3. THE LOOK-ALIKE

A confusing time for Albert Tench

“Hey fella, where do you think you’re going?” bellowed a voice through the darkness of a Dover night, the few lights outside the coach barely twinkling in the murk as Albert’s coach lurched towards the gangway railings.

He didn’t know where he was, what he was doing or why he was doing it. All he knew was that he was gripping a large steering wheel as tightly as he could and that someone out in the gloom thought he was doing something very wrong.

He managed to straighten the coach as something that may have been the residue of the soul that should have been occupying the driver’s body or maybe a blind untutored bit of instinct on his part took over. He then, by some miracle, contrived to guide the coach to where he was supposed to park it, at the far end of car deck five.

And then he managed to stop and switch off his engine and mutter into his microphone “blue stairway, car deck five” before opening the coach door and letting his head fall forwards onto his arms, resting on the steering wheel. There was a hubbub of talking as a row of elderly passengers slowly disembarked, but he ignored it.

“Are you all right, dear?” asked a kindly female voice, creaking with age yet somehow familiar.

He looked up and he knew those eyes all right. He knew them better than any other eyes he’d seen because they belonged to the double of Miranda Tinkle who’d been riding her bike down the unmade road where he’d had his accident, was it yesterday or ten years ago? Because yesterday he’d been riding his bike and ten years ago he’d given birth to her in the maternity wing of Brumpton General Hospital.

And if that wasn’t enough he was sure this was her, aged eighty if she was a day, and with those same lovely eyes.

“I’ll live,” he replied, and those eyes smiled back at him. Then their owner carrying her walking stick as if he life depended on it, slowly climbed off the coach, looked about her and then made for the lift.

He groaned, and something, thankfully, took over. Something that couldn’t possibly have been him because he’d never once been on a cross channel ferry and he’d never so much as been a passenger on a coach before, let along driven one. And he climbed down and made for the stairs that led towards the drivers’ rest room. He was so much on auto-pilot that he found himself trying to concentrate on a completely different reality from the one involving coaches.

Who was he? Was he Albert Tench aged thirteen with a new bike for Christmas, or the mother of young Miranda Tinkle aged ten, or was he a coach driver on his way to…

He didn’t have a clue where he was on his way to.

Having reached the upper deck of the ferry he bobbed into the toilet just to find a mirror and see what he looked like, and he knew, deep in his gizzards, that he didn’t look like this reflection.

Because he was a vastly overweight grey-haired, sandy bearded face-bloated nobody. There were scores like him everywhere. He was the one man he probably least wanted to be, a stereotype that probably voted for the most right wing political party he could find and who hated everyone who disagreed with him because he just had to be mindlessly right.

“Come on, fellow, get a move on!” urged a voice, “I mean, Terry, is summat up?”

He knew the voice and he knew its owner, though how he couldn’t have begun to understand because he was sure he’d never seen him before, yet he knew that he must have. They were wearing the same uniform, for goodness’ sake! And he knew the man’s name: it was Davey Pickle. How come he knew that?

“I was just looking,” he said, and his voice, gravelly and gruff, didn’t belong to him or anyone like him. For the past decade, as perceived by him, he’d sounded sweet, seductive almost, and very feminine. He’d liked wearing high heels, for goodness’ sake. He’d been Caron Tinkle and been wolf-whistled at by builders on ladders or roof tops. And he’d giggled back at them and wiggled his hips and made them whistle again. And before then, either ten years ago or yesterday, his voice had just been breaking and the music teacher had regretfully sacked him from being a soprano in the school choir.

“My head aches,” he growled, “I think I’ve got a migraine coming on.”

Then he sauntered out and ordered a fish breakfast from the driver’s cafe.

Davey Pickle, with a plate of salad, sat at the same table as him and looked at him curiously.

“You don’t seem to be yourself, Terry,” he muttered, “like you were someone else, daft as it might sound.”

“It don’t sound so daft to me, not right now, not with this head of mine,” he replied, deciding to blame anything odd on something that nobody could gainsay, a nasty headache. And come to think of it, he did have a throbbing behind his eyes, one that beat time along with his heart.

“Shouldn't be driving if you’re like that,” advised Davey, “there’s nasty things happen on the road when drivers are out of sorts.”

“I know that, fellow,” grunted Albert, sounding as angry as he felt.

Why was this happening to him? And was he alive or dead, and if he was dead was his spirit flittering around trying to find another body to inhabit, and would it always be like this? And would ten years of a lifetime seem like no time at all, like his time as Miranda’s mother? Because he was perfectly sure that it was only yesterday that it had been Christmas day and he’d taken his new bike on a perilous ride down an unmade road.

And been killed.

“I think I’ll get my head down, mate,” he said to Davey, “it’ll go away then and I’ll be right as rain.”

“Just you take care, Terry,” urged Davey, “and lay off all the fattening greasy food. You’ve got too much of a gut on you already to be healthy!”

“And you haven’t I suppose!” he snapped back, and stood up, scowling.

“Easy on, matey, easy on!” advised the other driver.

It wasn’t easy lurching towards the exit, what with the slight swell on the channel, but he needed to clear his head and get away from know-alls like Davey Pickle.

He made his way to the passenger deck and the place where he recognised some of his passengers lounging in one corner. And there, amongst them, was the elderly Miranda Tinkle look-alike.

He sat down near them, not with them, he wanted to be on his own yet within range of faces that something inside him recognised.

He heard a voice he knew, holding forth on a subject close to her heart, that of the fragility of life.

“I had a boyfriend when I was a kid,” she said, “and he went under a tractor on Christmas day because he was thrown off his new bike. I fancied him, though we were only kids, but I still think of him sometimes. He was special, probably because he died so young!”

Tears formed in Albert’s eyes and even started rolling down his cheeks, and he couldn’t help it. And the woman noticed. She looked straight at him and the streams of salt-water cascading down his cheeks. She stood up, leaning on her walking stick, and made her way to where he was sitting.

“Are you alright, driver?” she asked.

“I … er, yes, I think so, Miranda,” he blubbed.

“How do you know my name?” she asked, eyes suddenly open wide like they used to when she was a saucy lass in a mini dress. Then she smiled at him, heart warming, and nodded, “of course, it’s on your list,” she breathed, “your driver’s list of passengers...”

© Peter Rogerson 03.05.19