Waling for Christmas

Copyright Oggbashan October 2019

The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.

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I am a student at a London university in the mid 1960s but a few years older than most of the others. When I had been called up for my National Service, instead of the usual short time, I had signed up to be in the Royal Navy for seven years as I was unsure what career to pursue after university or even what course to study. Now I was studying Engineering having spent most of my years in the Navy as a trainee mechanic maintaining motor vehicles. At the end of my time in the Navy I had my full qualifications as a motor mechanic and driving licences, military and civilian, that included trucks, heavy goods vehicles and public service vehicles such as buses and coaches.

I belonged to the university's walking and camping club. They had difficulty getting to some of the places they wanted to go and suggested that if they clubbed together to buy an ex-Army truck we could take up to twenty people and our camping kit to places such as North Wales or the Yorkshire Moors.

We knew that there was a frequent auction of ex-military vehicles in Nottingham and a company that bought and renovated those vehicles. I had sufficient knowledge to sort the good from the bad but the other members didn't want the risk of buying a dubious vehicle straight from the auction but one that had been overhauled and checked by the Nottingham company. We might pay twenty per cent more but we would have a reliable, if ancient vehicle.

I had gone to Nottingham by train on a Saturday with the funds subscribed by the members to buy an ex-army truck. The money I had was enough to buy, tax and insure a truck, and to buy one slightly better than the firm's basic offering.

When I got there I was slightly disappointed. The last auction had been a couple of months ago. All the reasonable condition trucks had already been sold, leaving a few dubious wrecks for example missing the canvas hoods for the load areas, mudguards, lights etc. None of them, although very cheap, would be suitable for carrying a number of people who would be cold and wet if it rained.

But they had an ex-Royal Navy Bedford OB coach, a vehicle I knew very well. It was post war with a civilian type body including upholstered seats for twenty-seven people. It had a low recorded mileage and as I checked it over the mileage appeared genuine. It hadn't sold because the OB's top speed was forty miles an hour and most people wanting to buy a coach wanted more performance than that. It was also noisy from new but less noisy than the ex-Army trucks I had wanted to look at.

The coach was at the upper limit of the funds I had available. I was able to negotiate five per cent off because I would pay cash -- now. The company had an arrangement with an insurance company. Because it would be used by a club's members and not a public service vehicle I could tax it as 'private'. That was cheaper than I had expected and the insurance broker gave a discount for my Royal Navy driving experience, no-claims bonus and for being over 25 years old. I was left with enough money to fill the tank and some change. I had worried that I might have to use my small overdraft facility for fuel.

The company was an agent for the insurers and issued a temporary cover note until the full documentation would be sent to me by post. I rode on the back of a WW2 motorcycle, driven by one of their employees, a half a mile to a Post Office, to tax the coach. I sent some postcards from Nottingham to the walker's club explaining what I had bought and the price.

After a couple of hours I was able to start driving back to London -- slowly but faster than I would have done in a truck. If the club had been in a truck perched on wooden slatted seats my maximum speed would be been little more than thirty miles an hour, but the coach would run all day close to its maximum and the passengers would be warm, dry and comfortable on upholstered seats.

I parked it on the university's grounds next to the Engineering building. I had already arranged with the university's authorities for that space to be available for the vehicle the walking and camping club would acquire. The bus was longer than the truck I had intended to buy but the space was just large enough.

I was stiff and tired as I walked to my girlfriend Sandra's bedsit. She had promised to make me a meal when I got back. She had been expecting me about an hour later at the time it would have taken for me to drive a slow truck but my welcome was still enthusiastic. She hugged me and kissed me as soon as I arrived and thrust a cup of tea in my hands.

"So, Bob, what did you buy? Is it roadworthy?" she asked.

"I couldn't buy a truck, Sandra" I said as I sipped the hot tea. "They had sold all the good ones. But I have something better -- a twenty-seven seater coach. It was only a few pounds more, is low-mileage, reliable and much more comfortable than a truck would be."

"The meal is a casserole in the oven. It won't be ready for at least an hour and a half, possibly two hours. Could we go for a short drive now?"

I sighed.

"I'd rather not, Sandra. It is the largest vehicle I have driven since I left the Navy two years ago. Unlike a car, it needs real driving effort and it has been a long way from Nottingham. I'm shattered. After I have driven it a bit more I'm sure my muscles will be back in shape, but now? My arms and legs know I have driven a long way."

Sandra looked disappointed.

"Tomorrow?" I suggested.

"OK, Bob. Tomorrow. Until the meal is ready, just relax and lie down."

