The Loner, page 25
“Oh, but you are a hippy,” he heard her assert. “You’re a student! So you can’t get out of it. Why don’t you grow your hair like everyone else?”
Mark decided to change the subject. “Do you find Sociology interesting?” he asked.
“Pretty boring sometimes – particularly when you have to learn your notes before exams. But it’s a modern subject, and full of exciting new ideas. So, now I’ve told you what I think of my subject, why don’t you tell me about yours?”
Mark’s reply lacked both conviction, and enthusiasm. “It’s all right, and it’s interesting, I suppose.”
“Don’t you enjoy it then?”
Mark gave a rambling explanation about why it wasn’t so bad, which seemed totally unconvincing.
“I can’t see how you can study something, if you don’t enjoy it,” the girl declared.
Mark replied that legal study was supposed to lead to a good job. Fiona wasted no time in demolishing this argument “That’s right: making money out of conveyances,” she exclaimed indignantly. “There’s not a single imaginable misery where you won’t find a lawyer and his bill! If you want a divorce, you can have one without any trouble – so long as the solicitor gets his fee. If you get into trouble, your lawyer will sort you out. If you fall out with your neighbour, your solicitor will see to it that the dispute is dragged out to the best of his advantage! And when you die, you still can’t get rid of them: be sure that their fees are a first charge on the estate! It’s nothing but a profession for mercenaries!”
Mark’s mouth was wide open with surprise as he listened to this disparagement of the learned and distinguished profession he hoped to join.
“And besides,” she continued, while he remained speechless, “the Law’s all wrong anyway. It’s class-based. If a working man does something wrong, he’s prosecuted as a criminal, and fined or sent to prison; everyone else is dealt with in the civil courts!”
Mark’s surprise evaporated. Her misconceptions and wildly inaccurate generalisations made him angry. “That’s not right,” he said indignantly. “Everyone is prosecuted in the Criminal courts. It doesn’t matter who you are; if you’re a motorist, for example, you’ll end up in the Magistrates’ court.”
Fiona leaned forward, and it was clear from her posture, that she was about to establish what she considered was an unassailable point in her argument. “Ah yes, that may be so,” she rejoined slowly. “But, if a working man steals, he’s prosecuted. Yet, there’s no law against the corruption that goes on in high places. ”
“What corruption?” Mark asked, looking quite bewildered.
Fiona needed no encouragement to release the full flood of envious rhetoric, which mirrored her own worries and frustration, and had been heightened by many of the prejudices which were the modern trend in student circles. “The corruption that goes on everyday,” she explained, furiously raising her voice in a way that admitted no contradiction. “No-one in this country gets paid to do a job because they’re good at it, you know. If you’re a Mason, you’ll employ other Masons; if you went to a public school, you’ll have an advantage shared by few others. Don’t tell me a managing director will look round for the cheapest and best consultant to instruct, when he needs one. He’ll only instruct his friends – whatever the price. It’s corrupt and wrong, and there’s no law against it. Millions of pounds, won by the honest toil of good workmen are wasted every year. But, if a poor man steals a can from the docks worth a few shillings, he can be sentenced to prison for months or years!”
Mark wondered if he ought to leave. He started to get up from his chair. When she saw this, she stopped her diatribe abruptly. “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I got carried away. Don’t be put off. You’re always welcome to call on me – all my friends are. Let’s talk about something different.”
Mark spent most of the next day making his wet-suit. It was certainly not a perfect article, but it looked about the right shape, and he had Bob’s assurance that the glue was powerful stuff and would have the effect of welding the synthetic rubber parts together. There was one problem: he would not be able to try it on until the glue had set, and that meant not until just before he would be about to go underground.
So, after making the wet-suit, and packing his gear, Mark took a bus to the Pier Head, and there boarded the bus bound for Kirkby. He watched with fascination as the vehicle wound its way out of the City Centre, through the decaying Victorian terraces, and out into the progressively more modern and attractive suburbs and wider roads, until, past a cemetery and some massive blocks of Council flats, it turned onto the dual carriageway of the East Lancashire Road.
