Shed Load of Books

The Linger Loco!

Chapter 21: Shed Load of Books

A cold wind whips against my tanned face. Shivering, I

wrap my scarf tightly around my neck and watch Chris

unfold the camping table, and position it in front of our blue

Ford Escort. He looks tired and grumpy, and I can see the

reality of being back home has already started to kick in.

It’s been a week now since the plane touched down in

rainy England. We partied through the colouful streets of

Olinda and Recife with Noa, Oran and Guitar for three

days straight before collecting our rucksacks from the bus

terminal. We had found the Carnival of our dreams in

Northern Brazil, a hedonistic paradise beyond our wildest

imaginations.

‘What the fuck are we doing?’ Chris cries, jabbing his

hands into his coat pockets. ‘Call me a prick, but setting up

a Car Boot stall on a muddy school playing field on a cold

dark Sunday morning in England, wasn’t exactly number

one on my ‘to do’ list when I got home. We should’ve

stayed longer in South America.’

‘Tell that to your bank manager,’ I mumble, emptying a

cardboard box full of junk onto the table. ‘I’m sure he’ll be

interested to know that you haven’t got a pot to piss in.’

‘Actually, I sent him a postcard from Brazil so he already

knows.’

‘Of course he does, how silly of me.’

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‘You do realise doing this Car Boot is a complete waste

of time, don’t you?’

‘Chris, have some faith. Selling the crap in the garage is

an excellent idea. It kills two birds with one stone – the

house will become junk free and we’ll make some money

to spend on beer and airline tickets.’

‘You’re really making use of that HND in Business and

Finance, aren’t you?’

‘It’s not quite what I imagined I’d be doing ten years down

the line, but yes, you’re right, I’m using the knowledge I

learnt from college to generate some money. Money we desperately

need! Hey, and I have another little surprise up my

sleeve.’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ll show you.’

I run over to the Escort and grab a plastic bag with ten

copies of our Russia book inside.

‘Why have you brought these here?’ he frowns, taking a

copy out of the bag.

‘Why do you think?’ I grin, surprised by his negative

response.

Chris shakes his head. ‘Oh no, we’re not selling our

books at a friggin Car Boot sale!’

‘It’s better than letting them rot in the shed. Let’s be artisans

like that Brazilian jewelry seller in Rio Branco.’

‘Forget it, Si. It’s an insult to our art.’

‘No it isn’t. Charles Dickens sold his work on the streets,

remember.’

‘I couldn’t give a toss if Charles Dickens sold his fucking

arse on the streets. We’re not selling ‘The Linger Longer’ at

a Car Boot sale.’

‘Why the fuck not?’

‘Have you lost your friggin mind?’ Chris yells, tapping

his forehead.

‘No, all I’m trying to do is improve our situation here.

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Look at it from all angles.’

‘Si, just because we haven’t managed to drum up any

publicity yet, it doesn’t mean we should panic and sell our

book with a load of old junk.’

Ignoring Chris, I remove the books from the plastic bag

and carefully position them next to an old Breville toasted

sandwich maker. Chris lunges for the pile, but I jump in

his path and block his way. We wrestle on the spot for a

few seconds.

‘Leave them where they are, you tit!’

‘No way, over my dead body!’

Hearing someone clearing their throat, we both look

across the camping table and see a middle-aged man in a

wax jacket stood in front of us.

‘Hi,’ I smile, straightening my clothes.

The ruddy faced guy glares at us both for a few seconds,

sniffs and then points at a rusty lamp stand protruding

from the junk.

‘How much?’ he asks.

‘That’ll be three pounds.’

‘Three pounds!’ he cries, flaring his nostrils. ‘I’ll give you

one pound fifty.’

‘Two pounds,’ Chris fires back.

The guy scratches his chin. ‘One pound eighty and no

more said.’

He slaps the coins in the palm of my hand and tucks the

lamp under his arm.

Just as he’s about to walk off I remember the books.

‘Oh…excuse me. Could I interest you in a book?’

‘A book!’ the guy cries, turning back to the table. ‘What

the bloody heck would I want with a book?’

‘It’s a travel comedy!’ I smile, hoping this bit of extra

information might sway him. He scowls at us both and

marches away.

‘Si, please take them down. I beg you!’

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‘Why? Come on, it’s worth a try, isn’t it? We’ve got to get

them out there some…’

All of a sudden Chris ducks down behind the table.

‘What the fuck are you doing?’

‘It’s Mr. Barnes my old maths teacher.’

‘So?’

‘What do you mean “so”? I told him I’d be driving a

Ferrari by the age of thirty.’

We both peer over at our Ford Escort, and sigh.

‘Who wants a Ferrari, anyway?’ I smile. ‘They’re so overrated.’

‘I do! Has he gone?’

‘Yeah, you can come out now.’

