Luton Egg Van - by Mick Sheridan September 2005

I stood back as the box van swerved in at my feet. I had been standing no more than ten minutes at the service station before he made his decision to pick me up. As he stopped I stooped for my bag, opened the door and got straight in. I nodded thanks to my next lift as he looked me in the eye and smiled back.

“Where you going son?” he asked, flicking his indicator with his left hand, eyes fixed on the driver’s mirror, viewing the traffic as he drifted back onto the motorway.

“Leeds please.” I presumed he’d paid attention to the piece of card on which I’d scrawled ‘North (Leeds)’.

“Right you are, I can drop you right in the city centre if you like.”

“Perfect, thank you.”

Ten seconds passed in silence as it always does while two strangers assess their new situation. I busied myself with making my bag comfortable as we surveyed each other peripherally. He was fifty or more, tubby, with a whitish ice cream haircut and those Lancashire eyebrows –a stocky Douglas Hird perhaps. His voice was certainly Lancashire, possibly Clitheroe, or Haslingden perhaps, it was the way he said “if you like” that I picked up on. I knew where his eyebrows came from and I felt comfortable with him.

“So you going home son? Or you on your way somewhere?” He enquired, at ease himself.

“Yes, I’m going home to Bradford.” I told him, “Just been down to see my Dad.”

He looked across at me, “You’ll get to Bradford from Leeds OK will you?”

“Yes, I’ll get a train, it’s easy, only twenty minutes, no problem.”

“Right you are son.” He was easy with me, this comfortable man.

Hitch hiking is my preferred method of travel, I love the simplicity of interactions; people in their own environment, pleased to help someone out, pleased to be of service. There’s the rare occasion where someone’s nervous of course. When it happens I try to be put them at ease, it’s not always possible, but I always try, just chatting normally does it.

We chatted casually as he carefully negotiated the road. He wasn’t in a hurry.

“So what about yourself, I take it you’re working? What’s in the back?”

It was a white Luton box van, as standard as they come, a Volkswagen, probably eight years old or near that.

“Nothin’ in son, I’ve dropped ‘em off, but it was eggs. I deliver eggs.”

“Eggs? Right you are. Eggs.” I wasn’t sure what else to add.

‘Yeah, eggs.” A man of few words it seemed.

We traded further pleasantries although we both knew we didn’t really care for the answers. It was alright in the van anyway.

“Where’re you from Son? London?”

“No. Near there, Luton.”

“What about you? Do you live in Leeds?”

“No son, I’m in Darwen, near Blackburn. I deliver all over, but I have to go to Leeds a lot. But I live in Darwen, you know it?”

“Actually, yes. My girlfriend is from there as it goes.”

“Oh yeah? That’s a surprise, where’s she live?”

“Well her parents live on the Blackburn Road, you must know it, it’s the main road in Darwen.”

“I know it well son. I live right close, just a road off it. What’s her name?”

“Her surname is Roberts. There’s a few around.”

“No, can’t say I know any.”

“You know Marsden’s, the pie shop? They live just across the road. That’s the only place I know that sells pea pies, and their butter pies are a family favourite, my girlfriend’s a vegetarian.”

“I know the place but I can’t say I’ve been there.”

“Her mother’s name is Lyons, there’s a few of them in the town to so I understand.”

“Lyons. No it’s not ringing any bells son.” I was looking at him eagerly. “I can’t say I know the family.”

“No?” I was nodding, “No, I guess you don’t” I kept nodding, pursing my lips. I wanted him to know about the things that I knew about. But he didn’t, he didn’t know about the same things.

He kept a true line in the left hand lane, the slow lane. He was confident at the wheel, using one hand on the wheel, happy. Sixty miles an hour, casually glancing around. He was unconcerned about me. His top and trousers boiler suit didn’t say eggs, but I was happy with eggs. An egg man. I liked his unfussiness, and his easiness. His was an unexpected pleasure.

He took me to Leeds slowly on an overcast English day, a Thursday probably. We passed the deer park on the left near Nottingham and neither of us felt need to comment. We noticed very little, it was just an ordinary day with weather and time and motion.

It probably took an hour before Leeds became close enough for us to start thinking about plans, our plans to stop doing what we were doing and for him to drop me off. We’d chatted casually about things that now escape me – possibly the weather or the government, or perhaps football, or the things that make us pleased. I don’t remember anything specific, but I recall being comfortable and at ease together, us strangers. You can’t see Leeds from the M1 but we both knew the route and as the end of the road seemed near he asked me a straight question:

“Son, do you like eggs?”

We’d spent time together and I felt I didn’t need to reply too quickly. I had time so I looked comfortably into his face and considered the question. When I was ready I replied.

“Yes, I do like eggs. In fact I like eggs a great deal. Do you like eggs?”

“Son. I love eggs. I have at least two eggs every day, sometimes I have more. I’ve had four today.”

He was in earnest and at ease, nothing had changed in his face since I first saw him just over an hour before. I wondered if he loved eggs because eggs were his life. I knew very little about him but as I looked him in the face I knew that eggs were, and had been, his life.

He pulled up at a bus stop by the station. “There you go son, is that alright for you?”

“Excellent. Thanks. I’ll see you. All the best. Thanks.”

“See you son.”