T i m e O u t

Getting it right.

Getting it right

'There!

Hours honing words and I, Cathy Steel, reputable theatre actress and would-be writer, have outlined The Trucker,  a short fiction competition narrative.

Raymond, my retired father and very honest and patient reviewer, reads the fruits of my endeavours and raises a don’t-go-there eyebrow.

“Rather close to the bone, I think Cathy,” he deadpans.

But I know it’s good. Likeable characters and plot.

Lucy, the 30-something year-old, slightly disabled haulage company secretary, nicknamed The Leg, secretly longs to drive P.J’s 18-wheeler lorry.

P.J. dearly wants to tell Lucy that he hates her nickname and the raw deal she gets from his mates. But he stammers so they just tease each other instead.

The narration evolves with Lucy cajoling P.J. into letting her drive his truck.

Hints of innuendo as the ecstatic secretary deftly manoeuvres the blue monstrosity through winding roads. Tantalizing minutiae. He eying her, she gleefully eying the beetle-like vehicles below and swerving just a fraction when they overtake her. The faultless climax to their superb transgression over a roadhouse dinner when Lucy suggests a trucker sleepover which P.J. books from his cell phone without the slightest stumbling on his Ss.

Perfect!

Not quite.

I have our heroes’ chemistry. Lucy has developed into a convincing three-dimensional character but P.J. lacks that essential truck-driver charisma.

Being, as I am, an avid cyclist who finds driving anything larger than my pocket-sized Ka daunting, I’m chuffed that I’ve managed to persuade my neighbour Sonny Macintosh to let me drive his beloved rig Tosher. That truck constantly blocks my driveway.

“Just down to the end of the road, Sonny, pleeeease! I know how to drive.”

 “No posh lady driving Tosher,” Sonny mimics over our dividing fence.

But persistence has paid off.

Today he helps me into the cab, then deftly swings up on the passenger side.

Inside, smells of leather, sweat, aftershave and cigarettes. Macho smells.  

Just what I need to complete my story. Driver and rig, so complementary to each other.

He hasn’t even noticed my designer jeans.

My legs don’t reach the pedals.

“Can you adjust that seat.”

“I think so. OK! I like your cushions Sonny?”

 “Ikea Catherine.”

“Right.”

“The handbrake.”

 Here? Right.”

“Let her go, gently now Catherine,” Sonny coaxes.

Catherine! The only person to call me that.

I press a peddle, not daring to turn my head. The monstrosity lumbers backwards.

“Easy, I said. You do know you’re in reverse?”

Beads of sweat as I hit another peddle.

“She’s rollin…! She’s fuckin’ rollin’” he yells.

This isn’t at all the nuanced dialogue I’d anticipated.

Thud!

Tosher splutters and the engine dies.

“Jeeez!” He pulls the handbrake.

 “What’s happened Sonny?”

“You could’ve hurt yourself. I must be mad to have let you behind the wheel.”

 He comes round and lifts me down effortlessly.

“Stick to the bicycle. It suits you better.”

I’m unsteady as we investigate. At the rear, my poor Ka is mangled and Tosher’s fender badly dented.   

“Sorry!”

A smack would be preferable to his glare. I move away. He’ll never forgive me.

Without warning, he turns me round.

“Catherine, listen. I meant to tell you. I’ve bought a bike. Maybe we could cycle to the pub later and discuss damages?”

All I manage in reply is “Have you got a helmet?”

To which we both explode in laughter!

The Trucker would be a perfect little story but maybe Dad was right.

It might just be rather close to the bone.