I was back in Afghanistan, changing the air filters on a Warrior armoured personnel carrier. My head was inside the engine compartment when some joker pressed the starter button. The huge Perkins V8 diesel roared into life and I banged my noggin on the steel engine cover. Opening my eyes, I realised I'd jerked awake and bashed the top of my head, not on the engine cover of a Warrior, but against Sharon's low ceiling. The comforting sound of the rain beating down had been eclipsed when the driver of the truck parked next to us revved his engine in the middle of my dream.
A glimmer of daylight filtered through Sharon's thin curtains and I thought it must be the dawn. Then I glanced at my watch and saw it was already after nine. We should have been back on the road, and Flinty and Spud were both still snoring loudly.
Squirming around, I was able to look out of the small window in the pigeon loft. The front grille of the artic a few yards away was just visible. There was a pea-souper of a fog outside.
***
I climbed down from my nest and shook the sleeping beauties awake. They both emerged, bleary-eyed, from under a mound of quilts and blankets. Now I knew why Flinty had such a huge collection of duvets. Sharon had about as much insulation as a tent, and her badly fitting doors let in more draughts than a Dutch barn.
We stumbled about for the next ten minutes, clearing away our bedding and reconstructing the dinette. Then we sat and stared out of the window at the fog.
'I don't think we'll be going anywhere for a while,' Spud said. 'Why don't we go and get some breakfast until it clears?'
That seemed like a good idea so we all grabbed our wash kits and toothbrushes and dashed through the rain to the cafeteria.
***
The parking area had filled up with lorries and vans that must have come off the motorway in the early hours when the fog descended. A few private cars were lined up outside the entrance to the services, probably early-morning commuters caught out by the conditions. Under a canopy over the entrance doors, a large group of stranded travellers stood smoking cigarettes and lamenting about the fog. There was no smoking inside the building.
'Anyone heard a weather forecast?' Spud asked as we made our way through the gathering.
'Aye,' someone answered. 'It'll nae be clearin' afore the forenicht.'
'Thanks, mate,' Spud said, as if he'd understood, then he led us into the cafeteria where a couple of dozen lorry drivers were lounging around, munching bacon sarnies and slurping tea.
Somehow, Spud and Flinty both got in front of me in the queue at the breakfast buffet and I saw them shovelling bacon, eggs and sausages onto their plates. I followed suit and when I reached the checkout, the lady asked me for £24. I recoiled, wondering if I'd accidentally helped myself to caviar or truffles. She must have noticed the shocked look on my face.
'Those other two said you were paying, love,' she shrugged, 'and three hot breakfasts with tea at eight pounds each is 24 pounds please.'
I paid up from my dwindling reserves and went to join the others, slamming my tray down on the table with a crash and fixing them both with a dagger-like stare.
'Before you say anything,' Flinty said through a mouthful of fried egg, 'I took care of the diesel, didn't I?'
'And I'll pay you back as soon as I can get to a hole in the wall,' Spud promised. 'I spent the last of my cash in the Donkey.'
I couldn't really argue with Flinty's reasoning.
'I saw a cash machine near the entrance,' I told Spud.
'Yeah, but it's not my bank. Don't worry, Simmo. There'll be plenty of 'em in Glasgow.'
So I had to be satisfied with that.
***
'The woman at the till told me this weather is set in for the day.' Spud informed us. 'The fog should lift sometime this evening. I think that's what that Scottish feller outside was saying. We must be close to the border.'
'We are ... we're only a couple of hours from Glasgow. We can just drive really slowly,' Flinty proposed. 'It doesn't matter if it takes us a few hours more to get there. The Crosslands will stay open all day.'
'You've got to be kidding,' I said in disbelief. 'Drive on a motorway in this? You can't see your hand in front of your face out there. Not to mention the fact that your wipers don't work. It'd be suicide!'
'He's right, Flinty. We're stuck here until it clears. We can carry on tomorrow morning and get there in time for Sunday dinner. They might do a roast.'
'But Lynn and the kids are expecting me home tomorrow,' I objected pathetically.
'Just call the wife and tell her the truth,' Flinty suggested, 'or ... that you've been kidnapped by a nymphomaniac and she's handcuffed you to a bed. Whichever you think she'll believe.'
There was no option really, so I said I'd wait until the evening to phone Lynn. I supposed one extra night away from home wouldn't make much difference one way or the other.
***
We decided to get cleaned up in the restroom and then come back for another mug of tea. It was a lot warmer in the cafeteria than in Sharon. Spud rubbed his bristly face, which, after just one night had sprouted a dark growth of beard. Flinty told him he looked like Desperate Dan.
'Tell me about it. It's a soddin' nuisance. I go to bed looking like Brad Pitt and wake up as Hagrid the Horrible.'
'You need to take your beer goggles off when you get ready for bed, mate,' Flinty gibed. 'But the Hagrid look was cool when we were kids. You could get served in any pub, no problem.'
Flinty went on to remind us that we'd had our first pint in a pub when we were just fourteen. It was a huge Wetherspoons with several rooms and an outside beer garden. At that age, Spud was a head taller than any other boy in our class and had to shave every day. He could easily pass for 19. Flinty and I had skulked in a dark corner while Spud went and bought the drinks. I'm sure that's why Flinty befriended him in the first place. That, and the protection he provided from older kids at school.
'Hey!' I broke in. 'Do you remember the day Spud came to school with a beard?'
Flinty slapped the table. 'Christ, yes! Spud's beard ... that was a belter!'
***
We must have been about fifteen at the time and it was the first day back at school after a mid-term break. We hadn't seen Spud over the holiday. His dad had taken him on a fishing trip, camping out next to some river in the back of beyond.
We were all in class but there was no sign of Spud when our form teacher, old Henderson, started calling the register. Then this bloke with a beard walked in carrying his jacket under his arm. Henderson glanced up and waved him to a chair near his own desk. We regularly had student teachers sitting in on classes and Henderson obviously thought this interloper was one of them. A few sniggers could be heard around the room from the pupils who had recognised Spud behind his whiskers.
Spud calmly sat down and put his school blazer on as Henderson continued with the register. When he got to Murphy, Spud responded but Henderson could see that Murphy's desk was unoccupied.
'Murphy!' he called again.
'Sir!' Spud piped up loudly from right next to him.
Henderson wheeled around to look at Spud.
'What are you doing there, boy?'
'You told me to sit here, sir.'
Henderson peered at Spud for several seconds, took his glasses off, polished them, and studied him again.
'What is that on your face, Murphy?'
'It's a beard, sir,' Spud answered, accompanied by laughter from the class.
Henderson thought for a moment.
'Go and see the school secretary and ask her to check the school rule book. If the growing of beards by pupils is allowed, come straight back, if not, go home and shave it off.'
Spud winked at us and left the room. He didn't come back until lunchtime, clean-shaven. So we didn't have to ask him what the rule book had said.
***
After a quick wash and brush up, we trooped back into the cafeteria for another mug of tea. Most of the other marooned motorists were doing the same and the place was crowded. We had trouble finding somewhere to sit.
'Let's get some goodies from the shop and go back to Sharon,' Flinty said. 'If we can't go anywhere we might as well have a bit of a party. After all, it is my birthday.'
'Okay,' I agreed, 'but I've only got about fifty quid left and I need to keep something for tomorrow.'
'Don't worry about tomorrow,' Spud said philosophically. 'It may never come.'
He could never have guessed how ironic his casual remark would turn out to be.