Читать книгу The Silk Road and Beyond - Ivor Whitall - Страница 9

The week, which just happened to be Easter, dragged by interminably and as the days trickled past I felt a nervous tension building inside me, one I’d never felt before, and by Tuesday morning I was like the proverbial cat on a hot tin roof. Poor Jenny didn’t know what to do with me.

To the minute, Brian was collecting me from my front door and he must have sensed my nervousness; either that or my very sweaty palms gave me away, as he wiped his hands on a tissue!

‘Relax Ivor,’ he said encouragingly. ‘It’ll be great working together.’

Eighteen miles later we were rolling into W. Jackson Haulage Ltd’s new yard. At the top end there was a brand new brick-built office and at the bottom a workshop with some warehousing.

‘No lorries?’ I enquired, feeling a little less tense.

‘Well spotted,’ he laughed. ‘They’ll start to arrive on Thursday. Meanwhile, for the next couple of days, if you wouldn’t mind running a few errands?’

‘No problem, just let me know.’

‘Right,’ said Brian after a pot of tea – well, tea in a strainer with boiling water poured over it. ‘Here’s a shopping list for you to be getting on with. We’ve accounts at most of the places, but here’s a couple of hundred in case you need cash for bits and bobs. Just make sure you get receipts.’

I walked out the door straight into my new boss, Billy Jackson.

‘Well, ’ow do son, tha must be Ivor. Pleased to meet thee,’ as he stretched out a gnarled hand. ‘Tha’s leaving already?’ he smiled.

‘Off to do some shopping Mr Jackson,’ I mumbled.

‘Billy, call me Billy.’

Over the next couple of days I visited every truck-related business in the area, buying dogs and chains, rope, tarpaulins, lenses, bulbs and anything remotely associated with a road transport operation. Oh, and a teapot! Then, on the Thursday morning, this time sharing a proper pot of tea with Brian and Billy, into the yard rolled UTJ 645M, an absolutely brand spanking new DAF 2600 in yellow. I was gobsmacked.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I blurted out.

‘Well, as tha’s our senior employee, it’s for thee,’ said Billy, with a grin on his face. ‘Go on, go and ’ave a butchers at tha new toy.’

Trying not to look too much like a bloke that’s won a million on the pools, I tried walking nonchalantly across to my new wheels. It was stunning, so futuristic compared to anything I’d driven previously. A full double sleeper, proper heater, suspension seat, fitted radio; there was just so much to take on board. Mind you, the gearbox took a little getting used to as it was a back to front six speed ZF with a splitter, giving 12 gears. The cab was vast; with this little beauty I felt I could drive anywhere in the world, little realising that, in less than a year, I literally would be!

The next few months were some of the most enjoyable I’d experienced in the industry. The job was so much more satisfying with a decent seat beneath your backside, and the envious looks of other drivers didn’t dispel that feeling either. There’s no doubt this was a smart bit of kit and Jenny certainly noticed the difference in me. Me and Billy, despite his millionaire status, had become good mates and often had a drink together after work. Then, on one such occasion, without warning, he asked, ‘’Ow does tha fancy a trip to the Persian Gulf Ivor?’

“What! I spluttered, taking a mouthful of beer, and trying to stop it dribbling down my chin.”

‘What!’ I spluttered, taking a mouthful of beer, and trying to stop it dribbling down my chin. ‘What did you say Billy?’

‘’Ow does tha fancy a trip to the Persian Gulf?’ he repeated with that lopsided grin of his.

My mind was already racing. I knew roughly where it was, but how do you get there? In milliseconds a thousand questions flashed through my mind. There was an enquiring look on Bill’s face.

‘Well?’

An involuntary ‘yes’ slipped out of my already slack-jawed mouth.

‘Good, that’s sorted then. One of my mates, Edgar Jenkinson, has his own haulage company and is involved with a bloke called Jim Woods from Salford who does overland deliveries to the Middle East. Now, I’d heard of the Middle East run as it had been covered in the Daily Express not too long before, but I needed to know more.

‘What’s it all about then Bill?’ I asked, sounding a bit like an excited school kid.

Patiently, like a schoolteacher, Billy proceeded to give me a potted history of the oil crisis, the formation of OPEC and the resultant huge increase in prices.

