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In the halcyon days before accountants ruled the world, furniture removal workers had flexible earnings - basic, plus tips, plus fiddle. With high unemployment and rock bottom pay, fiddling, or petty swindling, became a survival skill honed to degree standard as moral values declined.
Duncan hated Maxwell's. As one of the biggest furniture removal companies in England, they'd undercut all his lucrative big store contracts, pushing his company, MacKay Moves, towards bankruptcy. Their offer of a driving job and a knockdown price for his van, triggered a weeklong binge, but when he sobered up he saw a positive side to the irony. The company needed his vehicle and his know-how; Duncan sought revenge and compensation.
"If you can't fight them..." Duncan watched bewilderment spread over his mate's face as they sat at the traffic lights. He wondered whether he'd live to regret making Terry part of the deal. "It's a saying, mate. You asked why I joined them; it's because they owe me. The wages are crap, I know, but there's more than one way to skin...to boost the wage packet."
"I'm not complaining, Dunc. It's sad, that's all. I mean these jobs were ours."
And doing the same work as employees did little to inspire job satisfaction. Each Monday, as before, they collected items of furniture from large department stores like Harrods, Selfridges and Liberty's in the West End. But now they were taking the goods back to Maxwell's depot instead of their own. There they would reload for delivery to private addresses in Wales and the South of England.
Peter, the opinionated transport manager, was a gift from the Gods. He would spend half an hour with his wall map and route planner composing a delivery schedule, after which the driver would rearrange the sequence to his own satisfaction.
"Hell, we'll be lucky to get back late Saturday with this lot," Terry grumbled later, as they wrapped the last item of furniture with blankets and secured it.
"I always thought you were management material, Tel. That's exactly what Peter said."
"Hang about Duncan, you can't be planning a dodgy..."
Duncan glanced at his partner and frowned. He preferred to keep Terry in the dark, but the moonlighting his girlfriend had arranged for the weekend had to be planned early. "Trust me, pal. It's a two-day job and a damned good earner. Pick up Chelsea on Friday, deliver Knightsbridge Saturday morning. I know the wealthy don't tip, but Kathryn's built that into the price. We'll have to jump about a bit to get back in time, but we need at least one dodgy night out."
The expression referred to drivers who managed to do a trip in three days, when their bosses paid night-out money for four. Although he'd managed to keep his licence clean, the trucker habitually broke speed limits, used shortcuts and generally cut corners. Every trip was a challenge and the reward was time - freedom to indulge in a short spell of self-employment at the company's expense.
In-cab telephones were still at the planning stage. The tachograph, that spy in the cab that records driving time, speed, absence from the vehicle, in fact everything but the driver's bowel movements, was the subject of on-going negotiation between hauliers and the Transport & General Workers Union. Employers had to rely on driver's daily log sheets as a record of working hours. Duncan had two sets - one for the wages office, and another for any Ministry of Transport Inspector who might be lurking in a lay-by. Not that he was ever taken by surprise, since on-coming truck drivers would flash their lights and give the thumbs down sign at least five miles before the trap.
ooooOOOOoooo
On the M2 at eight o'clock next morning, heading for their first call at Canterbury, Duncan was thinking about Kathryn and wondering whether her Bonnie and Clyde fantasy was getting out of hand. They'd met on his second week at Maxwell's, when she challenged the hours on his weekly time sheet. Less than a year since his wife Stacey had ditched him for the local supermarket manager, he still harboured some bitterness towards women. "Log sheets don't lie," he had lied. "If it says we stayed overnight in Cardiff on Friday, then..."
"Then why were you and Terry seen drinking at The Cricketers, near where you live in Mitcham, that same evening?"
"Now just hold on here, are you accusing me of..."
She had smiled then and he noticed for the first time the large expressive eyes and how her soft blonde hair encircled her pretty face. The smooth skin owed nothing to makeup. And her frown was flirtatious rather than angry. "I'm curious, that's all. You're the only driver who doesn't keep mouthing off about long hours and lousy wages. You interest me."
It was decidedly mutual. "Fancy a drink tonight? Where do you live?"
"Near The Cricketers."
