The Silk Road and Beyond. Ivor Whitall

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      chapter three

      38mph FLAT OUT!

      In 1970 I called it a day with Titchener & Brown and again found myself searching through the jobs page of the Blackpool Gazette. The name P. Hottersall & M. & J. Cadman caught my eye, so I made the call. A guy called Wilfred answered and it transpired that he owned the company. It also turned out he had his fingers in numerous other pies in the area, one of them being Seagull Coaches, famous in the 1960s and ’70s for their ‘Mystery Tours’. He seemed a genuine bloke and, even though he drove a Ferrari, was more than happy to get his fingernails dirty in the workshop. Once again I ended up with ‘a shed’. What is it about me, do I have ‘Gullible Ivor’ tattooed on my forehead? It was a six-year-old Atkinson with a 150 Gardner engine and six-speed David Brown gearbox, the original ‘guvnor’s wagon’. On my first day there I recognised John, an old work colleague from T&B, and quizzed him as to what to expect.

      ‘It’s alright Ivor, Wilf lets you get on with it. Most of the work is Sealand or Ferrymasters out of Preston Dock, and you’ll be expected to organise your own work, especially backloads. His stepson is supposed to be in charge of that, but is bloody useless.’

      It wasn’t always the old Atki that I drove, but generally it was regarded as ‘my’ lorry. Other than the fact the old girl struggled to do 40 mph and had a heater that hadn’t read the instruction manual, only blowing out cold air, I quite enjoyed the variety that the job offered. All the while I was gaining experience in this dog eat dog world of road haulage.

      “What is it about me, do I have ‘Gullible Ivor’ tattooed on my forehead?”

      It was the end of 1973, I’d been there over three years and at the age of 27 considered myself a skilled and professional driver, having covered most of the country, albeit very slowly!

      Then, in the following January, standing by the cubicle in Sealand’s office, Mike the transport co-ordinator gave me a load for Dufftown.

      ‘Dufftown?’ I queried. ‘Where the heck is that?’

      He 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 СКАЧАТЬ