Truckerson (The Missing Chapter)

TRUCKERSON

  (THE MISSING CHAPTER)

  John Griffiths

  Copyright 2009 John F Griffiths

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This is a complete story to introduce Barry Truckerson, the hero of my novel

  Truckerson (The Man:The Myth:The Legend)

  a man who marches through life with no doubts or hesitation ... he meets Hitler, Stalin, Von Braun, Presidents Ford and Reagan, upsets some Royalty, is knighted, helps invent Radar, the 'bouncing bomb' and saves the world from a comet ... you can find out more at the end of the story.

  Truckerson

  It was a fine summer afternoon in the sleepy seaside town of Hastings. Along the parade a figure came into view. Just a schoolboy, but quite a striking one, probably a sixth-former. His bulky figure stood tall, his head set at a noble angle, chin high. His steps were steady, positive. He strode - no, he marched. A faint oompahing sound could be heard as his arms swung steadily as he progressed.

  Barry Truckerson was remembering the year before when he'd met that chap Watson-something and the one he'd skimmed stones with - Barnes-Norris - funny how boffins all had double names. A lot of chums at school had, but when he'd asked Pop about it he'd just cuffed him gently and told him to get on with his prep.

  He'd come down with his parents for a long weekend. They were staying at The Grand, which Truckerson had already decided wasn't very. But they'd been lucky to get bookings. It was the annual Boffin's conference again, as he liked to describe it to the annoyance of his father.

  This morning, his mother had decided she wanted a new hat and Pop had taken her into the town. Truckerson could see the need for ladies to have new hats, but couldn't abide the process of acquiring them and tended to get rather fidgety sitting on a hard chair in some stuffy, smelly shop. This was unpopular with his father, so much so that he was prepared to sacrifice some of his hard-earned cash to keep the boy occupied. Ice-cream seemed to be a universal answer. After being instructed not to get into trouble, where not to go, and exactly when to return to the hotel for afternoon tea, Truckerson was released into the community.

  The boy's dark eyes spotted the kiosk. As he approached it at a rate of knots, the woman inside smiled at him.

  'Hello love,' she said. Truckerson wished sometimes ladies were not so familiar.

  'A cone please, miss.'

  'Oh, "miss" is it? Well I never ?' The middle-aged woman giggled. 'Penny or twopenny?'

  This was a fundamental test of Truckerson's character. His father admired thrift, but Truckerson admired ice-cream. 'Twopenny please,' he said firmly and clicked the coins down on the counter.

  'Yes, I'd say that's right, for a big boy like you ?' The woman glanced at him coyly, filling the cone. 'Would you like some raspberry on that?' The boy looked eager, then downcast. He had no more money, and it cost extra. The woman read his face. 'Oh, have this as a present, my dear.'

  Truckerson beamed appreciation. 'Thank you very much miss, you are a very kind person.'

  The woman reddened slightly, looking rather confused. 'Well I never ? you could charm the birds from the trees, young man, there's some very lucky girls out there waiting for you.' She giggled again, girlishly.

  Truckerson was puzzled, but also polite. With a small bow, he left the woman, wondering why on earth he should charm birds, and why on earth girls should be waiting for him. He strolled along, licking his ice. Women were funny creatures, he thought. In the sweet shop in the village where he and his school chums went, a new couple had recently taken over. The man was a gardener at the school, and his wife ran the shop. The other boys said she was really cross with them, but he'd always found her pleasant and friendly as he chatted to her and called her 'miss'. The man told him his wife thought he was 'a real little gentleman' and 'a handsome lad'. The other boys ragged him when they heard this, but Truckerson was more than compensated by an extra gobstopper or piece of chocolate in his paper bag on a Saturday. He never said anything to the others as he scoffed them quietly.

  As he walked, licking gently, he wondered about Germany. There was lots of talk of war - you'd think after the last lot, those bally krauts would have learned their lesson. But there was one thing he admired about them - marching. They were really good at that - he'd seen newsreels of loads of them marching all over the shop, all in step, wheeling and turning in perfect formation. One thing he couldn't stand was their arms waving in the air like demented trolleybuses. But for sheer technical skill, he did admire their precision.

