Travelling by Mucktub

Travelling by Muck Tub
By
Ged Backland

Her name was Rosie and she lived on Apple Lane and I'd do anything for
her, anything, stroll over hot bonfire night embers in bare feet, not a
problem, light the fire my socks and shoes are already off. That's how
it started, wanting to do anything for Rosie from Apple Lane,
unfortunately doing almost anything costs money, apart from of course
the reason why I'd do anything for Rosie, making love. That's free,
making love, sex you can get at huge variable price depending on what
you want and what you expect to get for the money. 'You get what you
pay for' has never been more applicable when it comes to two things,
leather blouson jackets and 'paid for' rumpy pumpy. A fat housewife on
a battered estate in Leeds will expect remuneration in single figures
('eight quid and a button' as they say around the Leeds area) whilst a
Britney Spears lookey- likey with a bottom that looks like it's never
been kissed will set you back the amount of money you spend in Ikea,
when you've only nipped in for a couple of light bulbs.
It was wanting to impress Rosie, impress her so those silk knickers
she leaves drying on the radiator in her living room, would be lying on
the bedroom floor in Apple Lane next to my M&;amp;S boxer shorts, as
we made a beast with two backs. But it never worked out like that. She
likes the finer things in life does Rosie, like bread with poppy seeds
on and tea that tastes like someone's poured perfume in it. She even
gets Paris Vogue, she was the talk of Barnsley high street when she
ordered that.
Jimmy the Newsagent,who has bits of porridge on he overly long
moustache and extraordinary thin legs for a fat man, thought Paris
Vogue played for Arsenal. It's in French of course but being fancy and
wearing silk knickers and eating poppy seed bread, Rosie from Apple
Lane probably understands French. It was that information that made me
decide on Paris as venue, first class on the train from Doncaster,
straight into Waterloo then the Eurostar would glide us over to the
worlds romantic city (So they say but I reckon it's hard to beat a
Heckmonwike sunset on any payday in August) a quick look at that big
arch thing, an eyeful of the Eiffel tower then back to the hotel for
French shagging.I had it all planned, even down to what vest I was
going to wear. The trick was how to raise the seven hundred and eighty
two pounds ninety pence to fund the trip. She's said 'yes' to the
invitation after a lady like pause of three days two hours and
seventeen minutes. She'd insisted on separate beds but I'd told her
French beds were never separate as the French were such a passionate
race and I'd sleep on the floor.
Working on the docks there were plenty of things to 'have away' to
make a quick farthing, tinned goods were the best, very saleable,
salmon was a favourite, tinned salmon is still regarded as 'luxury
goods' to most of South Yorkshire and there's never any trouble getting
shut, ham and tongue likewise, the scale coming down when we get to the
corned beef and bottoming out at the cling peaches and pears in their
own juice. Tinned goods are bona fide a currency within a three mile
range of the docks, solid as Sterling, however with variable exchange
rate. Take the bus home, give the driver your destination Newton
Street, give him a tin of salmon and you'll get a small corned beef and
a large tin of cling peaches or a small tinned ham and two tins of
little orange segments. Some drivers will try and have one over on you,
but I've been doing it long enough to demand the proper change. My
dilemma was that at current theft levels of a couple of tins every
other day it would take me just over six and a half years to get the
seven hundred and eighty two pounds ninety pence together.
As I approached P.C. Blue Nun was on the gate, he shift started at
dinner time and finished long after Coronation Street (so called Blue
Nun because of the big wine stain on his face, although Blue Nun was
white and not the deep red of the mark on his face. A mark that was
shaped like Argentina) he looked up from under his one big eyebrow, the
wheel on the barrow squeaking on each revoloution, my dock issue
oilskin coat tied over the top tight and secure. I nearly got past him
but the barrow wheel came to a bouncing halt on his size thirteen
Police boot. "Come on John, he smiled, are you having a laug?"
I looked at him innocent. "What's in the barrow, let me guess, enough
salmon to start your own farm?" He laughed and farted at the same time
he was famous for that, 'The laughing farting Blue Nun Policeman' was
his proper title, he'd get a tons of points for that name in
Scrabble.
I shook my head tried to look like I did on my holy communion picture.
He took a suprisingly large knife out from inside his heavy overcoat,
one of those big knives that Rambo had in the woods above that small
town when he was doing his own stitches. He cut the string that held
the oilskin on, and threw the coat back. The big caterpillar that slept
on his forehead arched up. "Empty?"
I nodded, he waved me through and I made my way home. Same routine the
next day, just as I thought I'd made it through the big size thirteen
blocked the way.
"Think I'd be lulled into a false sense of security did you?" 178 at
Scrabble grinned as the Rambo knife whipped through the string. "Empty?
- On your way."
He let me through once, then jumped on me out of a side road a hundred
yards down the road. All out of puff and his wine stain purpler than
ever. Again though the same routine, the knife slicing through the
string, the oil skin thrown back, empty.
A week later I could see him waiting for me at the dock gate smiling
like a small boy.
"It's a diversion, he said, there's nothing in the barrow because it's
all on your person" and he began slapping me all over like a demented
Bavarian. When he found nothing he cut the string only to find it empty
beneath.
He stopped checking for a week, just let me glide past, he looked
though, eyes darting like a pervert on opening a twenty quid porno mag,
first at the tyre to see if it looked like it was bearing a load, then
the coat to see if my pockets were full of John West.
Nine weeks later and I stopped. I'd got enough money for the trip. 178
at scrabble was moved to a desk job, when it all came out. How could he
have not noticed the theft of 45 wheelbarrows, right under his nose?
They came around, mob handed like the Sweeney on Valium and expected no
doubt to find a yard full of one wheel muck tubs, but no alas, all they
found was my 10 year old barrow with the oil skin tied over it, they
must have thought my brains were brand new. "Little Teflon bastard" 178
called me when he released nothing could stick, it was all
circumstantial and on hearsay.
So here I am looking out of Gay Paree, the wind off the Seine
reddening the tips of my ears and my hand on Rosie's bottom running my
thumb repeatedly over the seam of those silk knickers. We've got
friendly with a couple from the wrong side of Halifax. Eddie and Anne,
but a good sort the both of them.
"Did thee fly from Leeds Bradford?"he asked as we slobbered over a big
pancake full of bitter chocolate sauce, a crepe I think they called
it,
"No I replied to be honest Eddie lad we came by muck tub". Even Rosie
gave me a funny look.