The Pop Lorry

It was one of those hot, Summer holiday afternoons, and the boys were out in the street doing what boys do. Wally had just whacked the ball into Mr Simpson's front garden, and he'd already shouted at them twice to go and find somewhere else to be a nuisance, so they moved to the other end of the street, outside the Gilligan's house. They'd seen Mr Gilligan go out earlier in goggles and gauntlets on his BSA Bantam and sidecar, so he'd never know that they'd been trampling around looking for the ball in his garden. The days seemed endless, as if  time stood still, and the sun was making the tarmac so hot that they could feel the heat through the soles of their plimsolls.

They gathered up the wicket; a hot, galvanised dustbin lid from Smithy's house and two bricks from round the back of  Monty's dad's garage, and set them up in the middle of the road ready to resume. It was England -  Smithy and Tommy, versus Australia - Monty and Wally, and things were already a bit fraught. Wally had been out twice when the ball hit the dustbin lid, but he'd said it had to knock the lid over and not just hit it. He'd got all technical, telling them that in a real game you had to dislodge the bails to get the batsman out, so just hitting the lid without it falling over wasn't out at all. In response, Smithy had got all practical and demanded to know what dislodged meant, and then in no time at all he'd opted for the shortcut, straight to the ultimate argument finisher; it was his ball and his rules and that was that.

Moving down the street had allowed a temper reset, and they were soon back in business, trampling Mr Gilligan's herbaceous border in search of  the ball; a still bouncy, but rather threadbare tennis ball with Smithy's name etched on to it in blue ink. Just as Wally found it, they heard the sound of a heavy vehicle entering the street and its driver sounding the horn to summon his customers. It was the Friday pop lorry, stacked high with exotic flavours of irresistible fizz. It pulled in against the kerb right alongside their wicket and sounded its horn one final time. An early tea break opportunity had just arrived and parked at leg slip.

Monty's mum appeared first in her slippers, apron and curlered hair, brandishing her purse with clear intent. The four boys instinctively gathered around her in eager anticipation of  Dandelion and Burdock or Cherryade. It was three bottles for half a crown, and the possibilities were endless. Monty seized her hand and kept repeating the words, 'Cream Soda, mum, please.' over and over again. His spell seemed to work, because minutes later Monty and his mum and three bottles of  the prescribed elixir were disappearing up the street to participate in their own private, and clearly exclusive tasting. The remaining competitors stood silent and distraught as the driver, convinced there was no further business to conduct, climbed into his lorry and started the engine. A cloud of black smoke pothered from the exhaust pipe and drifted, Sistine Chapel like, towards the heavens.  

A collective disappointment hung in the air and before they could shout the word Tizer, Wally and Smithy had disappeared, along with the dustbin lid and two bricks. Tommy stood there dripping with dismay as it was only half past three and tea wasn't for another two hours. The pop lorry was still sitting there, its engine slapping out a strange lop-sided rhythm, and as Tommy walked round the back of it to cross the road, he was immediately attracted to a large spare wheel fixed into place on a horizontal bracket mounted under the rear of the lorry. There was a tempting space between the large black horizontal tyre and the flat bed, and totally without rhyme or reason, Tommy slid himself into the space and lay there waiting to see where his foolishness would carry him.

The antics of idle boys on hot Summer afternoons have always defied explanation. This seemed at first to be a daredevil act that could be terminated at will, simply sliding out of the stowaway location at the driver's next stop in the adjoining street and then walking back home with a real sense of adventure. But the lorry didn't stop in the adjoining street, nor the one after that, and in no time at all, Tommy had turned from courageous adventurer to frightened eight-year-old, held captive beneath a very hot and noisy runaway lorry. 

Street after street passed by, until it wasn't long before Tommy had lost all sense of location and panic had set in. The mental map inside the head of an eight-year-old is usually limited to his immediate home location, the journey from home to school and the bus ride into town with his mum on Saturdays; with the exception of odd journeys to Gran's house. But now, only lorry-driven- minutes from home, he had been carried over the edge of  his world into the land of the unknown. He was hurtling along at an alarming tempo, only inches from the road with grit flicking into his face, overpowering heat from the exhaust and with no indication of ever coming to a halt. Thoughts of being carried for miles and being helpless to do anything about it surged into his mind and he closed his eyes to hold back to tears.

And then, at last, the lorry slowed as it appeared to be approaching a junction and Tommy decided it had to be now or never. But it didn't actually come to a halt and seemed to be picking up speed again as it turned out of the junction. Tommy could contain his panic no longer and went for it, rolling himself off  the inflated spare wheel and crashing down onto the road surface at some speed. He lay there in a heap, dazed and defeated, trying to assess the damage as the lorry disappeared into the distance. For a moment he was quite content to lie there. The warm tarmac road surface was strangely comforting against his skin and the relief that his ordeal was over was overwhelming. 

Not feeling any pain anywhere, Tommy slowly got to his feet, marvelling at the fact that everything seemed to be working as it should, and sat himself down on the low stone wall by the roadside. He felt a stinging sensation on his elbow and turned it over to see blood and broken skin, but he'd suffered worse than that falling off  his bike, so he ignored it and set off  back along the route the lorry had taken in the hope of finding his way home. And then suddenly, without warning, as he walked along an unfamiliar street, he was overcome by the enormity of what had just happened and he burst into tears. Big, uncontrollable tears, guilt-laden and remorseful. The sort that overpower defences and burst into the open with no regard for circumstance or occasion. Tommy ducked into a nearby bus shelter, out of sight, and sat on the bench trying to pull himself together. 

Gradually, the tears slowed and the despair lifted and just as he was wiping his face dry on his shirt sleeve, he thought he'd heard a distant, but familiar noise. And gradually, it grew louder and louder, that unmistakeable splutter of a BSA Bantam motor cycle getting closer by the second. And then it was right in front of him; his next door neighbour Mr Gilligan, resplendent in goggles and gauntlets, beckoning him into the sidecar. Tommy jumped in with a grin of enormous relief and within ten minutes was back home explaining to his mum how he'd grazed his elbow playing cricket in the street and asking what was for tea. It had been an adventure he would never forget and may perhaps even one day put into writing.

Looking back on that memorable Friday afternoon, Tommy realised that it wasn't the stowaway ride or the desperate fall from the lorry that stayed with him. The elbow had healed in a week and the bruises his mum later discovered faded soon enough. What remained with him for the rest of his life was the discovery that the world beyond his street was not just vast enough to swallow you up very quickly, and scare the life out of you, but also kind enough to bring you home again. From then on, whenever the pop lorry sounded its horn on a Friday afternoon, he smiled at it knowingly from the pavement . However adventurous he felt, he never had the slightest inclination to steal any more rides under the pop lorry. 

Image free to use by Dola