‘There you are, clever dick!’ says Suzanne drawing her legs up underneath her. ‘I bet that shook you.’
‘I bet it shook you and all,’ I say. I twiddle one of the other knobs and there is a smell of burning dust and old mouse droppings, combined with a current of warm air around turn-up level.
‘There, you see! Everything works.’
I don’t say anything but I have to confess that the old bus has a kind of bashed up charm about it. The seats are so shiny that they might have perspex over them and all the numerals on the dials are picked out in old-fashioned lettering. I can quite see myself chugging round the countryside in this. It is practically a collector’s piece.
‘Well, what do you think?’
The bird has turned to face me and is brushing a wisp of hair out of her eyes. Curled up on the seat she looks quite attractive. Small but well constructed. The fur coat has flopped open and I can see the soft swelling of one of her knockers slotted into the top of her dress.
‘Not bad,’ I say.
‘It’s warm, isn’t it?’
She is right, it is warm. I look beyond her to the driving cab of the lorry Sid is in. The window is steamed up and I can just make out the imprint of two upside down boots. Sid always was a fast worker.
‘Do you think you’re going to like it, Down Under?’ I ask her.
The bird gives me a playful nudge. ‘You don’t mind what you say, do you?’
‘That’s what they call it, isn’t it?’ I say.
‘I dunno,’ says Suzanne. ‘They call it so many things, don’t they?’
‘I suppose they do,’ I say. To tell the truth I can’t think of anything else other than ‘Down Under’ or ‘Aussie’. There is some word like ‘antipathies’ but I don’t reckon she could be referring to that. She doesn’t immediately strike you as a likely candidate for ‘Mastermind’. ‘How about your sister, is she looking forward to it?’.
Suzanne glances towards the next door lorry. ‘Not any more,’ she says. I follow her eyes and wonder if we are talking about the same thing. The window is now open and a female leg is hanging out of it. It waves grotesquely and then is joined by Sid’s. I must remind him to get that hole in his sole mended.
‘It is warm in here, isn’t it?’ I say.
Suzanne takes a deep breath and leans towards me sticking out her lower lip. ‘Ye-es!’ she says. ‘Do you want to try anything? Waggle the gear stick about? Slot it in a few times?’
It occurs to me that this young lady is on the verge of employing techniques not usually practised by the average used car salesman. It also occurs to me that I am a sucker for such tactics. Below dashboard level, percy is responding to the warmth and the promise of good times ahead and is beginning to dent my denims.
‘Are you sure it’s all right?’ I allow my digits to take a stroll along her left thigh. They meet nobody who tells them that they are trespassing.
‘Oh yes. We want you to be completely satisfied with what you’re getting.’
You can’t say much fairer than that, can you? I don’t know what sales manual this girl uses but she could go a long way.
Wasting no further time on idle chit chat, I lean across and show her how good I am at sealing envelopes. She snuggles closer and I draw her towards me and ease her over the hand-brake which separates the two seats. Her legs are now alongside mine and she thoughtfully props one of them against the clutch pedal. In this way there is much less danger of me damaging my wristwatch as I slide my mitt up to say hello to her snatch-box. She is an eager little thing and her brewer’s bung probes for my hairy goat like it is an escaping eel. She is wearing stockings like her sister and it is a real treat to glide from nylon to warm, soft flesh. There’s not that feeling of being trapped at the end of a bag that you get with tights. I hook my finger under the rim of her knicks and she grabs hold of my balls like it is a game of Pass the Parcel and she reckons she is on to a winner.
‘Let me get across you,’ she says. Nothing bashful about her, is there? It’s not a question of an hour