  Truckerson was well into the last third of his cone when he came opposite a beach shelter. He was rather startled to hear a man's voice shouting, 'Damn, damn'. He turned his head and saw a man sitting on the bench, looking down and banging his fist on the seat. Truckerson had never been one for bad manners.

  'I say, sir,' he called out. The man looked up. 'That's bally rude if I may say so.'

  The man appeared puzzled.

  'I mean a lady or a young child might be passing and hear you swearing.'

  'Was I?'

  'Yes, sir, quite loud.'

  'I'm sorry, I didn't realise.'

  Truckerson realised the man was a gentleman. He knew this by his manner, and his genuine apology. But he wouldn't let him off that easily.

  'You nearly made me drop my cone.' He gazed at the man steadily.

  The man eyed the remains of the cone. For some reason he liked this lad, the set of his head, that open face with the dark dancing eyes. He could see the boy was wary but not afraid.

  'What's your name, son?'

  'Truckerson, sir, Barry Truckerson.'

  'Well, mine's Whittle, Frank Whittle.'

  After they had visited the kiosk, they both returned, licking their ice creams. Whittle glanced over at the boy. 'How on earth did you get raspberry?' he asked enviously.

  'I don't know sir.'

  'Are you a boffin sir?' Truckerson was not sure. After all, the man only had a single name. He wasn't sure if you were allowed to be a boffin with only a single name. But what else was he doing here? He wasn't a tourist and he was a gentleman, so he couldn't be a commercial traveller or anything like that.

  'I'm an engineer.'

  'Not a scientist?'

  'Well, yes.'

  Truckerson was puzzled. Could this man not make up his mind? He decided to change tack. 'What do you do sir?

  'Engines.'

  'What, for cars?'

  'Planes.'

  'Wow! I met an RAF chap here last year, sir he could tell an engine by the sound, Watson ? something ?'

  'Watt?'

  'What?'

  'Never mind. Well if I have my way, engines will sound very different.'

  'Why?'

  'I want to make a new kind of engine. I'm not sure what yet.'

  'Be good if they could get rid of propellers.' Truckerson said, idly licking his cone.

  'Oh, I hardly think ?' Whittle broke off thoughtfully.

  Truckerson had seen a film where a man had been chopped up by a propeller - you didn't see it of course, just heard a horrible noise, but it had been pretty gruesome.

  'I mean, couldn't they put them inside the engine?' Whittle was too polite to laugh. 'If they put them in the box, they'd be quieter as well.' Whittle searched for something the boy would understand.

  'They wouldn't pull as well.'

  'Make 'em faster then.' Truckerson spoke confidently, he knew that his Uncle Bertie's fan blew much harder if you switched it up a notch. 'And with more blades. And more propellers all in a row inside ?' The boy was enthusiastic now, his eyes gleamed he gazed into the far horizon and
a faint humming sound came from him. 'Whizzing round - it would go much faster, wouldn't it?' Truckerson knew from games that small things went faster than big ones, thinking of himself puffing round the track as young Nippy Johnston sped by.

  Whittle could think of nothing to say. The boy was talking nonsense of course, but his head was buzzing strangely, buzzing with some curious ideas.

  'And wouldn't it be like that fire hose thing?' Truckerson had recently decided to become a fireman. Although he had the introductory letter and the information from the Watson-something fellow from last year about the RAF, a temporary glitch in his career plans had occurred when he saw a film of fire-fighters at a big fire. It looked such fun! In one scene, a fireman had been thrown backwards by the force of the water when a hose was switched on.

  'It's like a hose, sir, if you squirted the air out of a nozzle and revved up the fan, surely it would send the plane flying about all over the bally place?' Truckerson was waving his arms excitedly, forgetting his ice-cream, the last remaining lump of which flew up and landed on Whittle's knee.

  Truckerson was immediately apologetic, afraid of what the man would say, but the man