The Silk Road and Beyond. Ivor Whitall

passed me the delivery notes, a load of oak slats for a cooperage at Glenfiddich whisky distillery in Dufftown, Morayshire. Looking at the map, it was way up past Aviemore on the A9 and turn right. I just knew this wasn’t going to be fun; summertime yes, but this was a particularly cold winter, there was heavy snow in Scotland and I’d never been to Dufftown before! The whole trip was horrendous; I had no heater and my sleeping accommodation was a piece of hardboard laid across the cab. Even though I’d got plenty of warm clothing, the interminable cold worms its way through the layers to your very core. They were four of the worst days I’d had in my driving career to date and very nearly put an end to me wanting to continue in this occupation. Heavy snow on the A9 and A95 had me slipping and sliding all over the place, struggling to make any progress. We had no snow chains back then and at one time I thought I was going to be snowed in, until a plough appeared from nowhere and I was able to tag on behind. To top it all, the questioning, ‘where have you been?’ barbs when I got back pee’d me off so much, I stormed into the garage to have it out with Wilf.

      “I get sent out on a job in the middle of winter, in a bloody lorry that has no effing heating and no effing bed, to a place where it’s 15 degrees below freezing.”

      ‘Do you realise what a crap trip I’ve just had?’ I shouted. ‘I get sent out on a job in the middle of winter, in a bloody lorry that has no effing heating and no effing bed, to a place where it’s 15 degrees below freezing. It’s a bloody joke Wilf. I’ve had enough.’

      He was bending down tinkering with something mechanical. I raised my voice another notch.

      ‘Are you listening to what I’m saying?’

      ‘I don’t understand the problem Ivor?’ he said, stretching up from his position. ‘Nobody else complains about the old girl.’

      ‘That’s because I’m the only one stupid enough to drive the antiquated old shed.’

      ‘Now, now, now,’ he said placatingly. ‘There’s nowt wrong with the old girl, I appreciate she’s a little slow and I’ll get the heater sorted. You get yourself on home, there’s a good lad. You’ll feel better for a night’s sleep with the missus.’ He winked, turning back to his job in hand.

      What he really meant, of course, was that he didn’t want to understand, and within a moment appeared to have forgotten my outburst. The old Atki had better fuel consumption than an Isetta bubble car, and Gardner engines have as long a career as Frank Sinatra.

      ‘Pick up another trailer Ivor, you’ve a Sealand to Milford Haven tomorrow.’

      ‘Right, that’s it, I’ll pick up my cards and any outstanding money at the end of the week,’ I said, as I stormed off.

      Suddenly his hearing was working again, as he stood bolt upright.

      ‘C’mon now Ivor,’ he called out. ‘No need to be hasty son, I’m sure we can work something out. Just deliver that load to Milford Haven and we’ll sort it when you get back.’

      ‘No Wilf, I’ve had a gut full. Either we sort it now or I’m off.’

      ‘OK, OK, so what is it you’re after then?’

      ‘Right, I’ve been driving that old bus for three years,’ I said. ‘All I want is a lorry with a working heater and won’t struggle to do 40 downhill! I’ll even buy my own transistor radio.’

      ‘OK, how’d you fancy the old Silver Roadways unit? John has handed in his notice and it’ll be available in a fortnight.’

      ‘Is this on the level Wilf?’ I demanded.

      ‘Never more so boy,’ he replied.

      True to his word, after a seemingly endless two weeks of dragging the old Atki up and down the road, John left and I was the proud ‘owner’ of a beautiful cab-over Mercedes LP1413, not new by any stretch of the imagination, but the performance was in a different league, 60 mph easily. For the next few months I was as happy as a pig in the proverbial . . . as I roared up and down the M6, M5, and any other motorway that took my fancy. At last I was really enjoying my job. Then, out of the blue, the long-distance Sealand work dried up and I was back doing local deliveries, pulp paper or timber out of Preston Docks and I was lucky to do 150 miles a day!

      “Bloody hell! Hello Ray, how nice to see you. Must be a couple of years at least”

      Now I’d had a taste of proper driving with the little Mercedes, I wanted more, and once again started looking around. None of the established hauliers like Northern Ireland Trailers or Ferrymasters appealed to me; NIT because I’d had my fill of Atkinsons with Gardner engines and Ferrymasters because it was too structured and regimented for my liking. I suppose I was a bit of a ‘free spirit’ and happy to push the boundaries. Maybe I should call it a day and look for a proper job. Yeah, right!

      The need to find something more ‘interesting’ had been playing on my mind for a couple of weeks and one morning, having loaded my trailer with yet more packs of wood from Preston Docks, I stopped at the office to write myself a gate pass. It being close to the dock canteen, the siren smell of fried breakfast accosted my sensitive nostrils. Not a bad idea, I thought to myself as I parked up and wandered in. Just 3s/6d (17p) bought you the full menu; four bacon, three sausages, two eggs, a heap of beans, fried bread, toast and tea. This should set me up for the day . . .

      ‘Well, hello young Ivor. Long time no see.’

      ‘Bloody hell! Hello Ray, how nice to see you. Must be a couple of years at least,’ he said as he sat down to join me for a cuppa.

      Ray was an old workmate from Titcheners who’d left to try his hand elsewhere. One of life’s good guys, we spent the next half hour or so sorting out the rights and wrongs of the transport industry, and the world in general. Lorry drivers are particularly good at that sort of thing.

      ‘You don’t seem too happy with the job,’ noted Ray with his tooth-free grin.

      ‘No mate, to be honest with you I’m totally hacked off. It’s a struggle to earn a decent crack as it’s near enough all day work. I haven’t done any Sealand containers for six months or more. I’m actually thinking about packing it in.’

      ‘Aye, sounds like you need a change, I don’t remember seeing you this down before.’

      ‘I know.’ I said despondently. ‘But where do you go Ray? They’re all as bad as each other.’

      ‘Well . . . tell you what Ivor, how do you like the idea of driving a brand new lorry?’

      ‘Ha, and pigs might fly.’ I countered. ‘Wouldn’t we all, don’t know when I last saw a new truck in this part of the world. Most of them are as old as Methuselah’s second-hand chariot.’

      ‘Look son,’ fishing a crumpled bit of paper out of his well-worn jacket pocket and handing it over to me. ‘Try this number. They’re a major building contractor who’ve made a huge amount of money developing these new estates and, so I’ve heard, need to spend a ‘little’ to reduce their tax liability. For some reason or other they’ve decided to invest in transport.’

      ‘You sure of all this Ray?’ I asked. ‘Seems too good to be true, and you know what they say about that?’

      ‘Listen, I wouldn’t tell just anybody, but you’ve always been a good lad, and yes, it’s as true as I’m sat here. Money’s tidy as well, £55 a week plus 10% of the vehicle’s earnings and £5 per night out.’

      ‘Blimey,’ was all I could say, as I stuffed the already crumpled piece of paper in my trouser pocket.

      Little did I realise how on such small events one’s life can turn . . .

      ‘Thanks for that, but I’d better be off mate,’ I smiled, shaking his hand. ‘I’ve still got four loads of timber to deliver.’

      By the end of the day the nub of our conversation had slipped my mind, probably because, being a