Slow, Steady Steps
I’ve been working in a temporary accounts job now for over twelve months. It’s tedious but
I hang in because it pays the bills. I was sent home early today as there wasn’t much
work. The mean bastards reduced my hours ...not that I really blame them. A tube ride to
Gloucester Rd where I share a large flat with four others including my girlfriend. She’s
actually my fiancée but it all feels like a Claytons engagement. Like she is pretending.
Been together for over a year.
“Marry a beautiful woman but be prepared for war.’’ Who said that? Shakespeare? Milton?
Probably some old Greek! Blame it on Socrates.
I walked into our bedroom and there’s my sleeping princess. Beside her is a sleeping
prince. Maybe he is just a lowly knight. Some clothing strewn around the floor. Sometimes
life changes at lightning speed. Have to get far away. Fast. Closed the door quietly and
crawled away.
I went back the next day to pack up my stuff. No-one at home at the time. A blessing.
There won’t be any scenes. No bloodshed. Just a few belongings. Some LPs, seven
books, clothing. It all fits into my small suitcase. I walked down Old Brompton Rd in the
evening autumn light. Birds are nestling for the night and sound happy in the chorus of
song. Clusters of leaves. Do leaves like company? Everything is weird. Kept walking with
my head down. Slow, steady steps but don’t know where I’m going. Bring on the dark, no-
one sees the homeless at night. I’ve got three pounds in my wallet and thirty one pounds
in my bank account. There’s not a lot of options of where to go.
A broken down boarding room at two pounds a night. The wardrobe rocks as I open the
door. The drab olive bedspread has some stains of unknown origin but I take the room for
five nights. Can’t sleep but my book is funny so started to plan a new life. My day job is
safe so all I need is a place to live and a night job. Not much to ask. Three days later I’m
employed as a petrol pump jockey on the night shift of the BP station near to the
Hammersmith flyover at the start of the M4 to Bristol. It’s always busy and never closes.
But finding a place to live is like finding a garden in a war zone. Twenty people apply for
every advertisement. A large shared mansion in Fulham Palace Rd has thirty five
applicants but only one male is required. The four men and two girls who currently share
aren’t fond of Aussies. Uncouth. Crass. That’s what they said. Who me? It’s a miracle
when they vote for me. I tell myself I deserve it and of course I do!
Two weeks in and I’m a little more self-assured and the routine of four hours of sleep per
night is easy to handle. Suddenly I own an old VW beetle and I live in a mansion with a
pub on the Thames two hundred metres away. I haven’t got much time for social life so my
savings are going to balloon. My ex-princess apologises but a dog can only be kicked so
many times and this one is beginning to grin like a butcher’s dog.
No Place to Run
Almost twelve months later now and I’m enjoying a really hot cuppa tea. Watching the first
signs of a new day and even the view of London brick buildings and the motorway is
softened by the pastel tints of dawn. My Mum and Dad have written to tell me they will
soon be in London to see me as part of their world trip. It’s been four years since I saw
them and I’ve been planning where I will take them when they arrive. I’m actually excited
because I’ve also got a seven day holiday to show them all the sights. Traffic is quiet at five
thirty am and soon I’ll be home for a quick shower and a change of clothes before I drive
off to my temp office job out near Wembley. I’m pumping diesel into a black cab and there’s
a sporty, fit looking guy leaning against the forecourt wall. Jeans. Runners. Tee shirt. He
doesn’t move. All very odd! I collect the cash from the cabbie and put it in the till. Now there’s another guy near the exit trying to look casual.
A few minutes later I count five men hanging around the servo. They are all very watchful.
Waiting for what? Capital T Trouble. Don’t have to be a genius to know they are cops. The
game is over. Or perhaps just beginning. Seven am and the night shift hands over to the morning shift. I’m the night manager and as I start to balance the till the Detective in charge stops me from counting the cash.
He doesn’t understand that each shift operates separately and the next shift can’t commence without an exact balance. The queue of cars is out to the motorway as he listens to my pleading and explanations. Now he stands so close to me there’s barely room to move and compile the credit card slips and accounts. He’s watching like a snake but I can see that he’s uncertain what he is looking for. Finally the shift change is done. A detective each side of me. I’m escorted into the backseat of an unmarked car. All the staff look away or sneak glances as we drive off. I ask a few questions until I’m told to zip it. There is no
conversation until we arrive at the Shepherds Bush lock up.