When he had taken her back to his ground floor flat that evening, it felt natural. They were at ease with each other, a feeling he hadn't shared with Stacey all through their five years of marriage. Kathryn had admired the large flamenco-dancing doll that adorned the sideboard and the didgeridoo that leant against an elephant's foot stuffed with bottles of exotic booze. The Stetson resting on highly polished cowboy boots complete with spurs fascinated Kathryn. "Heavens! You've been to America too. I wish I had mementoes from distant lands. All I have are Toby jugs from Hastings, Brighton and Southend. My mother's wheelchair bound you see, suffers from travel sickness."
"Then I'm sorry to disappoint you. They're souvenirs all right, but only from places like Swansea, Exeter, Portsmouth, Milton Keynes..." He smiled as Kathryn frowned. "They're freebies. You know, gratuities, handouts - from punters who spent all their dough on the removal and couldn't afford to tip the crew. For all I know they were memories they were glad to get rid of. I like to look at them and romanticise.
Without prompting, she had gone on to tell him about her life. How her short-lived, loveless marriage had come to an abrupt end when her husband was killed in a motorway pile-up. Suspicion of faulty brakes and inadequate vehicle maintenance was discredited when Maxwell's engaged a top defence lawyer to argue the company's case. They offered her a permanent job in the office and a token out-of-court settlement. Guilty about being unable to grieve for her late husband, she had accepted the offer in order to move on. But she hadn't moved on. Her job had given her an insight into the greed and corruption inherent in Maxwell's top management and she realised too late that the meagre payoff was legalised bribery.
She had flashed her dimpled smile as she scanned the rest of the flat. "It's like the Antiques Roadshow."
"I bought most of it from an old lady when she moved from a mansion in the country to a one-bedroom flat in the city. It was just after Stacey and I split. The old dear took a shine to Terry and gave him a brand new television set - she had four of them. She didn't seem to realise it belonged to a rental company!"
Duncan had gone on to explain his motivation and plans. "I soon realised Peter's route planning was nowhere close to the real world. On our first trip I was able to save about two hundred miles on his estimate and get home a day early. From then on I used only filling stations I knew where I could use the company's agency card to book fifty gallons of diesel and put only thirty in the tank. The attendants and I would split the difference, in cash."
"You're a crook!"
"I prefer entrepreneur - Robin Hood, if you like. The company's no worse off and nobody gets hurt."
"You reckon?"
"Except the customers get early delivery and we have time on our hands, so we do local removals on our own account at cut-price rates."
The evening that started on a note of uncertainty, ended on a high and Kathryn's enthusiasm about their relationship was breathtaking. It was as if Duncan had awakened a rebellious streak she didn't know she had and couldn't wait to push it to the limit. That night in bed, with the same passion, she tested Duncan's fitness and his capacity for sleep deprivation. Sometime in the early hours she left him, deliciously exhausted. "You've given me a new life Duncan, and I'm devoting it to you," he heard her whisper, just before the latch clicked.
After that Kathryn had taken over the business side of his scams. In her position as removals co-ordinator for Maxwell's, she was able to cream off the best weekend jobs for Duncan and Terry. With no overheads, their earnings rose to well beyond his most optimistic forecasts. He soon paid off outstanding debts and could look forward to re-establishing MacKay Moves. But in spite of his euphoria, the trucker was haunted by misgivings. "These up-market jobs, Kathryn," he had said, "they're nice little earners but they're in Central London. We're bound to be spotted by someone from the firm."
"Only if they shop in the West End. Besides, fiddling the filthy rich is more fun." The appeal of her big seductive eyes was irresistible. "We're O.K. lover, trust me. I'll handle whatever happens."
And he did trust her, instinctively. "Maybe we just need a holiday. I've never worked so hard in all my life..."
"Or played so hard?"
He did wonder, briefly, just how much the human body could take.
ooooOOOOoooo
Against the 'silent check' there was no safeguard: it was sneaky. Without having the civility to stop you, a government officer could sight your vehicle at any time of the day or night, and then trace the truck's registered owner. They would follow up with a visit to the firm's office a week later, checking the driver's whereabouts at that time, according to his log sheets. On the night in question they'd been seen on the outskirts of London when the record showed them overnighting at Weymouth in Dorset. Kathryn told Duncan about it on Thursday when he phoned the office from home pretending he was still in Bristol.