Mark was enjoying the ride as the bus drove out into the open country, and was sorry when the conductor called and informed him that his destination was the next stop. He climbed down the stairs, holding on tight to the rail, as the bus swayed round the corner of the East Lancashire Road on its way to Kirby, picked up an ancient second-hand rucksack, and an ex-U.S. army canvas tent, and stepped down onto the road.
He felt a sense of foreboding and adventure, as this was the first time he had ever thumbed a lift in his life. It was a cold autumn evening, and he knew it would soon be dark. He wandered back to the main road and tried to remember as many tips as he could. Wait by the traffic lights, Bob had said; if you wait on a fast stretch, you won’t be noticed before its too late to stop for you, but if you wait behind a set of traffic lights, drivers will have time to watch you and consider if they fancy giving you a lift. So Mark stood behind the set of traffic lights at the junction to Kirby, set his rucksack and tent down, and put his left arm forward, with his thumb firmly sticking up.
He waited for what seemed an eternity. His excitement and enthusiasm for this new kind of adventure began to wane. A light drizzle and a cold wind made him wish for home comforts. As the light faded, he turned his coat inside out. It was only a second hand imitation sheepskin coat, but the inside was white, and would be useful for catching the glare from the headlights of the oncoming traffic. He hoped this would help to make him more noticeable.
Mark was almost on the point of despair, when a car drew up beside him. He accepted the lift gladly. The driver was alone and asked Mark where he was going.
Mark said he was going to the Yorkshire Dales to meet some friends.
“That’s a long way to go at this time of night,” the driver remarked. “You’ll be going up the motorway, I suppose.”
Mark nodded.
“Well, I’ll drop you at the M6. I’m on my way to Manchester.”
Mark asked him if he often gave lifts.
“Yes, I do as often as I can,” the driver replied, in a matter of fact way. “You see, I’m a commercial traveller and spend most of the week travelling from one part of the country to another. You’ve no idea how tedious that can be when you’re on your own. It helps to have company. But I’m very careful who I pick up. I never give lifts to girls or weirdoes with long hair. You have to be careful to keep your nose clean in my line of business.”
Mark thought this comment was interesting. “S-some of my friends have grown their hair long,” he explained hesitantly. “They think I should too, but I’m not sure whether to do so or not.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” the traveller rejoined. “Not if you need to do a lot of hitch-hiking anyway. I wouldn’t have stopped for you, if you had – nor would a lot of people. If you’re in business, there’s no point in aiming for a restricted market, that’s what I always say!”
Mark decided there and then to keep his hair short.
When they reached the motorway, Mark thanked the traveller, and waved as he drove away. It was a curious intersection – a roundabout with traffic lights everywhere, and a dual carriageway which bisected it. The motorway spanned the island on a massive viaduct supported by great triangular piers of reinforced concrete. There was a petrol station by the island, and a caravan where snacks were served. Mark reflected that now it would be almost as difficult to return as to go on. As he reflected on his situation, he decided to consider the matter over a cup of tea in the caravan before resuming his journey.
He joined the queue, after he had taken this refreshment. There may only have been ten other students standing on the northbound slip road of the M6, but it seemed as though there were a hundred. It was an unusual queue; everyone stood apart so that the oncoming traffic could choose its travel companions. There was a sign forbidding pedestrians to stand behind it, but no-one seemed to take any notice.
Mark had been waiting for what seemed to be an hour, but was probably no more than ten minutes, when two pretty girls arrived and confidently strode up the slipway. They took their place at the head of the queue. They had waited no more than a minute, when a large articulated lorry stopped for them, and they leapt nimbly inside.
Someone standing near Mark uttered a shout of exasperation: “It’s discrimination! When I get back home, I’m going to have a sex-change!”
“Do girls always get lifts so easily?” Mark asked innocently.
