2
Saturday, the first of May and students joining Falmouth College of Art, or Falmouth Marine School or joining other courses in the area, flocked into the town from all over Europe for the start of first term. Students never have enough funds so there were the usual vehicles for sale in the lanes and roads around campuses. Motor bikes, cars, all kinds of converted sleepers-on-wheels and, as usual, several clapped-out VW Camper Vans. But one stood out from all the rest – a superb 1975 Volkswagen Bay Camper.
Only weeks before Ben's good friend and downstairs flat mate, Magic Alex, had introduced him to an old school chum, Ivan James and his fair and gentle wife, Debbie. Ivan was a local motor engineer and justly well-respected by almost every motorist in the county. Without exception, he was known as Doctor Ivan and it was he who went with Ben to inspect his latest obsession and the moment he slid out from beneath her chassis he said, 'OK! Now get behind the wheel, close your eyes and wait for the feeling. If it comes, buy the van but if it doesn't, don't. With a camper, you buy the feeling, not the van.' Ben did as he said and sure enough, the feeling came. He smiled at Ivan and nodded.
Next day, round at Ivan's garage, the van was given an official MOT test and was pronounced fit enough to futtle through Europe.
'Should be OK now, but there's a couple of things you should bear in mind. Because the engine sits in a confined space it tends to generate quite a lot of heat. In order to avoid the build up of possible toxic waste it is fitted within a cowling. The cowling surrounds the engine and re-directs the hot toxic air through an exhaust pipe and out into the fresh air. Of course, your cowling seems to be missing but no need to worry, your van will be quite safe as long as you don't put too much strain on the engine. Just take care and remember, fifty on the level should be your top speed. This is my prescription and aught to be your main consideration.'
'That and the realisation that absolutely every other motorist is insane,' Debbie laughed. Ben winced.
Over the next few days, he repainted the van very carefully giving an elegant white finish. Right around the entire body he inscribed the narrow, ancient Meandros or Hellenic Key Pattern which represents the eternal flow of life. It ran beneath the bay window across the front, right along each side over the side doors and across the back door below the window. Finally, and even more carefully, above the sliding entrance door he painted the holy words, Villa Zorbus, in further homage to his illogical obsession with the Zorba movie and all things Greek.
Then, to his further delight, he discovered the Villa cooker was set on a swivel right beside the sliding door behind the passenger seat. This meant they could cook standing outside when temperatures rose. Cooking in open air heat. It was then that it became real, that they were actually about to set off into a dream. The Villa was equipped with a fridge, a sink, a ventilating skylight that dripped rain in wet weather, louvered side windows for maximum swish of air, plenty of storage space, plus shelving. Even every window was curtained. As on a boat, there was no wasted space which meant ample room for two inflammatory nutters.
Then just after Christmas Kevin resigned his job, sub-let his flat to an animal-loving local chef who promised to look after his cats, Pasha and Scallywag, while he was away.
'Believe me, there are no words to describe the look of distress in Scally's eyes when I said goodbye. I was amazed how much it got to me.' Kevin was quiet for days afterwards. He moved into Ben's flat and by the end of April it was too late to change their minds.
Ben had bought a fairly decent camper van from a dreamy art student, resigned from the famous Fish Restaurant kitchen and was about to abandon his home.
But first he needed to familiarise himself with the Zorbus so they agreed on a trip up to Liverpool to say hello and farewell to families then hopefully cross the channel down in Portsmouth.
Ben felt ready.
And Kevin could hardly wait.
For the previous year and a half, right up until the day they set off, Ben had not driven a vehicle of any type and yet there he was, behind the wheel of blind optimism and eagerly flying away into the unknown.
And yet, he felt quietly confident. It was all to do with the driving seat. VW drivers tend to look down onto most passing vehicles and this gives a feeling of invulnerability. Along with this came a joie de vivre and the tendency to whistle and hum a lot more. It was one of those mornings, standing on tip-toe, tender, fragile and trembling; somewhere between winter and spring. Not only did he feel more positive because of the large VW insignia displayed at the front of the camper ostentatiously declaring membership of a unique community of wayfarers and wanderers from around the globe and thus attracting toots and waves of friendly enthusiasm from every other camper driver he met, but for the first time in an eternity Ben felt free.
But the euphoria didn't last long. After a hundred miles or so, while queuing for petrol, they noticed copious greasy stains splattered all around the engine flap and oily smelly steam billowing from the exhaust. Ben's mouth fell onto his chest. What did it all mean? Was this the end of their dream? Technology left him at the toothbrush and Kevin was just as lonely when it came to industrial science but he did have an excellent memory, 'Remember Ivan's warning? Gaskets in the rocker compartments are the usual main faults with VWs.'