‘In simple terms,’ he continued, ‘what’s happened is that the oil-rich countries of the Middle East – Saudi Arabia, Iran, Iraq and a few others – have so much cash to splash that they’re buying up the world! Well . . . so far, so good, but the ports in the region can’t cope and there are literally dozens of boats standing off shore with no chance of being discharged for weeks or even months. Can you see where I’m going with this?’

‘I think so. I assume an overland route is the only viable alternative?’

‘Got it in one Ivor, and I’ve already guessed your next question. It’ll pay £800 a trip, of which only £200 will be taxed, the remainder treated as expenses. How does that sound?’

It sounded more than reasonable. Best I calm down, go home and talk to Jenny. There’ll be so many unanswerable questions, I won’t know what to say! All I knew was that I’d never felt so excited and elated all in one go. Billy broke into my reverie.

‘Listen, one thing at a time. Firstly, organise your passport and we’ll take it from there.’

The following morning, a Saturday, I was down at the Post Office and picking up my application form 10 seconds after they opened. By the end of the day it was completed and posted recorded delivery! Impatient, I’d never been so impatient. It was a struggle to keep my mind on the mundane daily routine of pulling Northern Ireland Trailers. Then, six weeks later, on 12 December, there it was on the front doormat; 94 pages and a face like a convict!

“Listen, one thing at a time. Firstly, organise your passport and we’ll take it from there.”

For the next few months I pestered Billy relentlessly about whether it was still happening or not. To be honest, I think Jenny might have been quite happy if I had been off to the Middle East. She was more worried by the fact that I was doing the odd trip to Northern Ireland during the Troubles.

Time drifted on; it was now early in 1975 and I was seriously beginning to wonder whether it was ever going to happen? I’d even stopped chasing Billy about it, when, there it was!

‘You and Damien are off to Kuwait in a week or so. Edgar is finalising all the details as we speak.’

It was now that all the questions that had lain dormant for months came flooding back. How do we get there, what ferries, food, visas, inoculations, currency, how long, etc, etc, etc? Judging by the blank look on Billy’s face, he’d not the foggiest idea either, but it turned out he’d organised a meeting with a Jenkinson’s driver called Clyde, who was going to give us the benefit of his vast knowledge and a run down on all the nuts and bolts. That evening I told Jenny, who took it remarkably calmly and even offered to go into W.H. Smith and buy me some maps.

A week later we were sat in Edgar Jenkinson’s office nervously waiting for Clyde’s pearls of wisdom. Having just returned from Turkey he’d have the latest information. I’d got a pen and paper handy and after the introductions it was, ‘OK Clyde, it’s over to you.’

‘So you’re the drivers that are going to Kuwait?’ He said with a certain air of superiority.

We nodded in unison.

‘Which way are you going?’

I looked at Damien, he looked at me.

Edgar interjected, reading from a piece of paper.

‘The route is Belgium, Germany road/rail, Austria, Yugoslavia, Bulgaria, Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.’

There was a long drawn out silence as we paused for Clyde to impart some of his infinite knowledge and wisdom. We waited with bated breath until finally, as if someone had wound him up, it came out like a torrent.

“The Austrians are like the SS and the Yugo police stick out their lollipops to stop you and administer fines.”

‘I hope you’ve got tankschein.’

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

It lay unanswered as he continued unabated.

‘Watch your speed in Germany and don’t go over your hours, it’s a 1000DM fine. The Austrians are like the SS and the Yugo police stick out their lollipops to stop you and administer fines.’

It came thick and fast. Was this a wind up?

‘Make sure you get a Bulgarian visa as they don’t always issue them at the border.’

He was talking so rapidly, it was impossible to write anything down.

‘Make sure you don’t stop for Turkish police as they are all bandits. Don’t stop in lay-bys or you’ll get broken into and the Kurds all carry rifles.’

With that he got up, picked a cork-strewn hat off the peg and walked out. It was only then I spotted what I later came to realise was, for some, the Middle East drivers’ ‘uniform’: fake leopard skin clogs, large wallet hanging from a silver chain attached to his waist plus an ‘Ozzie’ hat!

‘Well I’m no wiser now than when we arrived,’ I said to Damien.

‘No worries lads,’ said Billy, more in hope than expectation. ‘You’ll be fine.’

We eventually got our booking through for a Felixstowe–Zeebrugge sailing on 16 April.