Two Stories

          A few weeks ago, Boston United went to Cornwall to play Truro City in the English National League, the fifth tier of English football. I only know this because certain relatives of mine, Lincolnshire born and bred, are avid supporters (or customers, in my admittedly cynical view) of Boston United – so much so, that they devoted the whole weekend and a considerable amount of their combined disposable income in travelling to Truro, via a stopover here in Plymouth, to watch ‘their’ team lose, 3 – 0.

          As I was recounting this sorry tale to a couple of friends a few days later, I became aware of a blank expression that betrayed a degree of incomprehension. “What?” I asked. It transpired that, despite being university-educated people, in their early fifties, born and brought up in England, they had no idea that Boston was anywhere but in the USA. I’m sure I sounded incredulous at having to explain that the American city is named after Lincolnshire’s Boston (which happens to be ten miles away from the original New York). They seemed bemused but not embarrassed. And I’m not convinced they believed me – or even cared that much.

          Nevertheless, I went on to explain that the nickname for Boston United is “The Pilgrims”, because the town was the port of departure, to America, for a group of Puritans fleeing persecution by the established church. However, their ship, the Mayflower, sprang a leak and made a pit-stop here in Plymouth before heading across the Atlantic. Now, I am aware that my enthusiasm for this line of coincidental dot-joining might not sustain the interest of an audience for long, so I left it there. I had another story to tell.

          The previous week, the campervan overheated while dawdling along in slow-moving traffic. A loud hissing noise and a cloud of steam emerged simultaneously from under the bonnet, so I pulled over to the side and stopped the engine. The breakdown service – who know us quite well – advised us to get out and find a safe place for the two-hour anticipated wait (it was a Sunday).

           Fortunately, we campervanners are well equipped for unforeseen circumstances. We unfolded two canvas chairs and placed them on the ‘safe’ side of the crash barrier, where we intended to have an improvised picnic. Just then, a black saloon pulled up behind us and disgorged two armed police officers, which caused us concern given our recent brushes with the law over protest demonstrations. Had the government’s measures to stifle us by introducing ever more draconian laws really come to this?

          But it seemed they were just passing and, it being a slow day for armed police action, used our plight as an excuse to stretch their legs. The friendlier of the two asked about our circumstances, put his head under the bonnet and identified the problem. I had failed to see it myself, but a hose had become detached from the bottom of the radiator. “I can get to that,” he said and, lying on his back, slid under the engine and came out with a rusted, broken circlip. “Have you got one of these?” he asked. “Yes”, I replied, offering an assortment from my toolbox.

          Mutual respect developed and was further enhanced when he realised that we were carrying enough water to top up the radiator. The officer, his gun still in his holster, slid back under the engine, reattached the hose, then topped up the coolant reservoir. “We’ll follow you for a while, make sure you’re OK,” he said and held out his hand to shake. I took it and was astonished at how limp it felt. Could it really handle a pistol?

          Well, I was glad not to have to put that to the test. I sensed that, perhaps, he was too.