They didn't sell them at the services but directed the Zorbus to a garage a few miles off the motorway where they might find what was needed, that is, if it was open. The drive to the garage didn't take long even if it was stuffed with apprehension but as soon as it hove into view they saw the garage was open.
'We don't deal with VWs because a few more miles further up there is an authorised VW dealer man who will certainly be glad to help, although by now he might be closed. Just look out for the sign.'
Off they went again and this time they were in luck. The dealer man lifted the engine flap and sniffed. He looked into Ben's eyes and shook his head, 'Where's the cowling?'
'We haven't got one at the moment.'
Veedubman was horrified and gave a nervous, if slightly mocking, laugh in astonishment, 'Well, I am sorry to have to say this but your journey is over because you'll get nowhere without the cowling. Mark my words, you will cook the engine!'
Cook the engine! The words sounded like a shriek in a grisly horror movie but, having faith in their doctor, Ben smiled and tapped the side of his nose, 'I'm sure we'll be OK. We know the secret.'
In no time they were cruising along again, windows open and enjoying the warm sunny breeze. Kevin reached into his trusty fisherman's bag and pulled out a pasty, 'Wow! It's still a bit warm,' he said opening the bag and biting into the pastry.
'Aah! Delicious!'
That's when Ben remembered he'd left his on the roof of the van in their eagerness to get going, 'Oh, no! What an idiot!'
'Don't worry. Have half of this. It's plenty big enough.'
'Are you sure? Well, anyway, it's supposed to be bad luck to eat a pasty all to yourself.'
'Who told you that?'
'You did.'
A further fifty or sixty miles and they checked the rocker box. Still it steamed but at least there was no trace of escaping oil. The engine seemed healthy with no weird noises or smells. This rebuilt their confidence so much that Kevin took the wheel for the final two hundred miles while Ben sat in the passenger seat enjoying the air brushing his face through the open windows.
It would be good to be with his Dad again. He realised how much he loved him. Ben's mother had died when he was four and he had few memories of her which meant he hardly missed her. But he knew his Dad did.
Ben covered his ears when Kevin began singing, 'Portsmouth, Junction 28, the city off the A 5 8. No idea when we'll arrive, we'll just have to wait!' They chuckled.
'Can't see any flags or bunting,' whined Kevin in sham disappointment.
Then just when they seemed to have been on the road for days and with Kevin now weary from the motoring, he began his glide off the M6 into the left-hand feeder lane for the city. Suddenly the break lights of car in front glared bright red when it sharply cut its speed, startling Kevin and causing him immediately to steer back into the main stream of traffic. Just at that second a speeding two-seater zoomed by on the right, only missing them by millimetres and disappearing down the road into the distance.
They'd almost singed their wings and as a result Ben was a quivering wreck.
Quite a few years had passed since either of them had made a visit to their tribal camps so they were a little unprepared for the tender homeliness that came from Kevin's mother when she opened the door, 'Oh, good it's you. Get some coal in before you sit down, lad. Thanks.'
It was all there and behind the words her smile exposed the deep affection for her little boy, Kevin the Nomad. The travellers sat in weary silence while she impaled Kevin on all the family news and gossip although really it was gently entertaining.
'Kevin, you won't believe this but you should have heard what Mrs. Johnson next door said when I asked her about her daughter's new boyfriend. She said, 'Oh, he's a really nice boy, thanks. Got a good job in a big office right in the centre of the city – Water Street or somewhere. He draws new buildings or something. I think she said he's an 'eart attack.' Her laughter was contagious and so was she.
Once the usual rituals were over she fed and watered the ramblers to the point where Ben could hardly keep his eyes open. The night before, their friends in Falmouth had laid on a farewell bash predictably fuelled with all the excesses they loved, booze and things, and now there they were at the end of stage one, drained of all energy.
Ben thanked her for her kindness, arranging to meet Kevin the following day then carefully drove to his Dad's house for phase two of the warmth, love, welcoming hugs, humour, mickey-taking and drinks. And this was the way it was within the comforts of his home and family.