Colin Brown who was also on the night shift with me was taken away in another unmarked
car. I have no idea where they have taken him. The barred jail door clanged and the
detective casually walked away. It’s a big cell. They could get twenty men in here. Empty
except for a bare stained mattress on the painted concrete floor. A tiny, dirty window up
near the twelve foot ceiling. I sit on the edge of the mattress and wait. And wait. And wait
some more. Two hours creep past. Maybe three, who could tell. The main question is why
me and Colin? There were four on the shift yet they arrest me and
dumb Colin. He’s so dumb I don’t know how he finds his way home. Keys click and the same detective invites me out and guides me to an office with a battered bare desk.Looks like a movie set. He advises me of the steps that have been taken and I hear that I’m being
charged with theft, fraud and conspiracy to de-fraud. Am I allowed to ask questions now?
"What about Colin?"
They are not answering any of my questions so after three or four I give up. A second
detective joins our friendly group. They warn me they have very strong evidence and I’m
staring at three or four years in jail.
"What evidence?"
"Tell us how the scam works in the servo."
"What scam?"
"The skimming scam that you have been working there for years. You’re the night
foreman and you know exactly what’s been going on."
(They can’t have evidence! What do they know?)
Then they tell me that Webby, one of our regulars and a long haul semi driver, has come
into the servo and purchased four hundred and twenty litres of diesel on the fifteen of
September and paid as usual with the freight company credit card.
So that sounds normal. Where’s the problem? (I detect a sense of humour in the senior
officer so I direct my attention to him).
It’s a big problem John because Webby wasn’t in the truck. He was on holidays at the
time of the purchase and his truck was in the company yard in Essex. Colin did the
transaction after Webby turned up in his car. So what happens to the diesel and who gets
the cash? Tell us in detail about the scam.
(Now I’m so stressed I’m reeling. I knew Colin was a half-wit but could he be so dumb! I’m
panicky. Is this for real. I’ll be in jail when my parents arrive. A nice surprise for them.) The
Detectives are patient and persistent. I quietly weigh the chances of a good outcome in all
of this stuff up. There’s none. No hope! Zilch!
So I talk. Detectives took notes or listened. The scam has been going on for years. Every
shift. Seven days a week. Most taxis pay cash for their diesel. Some regular truckies
would fill up with diesel but in some cases only one hundred and fifty pounds worth (say)
would go into the tank and two hundred pounds would be charged to the freight company
charge card. The driver would get twenty five pounds cash from us. We kept a strict
record of all cash sales so we would split the remaining twenty five pounds between the
workers on that shift. This didn’t happen every day. If we didn’t get any cash diesel sales
on our shift (and this occurred regularly) we had to pass the figures on to the next shift
and they might (or might not) get any cash sales either. It was complicated at times but
most weeks I earned an additional twelve to fifteen pounds on top of my wage of twenty
two pounds. And everyone else on the shift would earn the same amount from the scam.
The Dees listened in amazement but still couldn’t grasp it all. Endless questions. Shell
and BP knew it had been happening for years but didn’t know the extent or how to stop it.
So I told them in detail. Then they put me back in the cell with the mattress after they
thanked me for all the information. Then they formally charged Colin and yours truly to
appear in Court in two days.
Shepherds Bush Court
The magistrate picked up his gavel and without hesitation snapped it down with the words
“And I sentence you Mr Bernard Webb, and I have little choice in view of your past record,
to two years in jail. One year on each of the two charges of which you have been found
guilty.” Webby was led away with his head down like a beaten donkey.
I was standing in the dock with Colin Brown alongside on my left. My blood pressure was
through the roof but Colin was in worst shape. He was a lanky, miserable looking Londoner
who always looked grubby. I glanced over to check on him. Grey as a tombstone and just
as lifeless. When the guilty sentence was heard Colin doubled up and collapsed on to the
polished timber hand rail. Court officials rushed to stop him from tumbling into the crowded
public section a metre below us.
The court calmed and the magistrate resumed his sentencing. “John Alexander
Wilson, having heard the police evidence and your involvement in the two charges
of fraud, and the more serious charge of conspiracy to defraud” and he picked up
his gavel once again. Simultaneously my right arm shot up like an emu’s neck and
waved about “Excuse me Your Honour, can I please say something?” He looked
up over his glasses and held the blow. “Yes, you can but make it brief and to the point.” I
had no words in mind but they cascaded out as angels started singing a sweet harmony
in the background. “The scam was in operation when I commenced work there and I
wanted nothing to do with it. The shift boss threatened that he would sack me on that first
night if I didn’t go along with it. I wasn’t working the night Webb came in. I also fully co-
operated with the police in every way possible.”