‘Of all the Car Boot sales in the friggin world Mr. Barnes

has to come to this one. What are the chances of that?

‘It’s at our old school, you dumb ass. Now, come on, let’s

boost our moral and get selling. Remember what that

Rastafarian dude said, “Carnival isn’t just in Olinda,

Carnival is everywhere – Carnival is life!”’

Chris scans the deserted playing field. ‘Well it’s not

bloody here.’

Standing around in the freezing cold for over an hour,

we’re about to admit defeat and head off home when the

activity around our stall suddenly picks up. An eccentric

twitcher pays £3 for an old pair of binoculars and an old

lady in a wheelchair claims the porcelain Dalmatian dog

with the broken tail for 50p. Chris suggests we celebrate

with a coffee, and by the time he returns to the stall I’ve

flogged the badminton rackets to a scary couple in matching

ski jackets and a CB radio for £20 to some overweight guy

with staring eyes.

By mid-afternoon my money belt is bursting at the

seams, and I’m shocked by the utter crap people buy with

their well-earned cash. What’s one man’s junk is most

certainly another man’s treasure. I glance down at the pile

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of books perched on the end of the table, and try not to get

upset that we haven’t managed to shift a single copy. I

shiver as a strong gust of wind blows across the playing

field. The ornaments rattle and a Buddy Holly record falls

onto the grass. Neither of us can be bothered to reach

down and pick it up, so we just leave it there.

‘Well that was a success.’ Chris grins, rubbing his hands

together. ‘How much have we made?’

‘Thirty-two pounds exactly,’ I reply, holding a mountain

of coins in my hand.

‘Is that all?’

‘It’s better than a slap around the face!’

Chris yawns, and stretches his arms above his head. ‘My

face is so numb from the cold I probably wouldn’t feel it,

anyway. I think I’ll just stay in bed next time. It’s cheaper.’

I begin to feel depressed. ‘Oh, why can’t we just sell

books? Are we losers, or what? Why haven’t we managed

to get any publicity from those press releases we sent out?’

‘I don’t know,’ Chris sighs. ‘People like us aren’t meant to

win. You’re born, you keep your head down and then you

die…if you’re lucky.’

All of a sudden my mobile begins to vibrate vigorously

inside my jacket. I fish around for a few seconds before

answering.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi, is this Simon Raven?’ a posh voice replies.

‘Yeah, speaking, who is it, please?’

‘This is Harry Parker from BBC Radio Four’s travel programme

Excess Baggage.’

‘Oh, hi…’

‘We’re putting out a show next week with Sandi Toksfig

on Siberia and the Trans-Siberian, and wondered if you

and your brother would be available to chat about your

book and your experiences of driving across Russia in a

Ford Sierra?’

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‘On radio?’

The man laughs. ‘Yes, we broadcast live from our studios

in London. Would next Saturday be convenient?’

‘I need to check my diary, but, no, yes, it sounds fine.

We’d be delighted!’

‘OK, I’ll call you next week to ask a few pre-interview

questions and to arrange the logistics of getting you here.’

‘Great. Thanks Harry Parker.’

‘You’re welcome. Speak soon.’

The phone goes dead and I stare vacantly across the

playing field, completely stunned by the call.

‘Who was that?’

‘Harry Parker from the BBC – we’re going to be on radio,

Crissy boy!’

He looks confused. ‘When?’

‘Next Saturday. The BBC wants to broadcast what we’ve

got to say live to the nation!’

Chris scratches his head, and frowns. ‘Are they sure…?’

In that very instant an enormous boom of thunder shakes

the ground and the sky overhead bursts open in a torrential

downpour. People run for cover and within seconds the

school playing field is completely deserted. We quickly

throw the junk into the boot and fire up the Ford Escort.

We sit there for a few minutes and gather our thoughts, as

the window wipers dance energetically in time to the

Carnival music blasting from the car stereo.

Chris looks over and grins. ‘Hey, Si, I’m going to use

some of that money we’ve made to buy a new pair of

trousers!’

‘That’s not a bad idea, Crissy boy. We need to be looking

our best if we’re going to be on radio.’

‘Hang on a minute, what are we going to do with the junk

in the boot?’

‘Throw it away!’ I cry. ‘Out with the old and in with the

new. A new day is dawning, brother. Whatever happens

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now is our destiny, and I, and my merry comrades in arms

will fight for salvation. They can take away our lives, but

they can never take away our freedom!’

Chris laughs. ‘Uh…yeah, onwards and upwards soldier,

to the Daventry District Council Recycling Centre. The

ultimate destination!’

Skidding across the muddy field, it stops raining and the

sun appears through a gap in the clouds. Chris winds open

the sunroof and turns up the Carnival music on the stereo.

Wheel spinning out of the gate we accelerate up the main

road in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

THE END

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