Short stories from My Red Book, Henry Macey [room on the broom read aloud .txt] 📗

driver carried petrol for the car I was to bring back.

 

We arrived at the first garage in Geraldton, late at night. Unloading all the new cars, we re-loaded three old cars onto the top deck and three new cars on the bottom, which had to be taken off at his next stop. I would leave the one I had driven here, and return with a used car.

 

We had started and fuelled an old car to make sure it was a goer, for my return journey before loading his cars. When we had finished loading, I waved to the driver of the car transporter as he left. I returned to the car I was driving and started it up again to pull off; and switched on the headlights. The engine stopped I had a duff battery; it didn’t have enough power for the engine and lights.

 

The car would not start again on the key, but luckily, there was a downhill slope so I bump started it. Switching on the sidelights, I was relieved to find that it kept going, so I drove out of town on them alone. Picking up speed, I tried the headlights again with my fingers crossed, it kept going and I was on my way.

 

About forty miles south of Geraldton, just off the main highway, is a town called Dongara. As I reached the turnoff for the town, a car switched on its headlights and cut across me, forcing me off the road. Before I could get out of the car, a gun was pushed into my ear. And I was told to step from the car by a police officer.

 

He was wearing his uniform coat over his pyjamas and told me I was under arrest. Someone had seen me leave the garage and had rung the police saying the car had been stolen. I had one hell of a job trying to convince him I was just delivering the car back to Perth. I had to get him to ring the garage owner, to prove that this car was one he was sending back.

 

Then I had a hard time convincing him, I had not stolen his car. But then I argued if I knew where the keys for the new car were, why then would I steal this old heap of crap. The policeman eventually lets me continued on my way, but would not help me get the car started again. I had to wait until someone came along who was willing to give me a tow. And that was a long wait, it was a good job it was Friday night and I had all the weekend off.

PONY EXPRESS

 

Bell Brothers had an express service to Port Headland; the main contract was the Royal Mail. The trip was roughly one thousand and fifty miles, overnight. They called it the ‘rocket service.’ We called it the ‘pony express.’ The vans were three-ton International Harvester’s, with three and a half litre V8 motors and were very fast. They had to be, to cover the distance required in the time allowed. There were four of them; three were coming south, as one was going up northbound.

 

A driver from Perth would drive a van loaded with the mail and anything else that had to go the three hundred miles to Geraldton. There he would meet the driver from Carnarvon and change vehicles and drive back to Perth. The Carnarvon driver would return the three hundred miles to his home base, meeting a driver there from Port Headland who had driven four hundred and fifty miles. This driver would drop off the mail for Dampier and then go onto Port Headland with the rest of the mail arriving in the early hours of the morning. That night they would start off again. Why am I telling you of this, well there's a short story to tell?

 

Don and I were on the Dampier fridge run. We had stopped at the Nanutarra roadhouse on the banks of the Nanutarra River. It was about one or two o’clock in the morning. The rocket pulled in as well to drop something off; I must say this was not a scheduled stop for it. But then we all did favours for each other, as it’s a long way to go for a small car part or the like.

 

We had a cup of tea and a chat with the driver then he was off, on the next one hundred and fifty miles of his run. We followed at a more sedate pace, almost half his speed to be precise. Just before daybreak, [the sun rises about four o’clock,] we saw a faint glow in the distance. When we got to the glow it turned out to be the ‘rocket’ with one of its wheels on fire.

 

We pulled past it, stopped and ran back to the driver who was standing some distance away from the van. He told us that there were gas cylinders in the van and he didn't know what to do. We said “let it burn,” but he was worried about the mail. Then when he told us what else he was carrying. I was in the van in a flash throwing out the contents.

 

When we got to Dampier we went to our depot to drop off the mailbags and reported what had happened to the ‘rocket’ then we went off to unload our fridge. As we were unloading the goods at one of the housing estates corners, our manager the Postmaster and a reporter from the local paper arrived. The Postmaster thanked us on behalf of the Post Office for saving the mail, and the reporter interviewed us so he could write a piece on the bravery of two Bell’s drivers.

