The Road to Crosslands

Chapter 11

The booze cruise had been Flinty's idea. He was working in McDonald's in the town centre and one of his regular customers told him about cheap 24-hour returns on the Dover to Calais cross-channel ferry. You could fill your car with cut-price alcohol and cigarettes from the nearest hypermarket in France and flog it at a profit when you were back in England.

There was no catch. All you had to do was tell the customs at Dover that it was all for your own consumption.

Flinty explained all this to us in the pub one night and pointed out that we all had our 18th birthdays coming up. We'd all want to have a bit of a party so we could stock up on a load of beer and spirits and save ourselves a fortune. And the Ratmobile was the ideal vehicle, Flinty reasoned. We could fit a shedload of booze in the back.

We checked out the prices at a travel agent in town and, sure enough, it was cheap as chips. We just had to travel on the ferries at off-peak times.

***

It was a straight three-hour drive from Swindon to Dover and we set off at two in the morning to catch the six-o-clock ferry. The motorway was deserted at that time of the morning so we reached the ferry terminal with no problems, apart from Flinty having a last-minute panic when he thought he'd forgotten his passport. Once that was found, we drove onto the ferry and went to one of the onboard cafes for something to eat. Flinty and Spud had been out on the town the night before and were both feeling a bit worse for wear.

We were in the café when the boat sailed and didn't notice any movement until we got out of the harbour. Then it started to roll. There wasn't a storm, it was summer, but there was a heavy swell that caused our cups and plates to slide around the table.

I was fine. I'd stayed at home, knowing I had to drive but, as I watched, both Flinty and Spud began turning a sickly shade of pale green.

They spent the entire 90-minute crossing upchucking their breakfasts over the side of the ferry while I stood and laughed at them. By the time we reached the calm waters of Calais they were both looking washed out and fragile.

'Try not to drive over any bumps,' Spud begged me as I drove down the exit ramp and into the town.

***

The town centre of Calais was just coming to life by the time I found somewhere to leave the Ratmobile, so we went for a walk around the old town while Spud and Flinty slowly recovered. The shops were full of tourist tat. Stacks of miniature Eiffel towers jostled with crappy tee-shirts and fridge magnets.

After half-an-hour, Spud announced he was feeling better and could do with a mug of tea. We trooped into the nearest café, sat at a table, and asked for tea. The owner fussed around for five minutes then placed three tiny cups, each with a herbal teabag on a piece of string in front of us. Each saucer held a slice of lemon.

'What the fuck is this supposed to be?' Flinty asked me.

'Must be how the French have their tea,' I shrugged.

'Let's make a run for it and find somewhere that does British tea. I'm not paying for this crap!'

'Bloody hell!' I realised. 'We can't pay for it anyway. We haven't got any French francs.'

We'd put a century each into a kitty and I had been designated as treasurer. I'd intended to change it into francs on the ferry but had been so distracted watching the other two being ill I'd completely forgotten. I had 300 quid in my pocket but not a single franc.

'Tell you what,' Spud said calmly. 'You go and find somewhere to change our money then go back to the car. We'll sort things out here and meet you there.'