‘Why do you say that?’ Sandra said. She was pressed up against the man on her left, and the driver’s operations meant that his left hand banged continually against her thigh. The lorry’s cabin was meant only for the comfort of three. There was a dull, dusty smell in the cabin, of unwashed sweaters and ancient cigarette stubs. The floor was littered with brown-paper sandwich wrappers.
‘Well, stands to reason,’ the chief remover said. ‘If it’s raining, that’s no fun.’
‘And there are always customers who insist on tarpaulins,’ the driver said.
‘Tarpaulins?’ Sandra said. ‘Whatever for?’
‘It’s their right,’ the chief remover said. ‘Say you’re moving a lot of pictures, or books, or soft furnishings—’
‘The customer, they don’t like it if you carry them out into the rain, and sometimes you have to leave them outside for a minute or two, and if it’s raining—’
‘Hence the tarpaulin,’ the driver said. Behind them, the full tinny bulk of the removals van thundered like weather. There was a distant rattle, perhaps furniture banging against the walls or a loose exhaust pipe. Below, the roofs of cars hurtled past.
‘Because,’ the chief remover said, ‘if something gets wet, even for a couple of minutes, if the whole load gets rained on, you get to the other end, see, and it’s offloaded and put in place, and a day or two later, there’s a call to the office, a letter, maybe, complaining that the whole lot stinks of damp.’
‘Hence the tarpaulin,’ the driver said again.
‘Course,’ the chief remover said, ‘nine times out of ten, it’s not the furniture, it’s the house, the new house, because a house left empty for a week, it does tend to smell of damp, but they don’t take that into consideration. But the tarpaulins, it doubles the work for us, it does.’
They were nearing the motorway now, having crossed London. The traffic that had held them steady on the North Circular for an hour was thinning, and the removals van was moving in bigger bursts. The car with Sandra’s parents in it, her brother in the back, had long been lost in the shuffle of road lanes, one moving, one holding; a music-hall song her grandmother used to sing was in her head: ‘My old man said follow the van…you can’t trust the specials like an old-time copper…’ No, indeed you couldn’t, whatever it meant.
She went back to being interested and vivacious before she had a chance to regret her request to travel up to Sheffield in the van, rather than in the car. ‘You must see everything in this job,’ she said vividly.
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ the boy surprisingly said, snuffling with laughter.
‘Don’t mind him,’ the driver said. ‘He can’t help himself.’
‘It’s a shame, really,’ the chief remover said.
‘A bit like being a window-cleaner, I expect,’ Sandra said, before the boy could say he’d seen nothing to match her and her jumping into the van like that. She was fourteen; he was probably five years older, but she was determined to despise him. ‘I mean, you get to see everything, everything about people.’
‘You’d be surprised,’ the chief remover said.
‘That’s the worst of it over,’ the driver said. The road was widening, splitting into lanes, its sides rising up in high concrete barriers, and the London cars were flying, as if for sheer uncaged delight, and the four of them, in their rumbling box, were flying too. ‘Crossing London, that’s always the worst.’
‘You see some queer stuff,’ the chief remover said. ‘People are different, though. There’s some people who, you turn up, there’s nothing done. They expect you to put the whole house into boxes, wrap up everything, tidy up, do the job from scratch.’
‘Old people, I suppose,’ Sandra said.
‘Not always,’ the driver said. ‘You’d be surprised. It’s the old people, the ones it’d be a task for, that aren’t usually a problem.’
‘It’s the younger ones, the hippies, you might call them, expect you to do everything,’ the chief remove said. ‘My aunt, you come across some stuff with that lot, things you’d think they’d be ashamed to have in the house, let alone have a stranger come across.’
‘That’s right,’ the boy said. He seemed almost blissful, perhaps remembering the boxing-up of some incredible iniquity.
‘Of course,’ Sandra said, ‘you’re not to know what’s in a lot of boxes, are you? There might be anything.’
The three of them were silent: it had not occurred to them to worry about what they had agreed to transport.
‘What was the place we said we’d stop?’ the chief remover said.
‘Leicester Forest East, wasn’t it?’ the driver said.
Sandra had watched the packing from an upstairs window, and only at the end had she thought of asking if she could travel with the men. She was fourteen; she had noticed recently that you could stand in front of a mirror with a small light behind you, approach it with your eyes cast down, then lift them slowly, and raise your arm across your chest, as if you were shy. You could: you could look shy. Whatever you were wearing, a coat, a loose dress, a T-shirt, or most often the new bra you’d had to ask your mum to buy to replace the one that had replaced the starter bra of only a year before, the shy look and the protective arm had an effect.
The old house had been stripped, and everything the upper floor had held was boxed and piled downstairs; the house had drained downwards, like a bucket with a hole. Sandra had been born in that house. She had never seen these upstairs rooms empty, and they now looked so small. Her clean room’s walls were marked and dirty. Only the window looked bigger, stripped of the curtains she had been allowed to choose and hadn’t liked for years – the pink, the peacocks, the girly rainbows and clouds. The net curtains were gone too – and if she had anything to do with it, they’d not be going up in her new room.
Her father was downstairs in the hall, telling the foreman a funny story – the confidential anecdotal mutter deciphered by bursts of laughter. Her mother, probably exhausted, was perhaps looking for Francis, who was lazy and clumsy, and had a knack of disappearing when anything needed to be done. She looked out of the window to where the van, its back open, was being steadily loaded with the house’s contents, exotic and unfamiliar when scattered across the drive. There were two men, one middle-aged, the top of his bald head white and glistening like lard, the other a boy. She waited in the window patiently, and soon her mother came out with cups of tea. The boy turned to her mother. He was polite, he said, ‘Thank you, Mrs Sellers,’ and when her mother went back inside, he was still facing in the right direction. She did that thing she knew how to do, and it worked; he looked upwards. Her gaze was shy, lowered. It met his modestly, and she gently drew her hand across her chest. Brilliant. She might have slapped him, the way he turned away, but he was the one who blushed. She realized that the driver and Mr Griffiths from next door, nosing about in his front garden, had also seen her. Mr Griffiths, who’d always been fond of her, and Mrs Griffiths too; from the look on his face now, they’d have something to think about if they ever thought of her ever again.
‘Have you seen your brother?’ her father said, as he thudded up the stairs.
‘No,’ Sandra said. ‘He’s probably down the end of the garden. Can we—’ she began. She was about to ask if they could have a tree-house at their new house, but she’d had a better idea. She was fourteen. ‘Can I go up to Sheffield with the movers in their van?’
Bernie looked startled. ‘There’ll not be room. A bit of an adventure, is it?’
‘Something like that.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Don’t ask your mother.