The magistrate looked at the arresting Detective.
“Was Mr Wilson helpful?”
“Yes, he was sir. Extremely.”
The chorus of angels were hitting the high notes now.
The magistrate stared at me then smacked his gavel once again!
“John Alexander Wilson, you have been found guilty on both charges. I now sentence you
to one year in jail on each charge but because of your clean record and assistance, I
place you on a two year good behaviour probation.”
Outside, at the front of the court, two detectives greeted me and shook hands. They even
smiled with me. A few weak jokes. We thanked each other. I walked away with my own
secret smile because they had made a mistake with my home address. I don’t know how
it occurred but their official documents showed an address where I had never lived.
Lost Parents
It certainly wasn’t a first class hotel. Maybe third class but it was hard to tell as the lighting
didn’t reach the patterned carpet. Or were they stains? I gently knocked on the number
fourteen door. Excited. Anxious. Uncertain. Been a long time since I’ve seen my Mum and
Dad and yet here they were about to open the door. Sounds of movement and then Dad’s
familiar voice “Well, here he is Moya, will we let him in?” Very funny Dad. You really are
hilarious!
The door slowly opened on the smiling face I’d seen every day of my life until I left
Australia to go to Africa. Mum was peeping from behind him as tho’ she was ready to flee
in case I was dangerous! “Hello Mawther. Hello Fawther.” My best English accent to
impress them. “My Gawd Aggie! He hasn’t got a plum in his mouth. He has two! Will you
get a listen to him!” It took a few hours but they got used to my pommy accent and I
stopped giggling at their ‘strine words (but it was very hard on my ears).
Mum and Dad obviously couldn’t afford to travel much due to having six kids but here they
were in their sixties on a world trip. They had crossed Canada from Vancouver to Toronto
then flown into Europe. The highlight of their travels was Dad losing his wallet and four
hundred and fifty dollars in Munich. A huge sum at the time and Dad was beside himself.
He backtracked everywhere they had been without success. He suspected pickpockets
but wasn’t even sure where he’d last had the wallet. The next morning at breakfast the
German manager handed Dad his wallet which had been found on the dining room floor.
The manager wouldn’t accept the $30 offered tip. Dad wouldn’t shut-up talking about how
wonderful the German people were in spite of the war
It took hours for them to get used to my long hair and heavy moustache but they were very
excited to see me and to be in London. I took them to a nearby pub that first night even ‘tho
they were never drinkers. I had a pint of bitter and they furtively had timid sips of their
lemon squash. After about two hours they seemed to accept my appearance and stopped
talking about it. The night traffic was light so I took them for my tourist guide drive around
the West End. The usual spots like Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly then along The
Embankment to Tower Bridge. They marvelled at the floodlit statues and all the sites. They
also marvelled at the Jensen Interceptor I was driving that night. They thought they were in
a spaceship. My regular car is a dark red VW Beetle with one black mudguard valued at
about fifty pounds. I didn’t like driving the Jensen very much as it drew attention I didn’t
want and besides that it took ten litres to travel forty kilometres. I rented a garage out near
Heath Row and only drove it once or twice a month. The Jensen was destined to be
shipped to Melbourne and sold when the time came for me to return home. That first night
in London was surreal for my folks but I knew it was just the start of a wonderful few days
with many surprises to follow.
The next morning we planned a schedule. Two busy days in London then three days in
Devon and Cornwall. Dad wanted to see “The Mousetrap” the murder mystery play which
had been running for about sixty years! So we all saw it! Dad was as happy as a kid in a
lolly shop. No Hamlet for him.
The VW was loaded for the drive to Cornwall. Mum in the back seat. I’m just the guide and
chauffeur. We drove past the servo where I used to work and told the folks that I had quit
working there so I could take them to Cornwall. I had explored this coastline previously
and I knew villages like Polperro would utterly charm them.
Reluctantly, I attempted to “educate” my parents that I’d been very foolish and broken the
law in different ways. When I registered my first car in the UK I used a false address on
purpose because every time I got a parking ticket I didn’t pay it as they couldn’t track me
down. After a few years I had collected hundreds of unpaid fines. Of course I didn’t
mention the petrol station. All this was done in case I was booked or had an accident on
our little holiday. I asked Mum and Dad to confirm that I lived at a Kilborn address and
never to disclose that I actually lived in Fulham Palace Rd. Dad was shocked at hearing
about his errant son and didn’t speak for over an hour. Mum appeared amused more than
upset.
