AMBITION

Dad had bought a small piece of land on the outskirts of town. It lay between a fuel station and a transport cafe. With the help of my mother’s brothers they had built a house. Dad had a small transport business and did most of the work himself. I was the first born and soon after we moved into the nearly completed house I celebrated my sixth birthday. My younger brother was four and mum was pregnant with the next boy. We enjoyed the freedom of the back garden having moved from a small flat in town. Dad was the son of a coal merchant and mum came from a Welsh family that had come to work in the cotton mills of Preston. We were allowed to venture to the petrol station to buy sweets but more interesting was the transport cafe on the other side. We got to know the owners who were a family from Blackpool. Their ten year old son, Davey, was a flamboyant character who liked to dress up and dance on the tables of the restaurant. The gravel parking area for the heavy goods vehicles provided a vast expanse to run around. The trucks came and went and the drivers entered the cafe to enjoy their eggs and bacon. The dining area was starkly illuminated and furnished with rudimentary tables and chairs. The clientele seemed satisfied with the surrounding. One day a different sort of vehicle entered the car park. Not an articulated lorry, small truck or transit van but a sleek black Rolls Royce. Slowly it steered towards the entrance. We ceased our play and stared. Davey quickly headed into the restaurant. The shiny beast crept close to the door and stopped. A driver stepped out and opened the rear door. A well dressed man descended followed by an equally well dressed lady. The wagon drivers by their lorries turned to look. The chauffeur opened the cafe doors and they entered. I realised this was a man of importance, a rich man. My father owned his house, the cafe owners made a reasonable living and the petrol station probably took a fair amount but they were not in the same league as this man. He was of an illusive, exclusive class. The very rich. We could only imagine what privileges such wealth afforded him. I realised I wanted to be in that class. I had to learn how to make such money. I set my mind to it. One way or another I would achieve it. Davey came back out of the restaurant. The man was Eddie Stobart. Like my father he had started as an owner driver. He had taken over a small business disposing of basic slag from steel works and eventually acquired the contract for waste disposal with ICI. My younger brother reminded me it was time for our lunch. We slowly walked back to our house next door and sat down to our beans on toast.



PETE EASTHAM'S SHORT STORIES