It came as quite a shock, the information my good lady wife imparted to me from a certain women`s magazine she was reading. Apparently, because of the nature of their work and the separation this entails, sea captains sometimes take their wives along on voyages. My reaction, I have to admit, wasn`t too convincing - it was very sensible, I said, for these middle aged men, travelling to the flesh spots of the world, thousands of miles from any of their wives` friends who might recognize them, to be accompanied in such a way. The inevitable result was that my wife immediately suggested she accompany me, in my lorry, on one of my `voyages`.
When the morning of our trip came, I quickly packed my holdall: spare jeans and a few T- shirts; a handful of socks and pants; coffee and powdered milk; money for breakfast at a cafe each morning and a few sandwiches at night; laptop and my Bay Watch DVD collection - The Box Set, as I call it. And when, at least an hour later, my wife first appeared downstairs with a bag not much bigger than my own, my relief must have been obvious. But my joy was short lived, as she announced this was simply hand luggage; her suitcase was too heavy for her to lift and I was to fetch it from the bedroom.
A brief explanation about bunks – roomy, happy, sleepy - and their arch enemy, luggage, was met with considerable incredulity as it became apparent that I had missed an essential point about our journey. This was to be a pleasant break, not an ordeal; not some sort of macho, sweaty, unwashed smelly and most of all, cramped, expedition that only a man could enjoy. We, she explained, would be staying in hotels. We, I said, don`t make money by staying in hotels. There was no need to add the, `staying in hotels`, she told me, rather cruelly. And that was that: if We were to make no money, she had decided, We would do it in comfort. I loaded the lorry, vowing never to be unkind to a mule as long as I live, and We, my good lady wife, her wardrobe and I, headed East along the A roads of England.
I was using a rented MAN tractor unit at that time, on a temporary contract with a curtain sided trailer. It was easy work. The journeys were short by my usual standards, just a few nights away at a time, and totally within the UK. I was happily back in the land of transport cafes with English breakfasts of fried slices, black pudding, fried eggs, rashes of bacon, and mugs of tea. “We`ll pull in at the next cafe”, I suggested to my perfumed passenger. “Why”? She asked. I glanced at her - and yes, she was serious. “For breakfast”, I told her. “But you had toast this morning”, she said, “I`ve made us a cheese sandwich each for lunch, they`re in the cool box, we`ll wait until then”. “We need to stop”, I informed her, “it`s the law”. We`ve been going twenty-five minutes”, she said. “I need a loo”, I tried. “There`s bound to be a filling station before long", she said. "I`ll be able to browse the magazines while you`re in the toilet”.
The day rumbled on in sympathy with my stomach, which only received the cheese sandwich and a packet of crisps (salt & vinegar, family size) I had bought at the garage to keep me from fainting at the wheel. “No wonder your seat in the Renault is so dirty”, she said, as I munched away at the crisps, “You`re dropping crumbs everywhere”. The Renault was my usual tractor unit. “I hadn`t noticed”, I said. “I hope you don`t eat junk like this all the time you are away”, she persisted. “They didn`t have any celery”, I assured her.
Sometime in the afternoon we joined a motorway and after clarification that my discerning driver`s mate was sure she wanted a hotel for the night, I told her that there was a motel at the next service station. “Take the A road at the next junction”, she instructed, turning to me from the GPS with her look of `non-negotiation`. I did, as instructed, and we were lead onto a thirty mile an hour speed limit road that ran through a busy little village. “There”, she said, pointing to a large country pub that advertised hotel accommodation. “It`s a pub”, I protested. “There`s nowhere to park”. “There`s a car park behind”, she said. “Exactly, and I know this thing only has two-seats, but it ain`t no car”. “Pull in”, she told me, “I`ll deal with this”.
I managed to get into the car park, squeezing past a couple of cars, and finally positioning the lorry along the entire length of a tree lined hedge that ran across the back of the property, covering who knows how many parking bays. A ruddy faced gent in a black suit came running from the front entrance. “What are you doing”? He said, coming straight at me, as I climbed down from the cab. My wife appeared between us, as if gliding on a blanket of mist. I don`t think either of us, me or the hotelier, saw her legs moving. “We wish to stay the night”, my wife informed him. “But this is a hotel”, he said. “Then, mercifully", she said, "we have come to the right place”. “But trucks are not permitted in here”, he came back, instantly. She, though, was scanning the pub, as if not listening. We couldn`t help ourselves but follow her gaze. First she looked at the large door at the rear of the kitchens, close to where the MAN was parked. Then she fixed her eyes on the beer cellar`s enormous covers, which were nearby. And then to the narrow, busy road out front. “Where do the delivery trucks unload, then”? She asked. “Well”, he faltered momentarily - you could literally see his shoulders drop. “That`s different”, he said, gathering himself, manfully. “The simple fact is you cannot stay here”. “You said that trucks weren`t allowed in here, but they clearly are. You lied”. “Madam, please.” She appeared to have him on the ropes again, but he still managed to rally. “I am the manager, please, you cannot stay”. “We have had a long day, we are tired. Are you saying that ...”, a long, red finger nail tapped the bronze name badge he wore on the lapel of his jacket that proudly displayed the logo and name of a chain of inns. “... Are you saying these people will turn a forty-four tonne juggernaut loose on the road with a tired driver, during the school run”? With that the battle was won and he turned towards the entrance of the pub and reluctantly beckoned us to follow. As my wife made to tag along, I caught the sleeve of her blouse and said, in a low voice, “Tell him we want a room with a view, not overlooking the car park with that bloody great lorry in it”. “Oh, shut up”, she giggled.
The room was far more luxurious than either of us expected –`bygone opulence` was their speciality, according to a leaflet displayed beside the courtesy kettle. “I don`t think I`ll join you on any more runs in the lorry”, she said later, after we had returned to the room from eating. “It`s too much aggravation. I don`t know how you do it”. I nodded and suppressed a smile. “Great, Total Recall is on later”, I said, flicking through the TV guide. “Strictly”, she said. “OK, if you like”, I said. She liked that stuff and anyway, I had had enough of arguing for one day. “You know”, she said, bouncing lightly on the king-size duvet. “We needn`t watch anything, if you don`t want to”.
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