Priceless, sunny autumn days were turned on for us. Little white houses in white Cornish
villages all too much like postcards and even the ocean was blue. Clovelly, Looe or
Polperro? Mum and Dad couldn’t agree on the prettiest village but Cornwall took the prize
as the highlight of their entire overseas trip.
The second night they booked into another B&B while I drove down the road to a rural lane and slept in the back of my beetle. We agreed I would be waiting for them at the front door of their B&B at eight am. Banging onthe roof. Torchlight through the window on my face at 2.30am. A patrol car. Two uniforms.
No problems Officer. Yes, I own the vehicle. All registered and insured. Why are the
number plates reversed? Are you serious? The front one should be on the rear and the
rear should be on the front. You’ve woken me up to tell me this? There is a problem with
the address of the owner as well. They’ve done a radio check with London and then they
invite me into their vehicle so they can verify that my parents are actually with me and can
confirm my correct address. The police wake the B&B owners who wake Mum and Dad.
Mum says, “Tell them Kilborn Alec, Kilborn, remember?” Dad is very unsettled as he’s in
his pyjamas facing two policemen at the front door so he blurts out that I live in Fulham
Palace Rd. The very polite police drop me back to my VW where I prove that Fulham is
correct .They book me on minor vehicle offences and drive away. I’m not too worried or
upset. I’ll just have to leave the mansion where I live and find a bedsit somewhere. Those
nosey coppers have kept me up half the night with the result I sleep past the 8am pickup! I
scream down the narrow road to find they have left the B&B to get the train back to
London. They feared I was in jail. I found them ten minutes later stumbling along with their
luggage near to the rail station. They have been shocked, overjoyed, relieved and all
because of their idiot son. A wonderful holiday which they certainly won’t forget now!
The M4 runs past Heath Row and becomes elevated to allow suburban traffic to pass
underneath as it approached Chiswick. Our little trip together was over.
“You’ve always been lucky John, I don’t know how you do it.”
“Oh that’s not right Mum, I’ve worked two jobs for most of my life and I’ve made my own
luck.” And I turned to glance at her in the rear seat when she screams “Lookout!” and I
slam into a thirteen car pile-up. Dad and I throw our arms up as we hit the windscreen
and even though we have cuts to our hands and faces we aren’t badly hurt. Sunday
afternoon traffic jammed for nine miles and police and medical teams can’t reach us due
to the raised highway. All the vehicles are damaged nose to tail. The end of the road for
me in many ways. The VW is a write-off and so am I.
Dad was a churchgoer all his life and is the straightest man I ever knew. He realised that I
was in real trouble somehow and looked at me with pain in his eyes. Or was it pity......
"Will you have to run for it, John?"
"I haven’t got a choice Dad. Police know where I live now. They’ll be looking for me within
forty eight hours."
I could see an avalanche of charges being laid. And the good behaviour bond has been
blown a week after it was granted. I’ll be in Wormwood Scrubs jail in a few days. No
doubting that and no doubting what I have to do.
I left my Beetle in the carnage of wrecks with the keys in it. I exchanged personal details
with the drivers of the two cars involved with mine. False address from me of course. Mum
and Dad removed their luggage and climbed down the escape/access steps to look for a
taxi. For the next ten minutes I casually drifted around the wrecks and when no-one was
aware I disappeared down the steps with my small bag and headed for Fulham.
Later that night, after a shower and fresh clothes, I visited my parents in their hotel. They
were subdued but I sensed that this was a real adventure for them. Dad offered me a loan
of three thousand dollars which he gave me the next morning. Their flight left that
afternoon. I emptied my room in Fulham and enlisted the help of two English mates, Simon
and Andrew. I kissed my girlfriend goodbye. Would I see her again? I moved faster than
that scalded cat you’ve heard about. I paid up front and booked the Jensen to be shipped.
Simon promised to get it to the Docks in a few weeks. I booked a flight from Paris to
Melbourne leaving late Tuesday. I resigned from my accounts job. Phoned a few friends to
say farewell. Closed bank accounts. No farewell party. All done in less than forty hours
from the crash time.
A train to Dover. Across the channel on the ferry and on to Paris. I was in Charles De
Gaulle airport in plenty of time for my flight. Every minute of freedom is a gift when you are
on the run. Every hour is a treasure. The screaming engines at take-off was the sweetest
sound I’d ever heard and then looking down on the lights of Paris all I could hear was
Stravinsky’s “Firebird” soaring with my spirits. Free as a bird. For how long? I’m loathe to
admit it but I said a little prayer of thanks that I’d escaped and made an emphatic vow to
never get into trouble again.
