Greensleeves

Greensleeves

“Has this thing got an MOT?” The sight of the burly policeman in his large dayglo jacket and white helmet approaching the back of van from his parked up BMW bike had filled Chris with a sinking dread. He’d only been driving the old van for three days – it had seemed an easy way to earn some cash over the summer holiday.
“Yes, sir, well, I think so.” The knowing look of the rosy-cheeked traffic policeman suggested otherwise.
“You think so? Well, young man, I bet it doesn’t.” Chris’s answer had been correct; well, sort of. He did think that the bright yellow 1969 Bedford CA van with the plastic ice-cream cones on the top front corners and the words ‘TRY ONE ASK FOR ANOTHER’ emblazoned in red above the huge windscreen was legal. Mike had said it was ok on the previous Monday morning when, after agreeing to drive the van over the summer because Mike wasn’t allowed to drive anymore - apparently the old bill set him up - Chris had turned up at 28 Downs Road for his first day as an ice cream van driver. The deal had been done in the pub – Mike was on his fifth pint and Chris was serving it; another summer job.

The policeman’s eyes were scanning the crumbly old relic for obvious illegalities; tyres, dangerous bodywork, wipers, tax – the usual. But as it was stationary he couldn’t see that the speedo just bounced around zero mph, nor that the brakes needed plenty of pumping to bring the hulk to a halt; but then with a top speed of no more than thirty miles an hour, Chris wasn’t going to be braking too many speed limits.
“Tell you what lad, if I see you along here tomorrow and I stop you again, you make sure that you can show me the MOT certificate for this thing. How does that sound?”
“No problem, sir, I’ll make sure I have it.” Chris’s parents had always displayed a healthy respect for the police force and this had been passed on to their son – they’d never been in trouble for anything, but then Chris’s father was a civil servant with a Morris Marina and no-one that Chris knew who owned a Marina was ever in trouble with the police. Re-starting the feeble engine and engaging first gear with the column mounted changer – it made its usual crunching sound which made him wince and look gingerly out of the window to a still disbelieving face of the policeman – he gently moved the thirteen year old 100,000 miler away. The policeman walked back slowly to his motorcycle, shaking his head as he went.

As seventeen-year olds go, Chris didn’t look his age. His young, honest and, perhaps, slightly gullible looks were probably what had got him into the situation, and, probably, out of it.

The remainder of his journey to the warehouse to pick up his gallon of fresh vanilla ice cream, starwberry mivvi’s, rockets and chocolate flakes was uneventful - as was his day in the Portchester Castle car park; not the large council run car park with the toilets and turning space for coaches, but the small Dept of Environment car park close to the castle entrance. It was a sunny day and he sold loads – the deal was that he kept a quarter of what he sold so a four hundred pound day was really worth it – plus he was able to sit and read a paper during the quiet times and eat 99 flakes by the half dozen; he’d decided that he ought to start to read the Daily Mirror on account that his parents read the Daily Telegraph – surely that’s what a van driver did? He’d also learned that the castle warden was a mate of Mike’s – hence his being able to sit in the Dept. car park all day – and so made of point of saying good morning when the said keeper parked his Cortina next to the ice cream van first thing every day.