The other laughed at his inexperience. “You’re new to this game, aren’t you!” he exclaimed. “Girls always do well. I once went hitch-hiking with a girl-friend. We had a good system: she stood by the road, and waved her thumb, while I hid behind some bushes. I’ve never travelled so far so quickly. Couldn’t have done as well if I’d driven myself! You should have seen the faces of the drivers, when they found they’d got two passengers instead of one!”
Another ten minutes passed. A police car arrived on the filling station forecourt. The hitchhikers drifted slowly down the slip road onto the correct side of the “No Pedestrians” sign. There was so little room between the roundabout and the sign, that all the students were soon crammed together in a confined space at the corner of the roundabout and the slip road.
Mark was one of the last to move down to the roundabout. He asked one of the others, who happened to be passing, the reason for this movement.
“Can’t you see the fuzz down there?” the other replied, with a hard stare in the direction of the police car. “The fuzz’ll prosecute, if they find you hitch-hiking on the slip road.”
Mark withdrew to the other side of the obnoxious notice. He was perplexed. There was plenty of room for cars and lorries to stop on the hard shoulder of the slip road, but hardly any space at all on the right side of the notice. So, why force people to do something which was bound to end in congestion?
There was a group of three students, who were together. One had bravely (or perhaps one should say, foolishly) defied the Law and remained at the top of the slipway. A car stopped for him. He waved to his friends. His friends set off after him. Two uniformed constables, full of their own self-esteem, called out to them, in an officious tone, and waved them back. The youth at the top of the slip road abandoned the lift when he saw his friends could not join him. So he continued his lonely vigil. The police surprisingly made no effort to stop him.
Then, as if to confound the authorities, a huge articulated lorry stopped beside the students and effectively blocked the slip road for every other vehicle. A queue of traffic began to trail back to the lights and beyond. The lorry cab was just behind the “No Pedestrian” sign, but the rest of the lorry remained in front of it. The two students jumped in. The driver’s mate called out cheerfully: “Hop in: there’s room for two more.”
Mark seized his chance, and leapt into the vehicle. The two students were insisting that their friend at the top of the slip road should be offered the last remaining place. One stood on the footplate, and summoned him loudly. The friend turned towards them.
It was at this unfortunate moment, that the driver noticed the police car and realised his cab was on the wrong side of the notice. “I’d better reverse – just to stay on the safe side of the Law,” he thought.
The huge lorry, with its great trailer, laden with heavy crates, moved backwards a few feet. There was a pandemonium of hooting and cursing, as the long queue of vehicles tried to save itself from the fate of a compressed concertina. The officers of the Law instantly joined the fray.
One of the two policemen hammered on the driver’s window and asked sternly: “And what do you think you’re doing, sir?”
“Nothin guv’. I’m just givin’ these poor fellers a lift!”
This was clearly not an acceptable explanation. So the policeman continued: “Do you realise, sir, that you have just committed three very serious offences?”
The driver scratched his head, and looked blank. “Offences, guv?” he asked looking a picture of innocence.
“Yes, sir,” the officer continued in the same important tone, apparently oblivious of the long tail of impatient traffic behind the lorry, and the fury expressed by some in the honk of their horns. “You have stopped on the motorway; you have caused an obstruction on the motorway; and you have reversed on the motorway!”
The driver recoiled in horror at the enormity of these shocking crimes; his pride in his clean driving license was shattered instantly. “I’m sorry, guv. I was only trying to help,” he said.
The policeman’s stony expression relaxed for a moment. He did not see the fourth student climbing in through the opposite door. “Well, don’t do it again,” he said.
The driver looked perplexed, as if to say: “Well, aren’t you going to book me then?” Then he cheerfully drove away.