I spread myself along the bed-settee. Sandra knelt beside it and gradually stroked and massaged my arms and legs until I was almost purring under her touch. She is a qualified first aider and her massage skills had helped me after sports injuries. I had dropped off into a blissful sleep by the time she had the meal ready. She kissed my cheek and stroked my face to wake me up.

Although the bus had servo-assisted brakes, it had a manual gearbox with a heavy clutch and no assistance on the steering. It required driving, using muscles I hadn't used for some time. The roads were congested and I had been constantly changing gear.

After our meal, Sandra took me to bed for another massage before she gently rode me until I went to sleep under her. I woke refreshed and ready to take her for a drive after breakfast. We went to Wimbledon Common for a walk. She rode in the front passenger seat beside the driver and map read for me for the complicated route through London's busy streets. Sandra was impressed with the comfort of the bus compared with the army truck we had intended to buy. As my muscles got used to it, I was pleased too.

We returned to Sandra's bedsit for the evening meal. We had a hand-delivered message from the Chairman of the University Walking club. This year the University's charity was to provide accommodation and meals for the homeless at Christmas. Despite objections from the walking club, they had decided on a sponsored night walk from London to Brighton. The club was concerned that there would be many people who didn't understand the scale of the challenge and there would be many people dropping out on the way. However the club would man some refreshment and first aid facilities en route, some at all-night cafes, and others in ex-Army tents by the roadside. Could I use the coach to ferry the tents, equipment and volunteers to the assistance points, and then patrol the London to Brighton road collecting those who should never have attempted it?

I sighed. That would be many hours of night time driving, and the general students, not those in the walking club, were rarely fit enough for such a challenge. There might be hundreds of them but if fifty made it all the way to Brighton I would be surprised. If the weather was bad, none might and that would mean I might have to collect ALL of them. I might be driving all night, hundreds of miles.

Sandra and I composed a letter in reply. I sympathised with the Chairman. The university was asking a lot of the walking club. We would have to erect tents provide hot drinks and food and look after those who didn't make it all the way. I asked for thirty pounds for fuel, and a supply of blankets, towels and a dozen large first aid kits. Everything else the club had. The blankets, towels and first aid kits could come from a nearby army surplus shop. I had their current catalogue and thought we could buy enough for between an additional thirty to forty pounds. Could the university fund that total of between sixty and seventy pounds? The walking club couldn't. We had spent our reserves on buying the bus.

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Over the next few weeks I was frequently driving the bus up and down the London to Brighton road carrying members of the walking club and the university's fund-raising committee. We had to negotiate with the owners of the all-night cafés; find sites for the tents and get permissions to erect them from the highway authority and/or the local councils. The fund-raisin committee were beginning to understand the scale of the task they had expected the walking club to undertake. Almost every one of our members would be out that night either as route marshals, first-aiders, food and drink providers, and Sandra and me as rescuers. Sandra and I would be on the road from early afternoon delivering tents and supplies, until dawn on the following day. Those running the tents would have to put them up, serve hot food and drinks all night, and then dismantle the tents for Sandra and I to collect.

The organisation was taking shape. All the tents would be sited next to a public telephone box. Until Croydon any stragglers would be collected by a set of students' cars. I would cover from Croydon to Brighton with the bus. There would be several motorcycle despatch riders to carry messages to and from the walk headquarters at an all-night café near Crawley. Many of those intending to take part had been practising walking around London Parks and to and from the university instead of using public transport. But I was still worried that so many were unprepared.

My muscles were adapting to driving the bus but Sandra's nightly massage was still a great help, as were her meals and her gentle love making. The only complaint I had about the bus was that it had only one windscreen wiper on the driver's side. Sandra, sitting beside me, couldn't see people as well as I could because her screen was rain spattered. That could be a problem if it rained on the night of the walk.

The Chairman of the walking group had persuaded the fund-raising committee to make a major change to the sponsorship. Instead of sponsoring a student for completing the full walk, or so much per miles covered, he asked for sponsors to donate to all those who started the walk. He, and I, were expecting a seventy per cent failure to finish even if the conditions were ideal. If the weather was bad he didn't think more than 5 per cent as best would finish. Sponsorship to finish or so much per mile could be far less than expected, but sponsorship to start was much easier.

The walking club committee worked wonders. They got everyone involved in the running of the event sponsored for at least ten pounds each, got hi-visibility vests with a bank's logo on them, a set of torches with an insurance company logo, stationery such as pens and paper, the ex-army shop lent us gas-bottle powered boilers for hot drinks and gas-bottle powered ranges for hot food, much better than the small primus stoves we had intended to use. They also found us two dozen chemical; toilets, ex-army and clunky, but much better than nothing. I even got vouchers for free fuel for the bus from a petrol company.