 

And a very nice piece it was, pity it was not entirely true. I didn't think I should tell them I had to throw the mailbags out; because they were in the way of me getting to the box of ten thousand cigarettes. Don and I discussed what we should do with them.

 

We came to a decision to burn them, very, very slowly.

Someone from the past.

 

In the year 1969, I was in the Kelmscott pub one night, having a quiet drink, when I noticed someone taking a lot of interest in me. He was sitting several tables away from me. It was a bit unnerving to see him staring at me with an unwavering gaze. I wondered if he thought I had crossed him in some way, though I could not see how, as I did not recognize him at all. As he got up and approached me, I prepared to defend myself.

 

Many years ago, I was accused of a crime I did not commit. The police said I had robbed a bus conductress that I was sure my double must have committed because, at the time of the robbery, I was on board ship in the Bay of Biscay.  Was this a case of mistaken identity? Would I have to fight my way out of the pub for something I had not done?

 

"I know you from somewhere," he said with a smile on his face, as he arrived at the table I was sitting at. "Where do you work?" He asked, and then shook his head when I replied,

 

 "Bell Brothers, I drive for them."

 

"No, that is not it mate,” he said. “Where do you come from?"

 

 "Taunton in Somerset England," I said.

 

Again, it meant nothing to him, and then he asked, "What's your name?" His face lit up into a massive smile when I answered him with, "Henry Joseph Macey."

 

"You’re Joe Macey! I’m Simon Butler; we were in 4E2, the stoker's mess, onboard HMS Eagle together."

 

Hell, I had left Eagle ten years ago in nineteen fifty-nine; I could not remember seeing him before. He was right though. I had been in 4E2 mess on Eagle. I had joined her when I had finished training in September of fifty-six. I’d left her when she went into dry dock, in Plymouth I think, in July of ‘59.

 

He also remembered Jock Gallagher, Ockey Ockalton, Smedly Loather and Ginger Cook. My four going-ashore mates onboard Eagle; the Fab Five as we called ourselves. He also said he had joined the five of us, on some of our runs ashore.

 

"The six of us got kicked out of that bullfight in Barcelona, for cheering for the bull. I was with you that night. We all slept on that fishing boat in Naples that we thought was our liberty boat because it was just like a Navy M.F.V. (Motor Fishing Vessel).

Do you remember that night in Toulon when we had that sword fight with French breadsticks? We were supposed to be the six Musketeers, and remember that couple that hid us when the French police arrived?

God, we had some good runs ashore! I can't drink like that now mate - two pints are my limit now; she'd go nuts if I went out and got drunk without her."

He laughed and looked at his half-empty glass, then took a swig and laughed again. "Wish I could turn the clock back Joe. We had some good mates in the mob."

 

I knew exactly what he meant. The mates you made in the forces were your mates for life, even if you never saw them again after you left the service. They would always be in your head, always there when you thought of the good times, and some of the bad, when you stood back to back defending each other. We sat reminiscing about the good old days over another glass, telling tales of mishaps we had had, and laughing at tales of mishaps others had had. Suddenly a hand landed on my shoulder, rudely interrupting our merriment.

 

"I'm an off-duty policeman, and I'm arresting you for having pornographic images," this chap standing behind me said, with his fingers digging into my shoulder.

 

"I've just heard you say that you have a picture of yourself playing with pussy. Don't deny it! My wife heard you as well. So I'm also arresting you for using obscenities in a public place."

 

Simon and I looked at each other dumbfounded, and then he almost fell off his chair laughing. I was speechless. How could I be so misunderstood? Everybody around us was staring. What was the commotion about? As Simon could not stop laughing, I had to explain to the police officer.

 

"Yes, I did say that. We were talking about our old ship, and I said I had a photo