Andrea, his friend in Hungary, had posted a letter to his Dad's house knowing it was on Ben's route. Ben had met Bee, her boyfriend, three years before in Agia Galini on the southern coast of Crete. He was a wandering Country Blues singer and guitarist originally from the London area and they were so alike Byronic Bee had wondered if they might have been brothers in another life. They became good friends, sharing the same madness and love of tomfoolery. Even when Ben returned to Cornwall, they had kept in touch and exchanged letters and laughs. About a year after, Bee wrote asking if he and Andrea could come and stay for a week. Ben had just started in the Fish Restaurant and what with late nights and late mornings he took his time in answering until one evening it hit him that Bee might be waiting on a reply.
First thing next day, in an air of high-spirited expectation, Ben rang Bee at his home number. The phone was answered by a voice he did not recognise. It was a Reverend Cook. He gave Ben the tragic news that Bee had passed away. He said Bee had been suffering from acute manic depression for quite a while and in the early hours of that very day had put on his guitar and walked along the bypass. Then at one point he had decided to step into the path of an oncoming juggernaut.
Bee had committed suicide. Ben felt the cold condensation of the glass as he slumped his forehead against the window when he heard the tragic news. He looked out over the old Falmouth harbour and groaned, 'Oh, Bee! You stupid, stupid bastard.' He was shattered. If only he had answered the letter and let them come. Might he have saved Bee's life? He wrote to Andrea and tried to explain his sadness.
Her reply was full of kindness, reassurance and tenderness, 'We were deeply in love but even our feelings couldn't save his life. I don't think an earlier telephone call would have made a big difference.'
Over the following year and a half Andrea and Ben wrote regularly to each other and the letter waiting at his father's house was as warm and compassionate as ever and Ben felt he had come to now regard Andrea as a true friend.
In the letter she wrote, 'I understand your nervousness now you are going travelling. Absolute freedom can be scary. Remember, your problems are not against you, they are for you,' and she was right. He could not help but wonder if they would ever meet face to face.
Ben too was exhausted to do any more. He was completely drained and overwhelmed from being home, and after travelling so hard his tank was empty. That night, he lay in his father's house, on warm and comfortable clouds drifting in the darkened room with Andreas' words melting all the obstacles as he faded into dreams.
Ben woke twelve hours later. It was Sunday. The first thing that shook him awake was the realisation that being Sunday there was no way he could buy a cowling for the Zorbus, or anything else he needed. They would all have to wait til Monday. His second came with the unwelcome realisation that Monday would be Bank Holiday! May Day as well as a MAYDAY!!! So all the shops would be closed. And then he really wailed when he remembered they were booked on the ten o'clock evening ferry at Portsmouth on the day after that, a Tuesday. He waited a second but no more buzzers. He wondered what would happen if the engine blew up. There was no point in worrying about something that just might not happen so for the next two days he decided he would simply enjoy his Dad's company and hope for the best.
But it wasn't long before anxiety forced Ben to phone the Jacob's Ladder Pub back in Falmouth to speak with Ivan for some reassurance over the cowling. Ivan always had his Sunday Roast in the Jacob's but that day he'd left early. Jeanette, the landlady, insisted on dashing round the corner to get Magic Alex to get to tell Ivan to Ben. She found Ivan sitting with Alex.
Poor Ivan thought there must be some terrible crisis because breathless, he was on the phone in no time. Ben needn't have worried because his diagnosis went as follows, 'If it gives you peace of mind, buy a cowling, but its importance has always been fifty-fifty.'
Ben couldn't believe it. Such relief! He thanked Ivan, wished him well and decided to buy one anyway, if he could find one.
Next day, just before he left to collect Kevin, Ben climbed into The Zorbus and waved to his Dad. The moment he started the engine, his Dad came over to the van and stood with his hand on the window rim, unsure of how to say goodbye. In the silence of knowing smiles and sensitive nods there was really no need for words.
Ben leaned through the cockpit window and just said, 'Goodbye, Dad,' and put the Zorbus into first gear but before letting out the clutch he handed him one of the sweets from the bag on the dashboard, 'That's for being a good boy', something his Dad used to say when Ben was little. His dad smiled. It was the perfect way to tell him he loved him. He gave a short laugh and touched Ben's arm, 'Take care, son. God Bless.'
The day began with anticipation and disappointment. A precious hour was wasted in trying to gather advice from the main British VW contractor before it was suggested, 'It might be easier to pick up a cowling on the continent'.
But with all good wishes and hugs and kisses eventually out of the way, they set off on an enthusiastic sunny day, this time keeping clear of speedways, and steering through shires and towns and hamlets on a carefree, smooth ride all the way down to Portsmouth.