I had initially forgotten just how much routine maintenance an older vehicle needed. I had oiling and greasing points to be attended to every 500 or 1,000 miles. When not driving I spent hours under the bus. On the day/night of the walk I would have to grease the bus between delivering the equipment for the check points and the start of the walk -- in the dark.

Sandra was brilliant. Apart from giving me frequent massages and having meals available whenever I had time, her gentle sex each night was very relaxing for me. We moaned together about the university's fund raising committee who had asked for a lot of effort, particularly from me as the only person qualified and insured to drive the bus. During the 24 hours of the walk arrangements I would probably drive nearly 1,000 miles with two greasing sessions required. Sandra would keep me company and keep me supplied with coffee from a thermos flask topped up whenever she could from the check points.

Sandra claimed she was only repaying me for setting her up in her unfurnished bedsit when she left university accommodation at the end of her first year. I had rewired the whole, removed the old ceramic butler sink and replaced it with a modern stainless steel one and a kitchen unit with a table top cooker. I had re-plumbed the bathroom, and sorted out her rattling and draughty sash windows. I had repaired her grandmother's old sewing machine so Sandra could make curtains for her place and mine. But I think she was helping me far more than I had helped her.

The day of the walk I had no lectures. Sandra brought me breakfast in bed and I didn't get up until after 10 am.

Loading the tents and equipment for the check points was hard. The large ex-army tents weighed 180 lb without the poles and the large shelters and flysheets were nearly as heavy. By the time we had delivered to all the check points I had to oil and grease the bus again.

I was at the start from Tower Hill when 650 students set off. Looking at what they were wearing, particularly on their feet, I doubted that half of them would get as far as Croydon. I was pleased to be proved wrong. Only about a dozen failed to reach the Croydon check point. But beyond there the route would become unlit countryside and very long between check points. I waited half an hour after the first walkers had passed Croydon before setting off to look for stragglers.

I didn't expect many stragglers this early. Those who had already passed Croydon were the fitter walkers who had been preparing for the walk.

We picked up one woman who had sprained her ankle tripping over a kerb she hadn't seen in the dark. Her boyfriend was supporting her. Sandra strapped up the ankle and we took both of them back to Croydon.

Over the next hour we collected another dozen, either taking them back to Croydon or on to the next check point. Like the first woman it hadn't been exhaustion but trips in the darkness. When we returned to Croydon I asked the people manning the check point to advise walkers to go in groups and use their torches. I was pleased to see that a number had decided Croydon was their limit and were being taken by students' cars to East Croydon station to catch a train back to London but there were still several hundred people who had passed Croydon.

Over the next few hours Sandra and I collected at least another hundred who had given up. At 2 am I was unhappy to see that it had started to rain. It would be more difficult to see people wanting to be collected and the rain might soak them so much that hypothermia was a risk. But a heated bus and the army blankets were enough to warm walkers up, together with coffee from the vacuum flasks Sandra had intended for me. I had to make do with coffee at a check point.

By dawn almost everyone had either been picked up at the roadside or had reached the final check point in Brighton. I was very tired from so much driving, particularly when it was raining and visibility was poor. I parked the bus in Brighton for half an hour and went to sleep across the back seat of the bus, while Sandra refilled the coffee flasks yet again.

When we set off again we had very few people who needed us. If they had walked that far they wanted to stagger on to the finish line a few miles away. We had two strained ankles and six with severe blisters on their feet. By 9 am everyone who was going to make it all the way had arrived. I drove back to London for a rest, I would have to be out again this afternoon to collect the equipment from the check points, after I had oiled and greased the bus again. I collapsed on Sandra's settee and slept, covered with one of the army blankets.

She woke me up with a cooked lunch before I serviced the bus and we set off yet again on the London to Brighton road. It was nine pm before I was back in Sandra's bedsit, almost being fed by her because I was so tired.

The next morning she brought me breakfast in bed yet again. I was sufficiently with it to appreciate that without her I would have been unable to do so much. I told her so, and thanked her.

That seemed inadequate. When I was up and dressed and had sunk three cups of coffee I looked at her and thought. She had done so much for me, yet she was only my girlfriend.

I got up from the table, sunk down on my hurting knees, and proposed.

"Do you really mean it, Bob?" She asked.

"Of course," I replied. "I need you beside me, for life."

She accepted and that evening she made love to me again, slowly and sensuously until I went to sleep in my new fiancée's arms still dreaming of driving an old bus interminably.

The dream eventually went. Sandra's love never did.

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