Calm Water
Eighteen months later I was back to the routine of having two jobs. Five days a week I
work for various interstate television and radio stations as their marketing representative
to advertising agencies and businesses in Melbourne.
On Sunday nights at seven pm I clocked on to commence work as a fork-lift driver in a
large frozen vegetable factory. My shift finished around two am or whenever the foreman
tells me to go. Usually it was three am so I survived very well on four hours sleep a night. I
was saving most of my earnings as there wasn’t much time for social life in that first year
back in Melbourne. I applied to my bank for a mortgage so I could buy a unit. He told me I
was an itinerant worker and had no employment record in Australia which was very kind of
him. I had fifteen percent deposit but he wasn’t impressed. The Jensen Interceptor was a
disaster. It was dented twice on the ship or on the docks and the first day I drove it in the
city a tram hit me in Elizabeth St. My brother Bob repaired it beautifully but my small profit
wasn’t worth all the hassles.
Approximately a year later I had forty percent deposit so I was granted the mortgage on a
large two bedroom unit in Cheltenham which I tenanted. But I was getting itchy to travel
again. I also wanted to see the girl I left behind in London. Letters and phone calls only
work for so long. I tried so hard to settle down to suburban bliss but it clearly wasn’t
working. I admit I like to overdose on thrills at times but they’re difficult to find in
Melbourne. Mundane can kill you just as easily so I gave in and decided it would be ok to
return to London. A new haircut, then a new passport. I resigned from both jobs giving two
weeks notice. I knew it was risky to enter the UK again but it wasn’t as though I was
wanted for murder, was it?
My flight from Tullamarine was at 7.30am Friday. Tuesday night was the last night I would
be moving tonnes of peas or cauliflower into the storage freezers. Around one a.m. I joked
with the foreman “Can I go and get my pay now and take off early?” He laughed at me,
“Get back on that effing fork because you’re not going anywhere. No pays tonight! There
was an armed robbery in the pay office 20mins ago. Three men with shotguns got about
$38,000.” Utter disbelief but it doesn’t concern me. TV and Press all run the story. I drove
back to the factory one last time on Thursday and collected my pay. I’m all set to fly the
next morning.
The doorbell chimed at 5.55am as I was making toast and tea. Friends here early to drive
me to the airport. Mum answered but came back looking twenty years older. Shaking and
pale, she asked me with tears forming, “Do you want to run again John? There are
policemen at the door.” WHAT WEIRDNESS IS THIS? The only running I did was to the
front door where two plainclothes detectives waited for me. They emptied my suitcase
and shoulder bag onto my bed. The senior detective asked questions while number two
Dee examined everything from suitcase lining to my money belt. Even my shoes and
pockets in my clothes were searched. The friends taking me to the airport sat and waited
in the kitchen with Mum and Dad. The cops have me as a suspect only because I was
leaving the country soon after the robbery. Now I won’t make the airport in time. They find
$2000 in my money belt and I wait breathlessly as they count it all.
“Why are you carrying so much cash?”
“I don’t have a credit card and I’ve been travelling with cash only for years. It’s the best
way to go, much better than travellers cheques.”
They talk privately for a few precious minutes and the Senior Dee steps up so close to me
our noses are almost touching and he does his intimidation routine with the intense eyes.
“You’ve been in serious trouble before, haven’t you John? Tell us about it.” If they had run a check in the UK they would have arrested me already. They probably didn’t learn that I had lived in England earlier. I shook my head and did the innocent eyes look back at him.
“No, I haven’t Officer. Never in my life.” “OK, John, I hope you catch the plane but
we are going to check on you some moreand if it there is any doubt we’ll pull you
off the plane in Sydney.”(So they knew the details of my flight at least?)
They were gone and seconds later we were jumping every red light between
Glen Iris and the airport and somehow made it. The police were waiting at Heath
Row but not for me. Five or six questions and immigration grant me a six month visa.
I haven’t been in any legal trouble since but some of my friends still believe I was behind
the armed robbery. I play with a very straight bat these days and haven’t even had a
speeding ticket in twenty years. My parents always believed I was involved in it but
weren’t sure and never mentioned it again. And yes, I know, you probably suspect me
after reading this saga. Well, I had nothing to do with it.
John A Wilson, Gold Coast, 2016
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