The heavy lorry climbed slowly up the slip road and joined the fast-flowing stream of traffic on the motorway. They were crammed inside. Two of the students sat abreast of the driver and his mate on the seat, while Mark and the other shared the cramped accommodation provided by the bunk behind the seat. It was a noisy vehicle, and you could not speak without shouting above the din of the engine. The driver occasionally shouted a comment to his mate. These were barely intelligible to the passengers, but the lorry crew seemed to understand each other well enough. The lorry men shouted at the students, and the students shouted back, but Mark could hardly hear what they were saying; nor, if they had admitted the truth, could the other passengers.
Mark placed his mouth near the driver’s ear from his vantage point behind him, and asked with a loud shout “Do you do this journey often?”
“Every day of the week,” came the gruff reply.
“You must know the road very well.”
“Too well,” said the driver. “I know every motorway bridge between here and Preston – I’d be glad to do another run somewhere else.”
The lorry took Mark as far as the A59 intersection at Preston. This time he did not have to wait very long; he was picked up by a large covered van.
“Jump in, young chep,” said the driver.
The man’s accent took Mark by surprise. He hesitated before he accepted the proffered lift. “Is driving your usual job?” he asked, as the van pulled away from the slip road.
“It is. You’re absolutely right,” the other replied, without dropping his Oxford accent.
Mark’s surprise and curiosity got the better of his tact. “Have you always driven?” he asked.
“Good Lord, no,” the other replied cheerfully. “I used to be a company executive.”
“Then...” Mark’s astonished question trailed away.
“Then why have I stooped to the level of doing a job like this? Is that your question, young fellow?”
Mark blushed and nodded.
“I’ll tell you why,” the driver continued in the same cheerful tone. “When I was a company executive, I used to work hard well into the night, and at the weekends. I even developed a nervous twitch with the worry of my responsibilities. Then I found the office politics and intrigues quite exhausted me. Eventually I saw an advert for a very well paid position – not as well paid as my company appointment, but there was a bonus as well. All I had to do was to drive van loads of books long-distance from one place to another. So I answered the advert and accepted the job. And now I have no worries, young chep, except driving and arriving on time. It’s a jolly good job, and I enjoy it. I wouldn’t go back to my old executive post – not if they doubled my pay!”
It was pitch dark, when the van driver left Mark on the road to Ingleton. Mark was now enjoying the adventure. Each new lift seemed to introduce him to yet another aspect of life’s rich experience, and he was learning more about the world than he had known before.
A plush jaguar waited for him, and he climbed in gladly. A youth no older than himself was driving, and there was a girl in the front passenger seat. He told them he was on his way to Ingleton, and they said they would take him there, as they were driving to Leeds.
Mark began to take an interest in the car, and remarked: “Nice car!”
“Yeah, it goes very well,” the youth replied. Mark asked if it was their own car.
“Not really,” the youth replied curtly. The girl giggled.
“Does it belong to your family?”
The girl laughed, and the youth said no and added: “Let’s say: we borrowed it.”
Mark wondered if this was one of life’s rich experiences he’d rather not have. For once tact (or was it fear?) got the better of his curiosity, and he asked no more questions. He felt a tremendous sense of relief when the driver dropped him at Ingleton. It occurred to him that the police might be interested in the car. But then, the unknown youth had done him a favour, and he had forgotten to take the number in any case. Besides, how could he be sure that the couple had not genuinely borrowed the car? And in any case, any contact with the police would delay his visit to the pub!
Mark met the others soon afterwards.
Pablo asked him if he had had a good journey, and listened respectfully, as Mark related his adventures. Dave asked how long the journey had taken him. Paul was playing darts, and invited Mark to join in with some others. Mark was almost as pleased and surprised at the warmth of his reception, as they were impressed by the fact that he had actually succeeded in getting there.
If anyone had asked Mark Flitley why he wanted to “do” Lost John’s cave, he would have replied that he wanted to see the Leck Fell Master Cave. If the same person had enquired why he wanted to see that master cave, he would have replied that it was big, and wide, and that an underground river flowed through it. If it had been pointed out to him that there were many other caves with wider passages and bigger streams, which were more easily accessible, Mark’s determination to bottom the cave would not have abated.
