42
P
ulling off the A38 onto the
Stamford lay-by, one visits a
distant foreign land. I have never
been here before, and I will never go
again. Things on the Stamford lay-by are
done very differently to the outside world.
The tarmac beneath my feet is not black,
like the long stretch of road that is the
A38, but green. Algae, moss and lichen
have grown here in abundance in the
shade of raspberry bushes and ash trees.
On the right of the lay-by, there sits a
caravan; sitting next to that is an old
cooking trailer. Its white plastic panelling
is starting to peel off, revealing a yellow,
gluey layer behind. Insulation strips curl
away from the windows, as green and as
mossy as the tarmac the trailer sits on.
It is not the caravan, the cooking trailer, or
the green, algae, moss and lichen covered
tarmac that grabs my attention. No, the
more startling thing is a group of men,
sitting in front of the cooking trailer on
white plastic chairs. They recognise the
presence of a visitor - someone who is
new to this land. The smell of cigarette
smoke from a fag perched between a
man's fat lips mingles with the smell of
bacon fat (not quite cooked) that wafts
from inside the cookery trailer.
It is nine o'clock in the morning, which
means one thing - breakfast.
One thing, apart from the smell of bacon fat
and cigarette smoke, grabs my attention.
All of the men (I count five of them) are
staring at me. The man closest to me,
wearing a once white tee-shirt, exchanges a
nod with one of his companions. The sound
of police sirens echoing in the distance
creates tension. It hangs in the air.
I take a few steps towards the cookery
trailer, being careful to smile politely, but
at the same time, avoid the gaze of the
five men sitting on white chairs. There is
a so-called menu, laminated and pinned up
on a peeling piece of white laminated
panelling. Water has leaked into the paper
making the menu difficult to read.
Slightly surprised at the price of a piece of
bacon these days, and that some ketchup
will cost me one pound, I glance down,
still smiling at the five men, and upon
realising that the cookery trailer is empty,
I ask "Is one of you fellows the cook?"
The same glances are exchanged
between the men. But this time, they do
not just look and glance around at each
other, they laugh.
"Oi, Jim, are you the 'head chef' at this
fine dinner service?"
"No Darren, mate, I thought it was you.
You're the one with the …" Jim laughs,
looking at his friend, Darren, "… Michelin
star!" The men roar with laughter, and
turn round to face me.
"Look, mate," said Darren. "There ain't no
cook 'ere, if you want something to eat,
you gotta cook the food yourself."
Myself? At first, I think I have heard him
wrong. I have never stopped off in one of
these lay-bys before, but in my experience
(if one can call it that) of driving past at
sixty on a road or watching short clips of
these places on television, I always
thought that there was a cook in the
trailer, someone like, excuse the
stereotype, a plump woman called Beth.
"Oh, I am sorry. I misunderstood," I say.
"And do I have to pay to cook my own
breakfast?"
"Yeah that's right, you gotta pay for the
materials, you see." (I assume by
'materials', he means 'ingredients'.) "If
you just go in through the door at the side
there. No, not that, that's the window.
Further to the left. Yeah, that's it."
Upon twisting the black plastic handle of
the door, which is very stiff, I manage to
yank the door open. The layout inside the
trailer is fairly simple. There are a couple
of plug-in hobs sitting on top of a plastic
counter, a knob to control the temperature
has been crudely sellotaped onto the base
of the hob. Greaseproof paper lies on top
Menu
Bacon £3
Bacon Butty £5
Extras
Ketchup £1
Breakfast with
bacon
by Hugo Dunn
Edward Bishop A2