Peter grabbed the phone from his P.A. "My office, soon as you get back Saturday morning, MacKay. Where are you now?"
Duncan swallowed hard, wondering how next day's Chelsea/Kensington job could be salvaged. "We've got six drops to do here in Bristol tomorrow, then Bath, Swindon, Newbury, Basingstoke... We're looking at getting back late Saturday night at the earliest." He wondered how much swallowing Peter was doing.
"You're in serious trouble..."
"I heard."
"Well?"
"I think these people just pick a number out of a hat." He crossed his fingers. "Anyway I can't see you 'till Monday...unless you want me to bring half the load back."
The pause was pregnant. "All right, Monday first thing. I'll be checking the dates and times for all your deliveries for last week. You could be looking at criminal charges here." The phone went dead.
Duncan closed his eyes in thought, then explained the situation to Terry. "Bloody hell! Whadda you think'll happen to us Dunc?"
His partner's panic reaction was always the worst part of even a minor crisis. So he milked it. "Instant dismissal for sure. Drawing wages when you're working for yourself is theft. I could be lookin' at a hefty fine and a lengthy ban for falsifying legal documents. And if Peter presses charges for GBH, I might get five in the Scrubbs."
"Eh? When did you thump the manager?"
"Next Monday mornin' probably - the self righteous git!"
By the time Kathryn came round he'd managed to reassure his workmate, but as he saw him to the door, advising an early night, he realised that he hadn't done such a good job convincing himself.
He kissed Kathryn and they sat down together on the sofa. He just wanted to lay with her and make the world disappear. This had to be their biggest test yet and he studied her eyes for anger, despair, or both. "What can I say love - I've blown it."
Amazingly she smiled that same smile, the one that told him all was well with the world. "It's only a setback lover. I'm working on it. I met Peter's wife once at the staff dance; Vera and I are good friends."
His laugh was mirthless. "Kath, you don't realise... No, I'm taking you home. Best you stay away until I discover what Maxwell's have in store for me."
"What about the private job tomorrow?"
"Might as well run with it. What is there to lose?"
ooooOOOOoooo
The pick-up address was a large second floor flat in a block bordering busy Kings Road. There was no lift and they were forced to double-park, so it was early evening when they loaded the last item and set off to park overnight at Duncan's place.
He turned the big van slowly into the throng of traffic and suicidal pedestrians. At Terry's insistence, every Monday on their way to the West End, they drove the length of this trendy street, while he ogled the air-headed Sloan Rangers. He called them 'toff's totty,' idle wives and daughters of the rich, fashion slaves who never seemed to tire of posing amongst the boutiques and coffee bars.
The mini-skirted girl with long black hair and model dimensions was no exception. But swerving wide for the vehicle to clear the kerb, the driver's attention was drawn to the way her pretty features were contorted in anger as she pulled on the sleeve of her escort who leaned stubbornly against the wall. When Duncan's gaze travelled to the subject of her distress, he struggled to keep his grip on the steering wheel. Although Peter turned away almost immediately, Duncan felt the intensity of their eye contact before accelerating away.
"Hey Duncan, I could've sworn I saw the manager back there!" Terry hesitated, deep in thought. "Naw, Peter couldn't be married to a babe like that."
"Don't even mention Peter. I'm paranoid already!"
When he phoned Kathryn he failed to mention the incident.
ooooOOOOoooo
The Saturday morning traffic was building up as they approached Knightsbridge. They were already running an hour late. Duncan had slept fitfully although both he and Terry were tired from the previous day's exertions; removals of this volume normally required a crew of four. His heart sank as he reversed into the cul-de-sac and his rear-view mirror revealed a car partially blocking the driveway to the mews cottage fifty yards away.
After thirty minutes of fruitless enquiries, Duncan sought help from a traffic warden, only to be told that the vehicle was on private ground and therefore legally parked. Just then the owner appeared. "Sorry old chap, you can't expect me to move my car for every large lorry that wants to get past." He brought out a visiting card. "Here's my number; I suggest you phone to arrange a convenient time."
"Two minutes?" Duncan pleaded. "That's all. We won't trouble you again until..."
"My point exactly. You'll be disturbing me again when you leave." He turned away dismissively. "Ask your company to give me a ring - there's a good chap."