They passed through Oxford, rolling along and taking the day just as it came. Kevin slept. In the silence between colours at traffic lights near Newbury, Ben happened to notice a tiny spider slowly lower itself from the rear view mirror onto the dashboard where it stood stock still. It seemed surprised to see him there. Ben wondered if it had just woken up after deep hibernation, or perhaps the camper was its home and it was simply familiarising himself with the road signs. It may have been a seasoned hiker from another country perhaps. And how long had it been a wanderer? Maybe it would travel with them into Europe. Ben thanked it for his company and promised to keep it safe on the journey.
His new found friend would be his secret in case Kevin thought he'd flipped. Then he named the spider Pierre and to entertain his new found friend, he made up a story for him about a lonely frog.
'Once upon a time, near a pond in a green and sunny wood, there lived a little olive green frog. All day long the frog would sit very still and sigh and say, 'Oh, dear. All I do all day is croak and hop about and sit in the pond. Why can't I be like the birds and fly in the air. I wish I were able to breeze through the woods like the deer and visit other meadows and woods. I wish I had lots of dazzling colours like the dragonflies. I want to be beautiful like them but I'm just boring and dull.'
The frog sighed again and again and for a long time he sat very still watching other creatures in the wood. He listened to the sweet music from the birds and watched the fish sail through the ponds. He watched the rabbits and the beetles and the ants and the badgers all able to do things he couldn't. They seemed to do things without even trying. They didn't have a care in the world. How he envied them.
And so the earth turned and the stars appeared and the moon shone down and as he looked and watched and saw all the beauty that was everywhere, very, very slowly he began to realise that every living thing shared the same stars, the same wood, the same air and were all born with everything they needed to be their perfect selves.
And he realised there was nothing wrong with him at all. He was a truly perfect frog. And soon he realised that by simply being himself he was already perfect, just as every creature is perfect in their own way and there is no need to want things he didn't need. All he had to do was be happy.
And from that moment he was perfectly content in being a perfect frog. The End.'
There was a groan from the passenger seat, or perhaps the dashboard, 'Best you can do?' Kevin yawned, the lights changed to green and Pierre scuttled up behind the mirror out of sight.
That early evening they arrived at Portsmouth, the most historic port on the south coast of England, birthplace of Charles Dickens and home to the British Royal Navy for hundreds of years. The port is steeped in maritime history.
They parked the van on board the ferry and relaxed. Ben was delighted with his vehicle. His very own VW Bay Camper. It had performed exceptionally well and right then was amongst all the other vehicles on their way to France. Ben was full of anticipation. He and Kevin were high on life, and soon rolling out across the channel on the shiny dark blue. A little earlier they had stood in careful silence on the stern of this Le Havre ferry watching the lights along the coast of Britain fade into the night and wondering how the hell they'd got where they were. Now Ben lay in his bunk staring at the bunk above, tired and ready for sleep yet recalling scraps of conversation from the night they agreed to leave Cornwall. Meanwhile, Kevin read loudly and in broad unintelligible Scouse, extracts from an old Fodor Travel Guide called, 1936-On the Continent-The Entertaining Travel Annual, a book he'd unearthed at his mother's house.
'Beautiful evening, old chum.'
'What are y'talkin' about? We're in the bowels of a ship! Can't see a thing!'
'I was just thinking of Falmouth and the things they said before we left.'
'Oh, I know. What was it? 'It'll be a cock-fight? Too much ego!''
'Yes, and, 'Two peas in a tin can!''
'And, 'With your lifestyles you'll never save enough money!''
''You'll be sorry you didn't leave sooner!''
''The whole idea'll run out of steam!''
''It's bound to end in tears - or worse!''
Gradually, they fell silent. Waves roll, waves break, waves roll again.
They were bookends, old friends, bold and brimming with a blind optimism for an uncertain future. And so far, all was good.
Amongst their farewell gifts was a roll of sticky tape from good chum Bill, 'You just never know, sticky tape could just save your lives.' And from Debbie, a mobile of bells and four coloured birds to brighten up the van. But from good friend Sarah, a Jeroboam of champagne and as they'd sailed away they'd drained the bottle on the afterdeck and tossed the empty into the wake - too late for second thoughts.
Watching the Jeroboam spin into the channel, Ben had made a toast as it fell, 'Here's to the future and living in the present. The rest is memory or invention.'
'What are you on about?' asked the pirate.
Maybe it was time to turn off the light and wait for France. So with the au pair softly singing a lullaby on the I pad, they stretched in their bunks and waited for sleep.
And thereby they said goodbye to the past and felt not a little wary of the future.
'As long as our only plan is to have no plan, we can't fail. Won't even have to get our routes done.'
'Just say goodnight, Kevin.'