The trucker's solution to the problem was efficient, if energy sapping and time-consuming. They pushed the car on to the double yellow lines that ran the length of the cul-de-sac and then called the police who made arrangements to have it towed away.
He was sound asleep on the sofa when Kathryn phoned him later that evening. "I've had better days," he said in answer to her enquiry.
"I know you said we shouldn't meet until after... well, for a while... but I was hoping we could go out for a meal tomorrow night. I'm missing you."
Duncan's resolve melted away. "Me too."
"Great. I know a nice quiet place - a bit pricey, but..."
"We can afford it," he said, looking at the bundles of twenty-pound notes he'd brought back.
"Bet you didn't get a tip?"
"Said he was a racehorse owner; mentioned next year's Derby and handed me a piece of paper with a name on it. Terry wasn't impressed, so I gave him twenty quid on top of his share."
ooooOOOOoooo
Kathryn had booked a table for seven on Sunday evening by which time Duncan was ravenous. The restaurant was off Battersea Bridge Road on the south bank of the Thames. Within walking distance of Chelsea, it was both discreet and chic, but like most secluded rendezvous in London, it was teeming with patrons.
With the certainty of disgrace and criminal charges hanging over him, the driver was looking across at his girl and wondering if this may be their last night together for some time. He studied the contours of her face, but could find no sadness there, no hint of anxiety. The big eyes were ever bright and alert, the sensuous mouth still eager to smile. The black low cut dress, daring by Kathryn's standards, invited his gaze to drop from the dimpled chin to the cream-flesh fullness of her... He looked up in embarrassment. Her smile was teasing. How could she be so cool? He scanned the room.
Like their own, most tables were for two and set in alcoves. The lighting was individual and subdued, so that the occupants appeared to be adrift on their own little island. The waiters were faceless white shirts, flitting about like fireflies amidst a velvet fog of smoky muted conversation. Halfway through the main course and their second bottle of Chianti, the nervousness remained. Their relationship was built on trust. Should he tell her that Peter had witnessed their final covert operation? He watched as two more customers entered and were shown to their seats directly opposite. As they sat down and their faces came into focus, Duncan nearly choked on his pasta.
Kathryn refilled his wine glass. "Eat more slowly dear; I know you're starving..."
He looked again, this time at the girl. The same long black hair and pale complexion, the same look of reproach at Peter and the same animated mouth. You could always tell the married couples, he thought. "It's all right Kathryn, I've just lost my appetite. Have you seen who just walked in?"
She followed his line of vision. "Damn! They're not due 'till eight." Her look was apologetic. "I might have some good news, but it'll have to wait - excuse me." She got up and walked purposefully towards the new arrivals, while her partner allowed himself to fall back into his chair, watching transfixed.
As she approached their table, Duncan saw the look of disbelief on the manager's face change to alarm. In seconds Peter was on his feet, ushering Kathryn towards the bar, where they engaged in serious conversation. Duncan asked a white shirt for a large whisky.
Eventually, she returned. "Bingo," she said with a smile. "Your boss has just had an attack of amnesia where you're concerned."
"What's happening here? I don't need any favours - I can handle pillocks like Peter."
She sighed. "Sometimes bare-knuckle diplomacy doesn't work, love. Besides, I wanted to help Vera."
Duncan glanced across the floor at the warring pair. "It's Peter needs help from where I'm sitting."
"Serves him right! He has a trusting wife at home who'd do anything for him. I've known what he's like since he made a pass at me just after my husband's funeral." She sighed again. "When I overheard him booking a table here, I guessed it wasn't for a family outing."
"Blimey!" He placed his hand over hers. "Look, I'm sorry. But I've been thinking I've wiped the slate clean where Maxwell's are concerned. Besides, I don't know any more scams."
"Good. There's enough in the kitty for a new van and a lockup."
They drank to it. "Stone the crows!" exclaimed Duncan, as he eyed the bill. "I'm not sure I brought enough dough. Do you think they'll want a tip on top?"
Kathryn scanned the check. "It's not included."
"Wait up!" Duncan reached inside his tuxedo, removed the piece of paper and read it out. "Nijinsky? That donkey!" He let it fall to the floor. "Just another example of the rich exploiting the poor."
Ends
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