Page Title

Synopsis

A completed fictional work comprising 84,691 words, Down Dusty Roads is based on true experiences of the author writing as William Atkins. It covers a period in the early 1970's when as a young man Bill Atkins worked as a lorry driver for a traditional flour and animal feeds mill in Bolton.

In his daily working life Bill encounters many characters amongst the farmers and bakers he delivers to. Many incidents occurred, some of them amusing others more serious, and all are accurately described. The underlying theme of the book is the period of significant change, along with social and industrial unrest witnessed by the author in those years. This had an impact on his life and also his future aspiration. Bill Atkins realises that he must improve his education and so studies hard to achieve his ambition. His employer and colleagues encourage him, but his main inspiration is Diane, the beautiful young secretary at the flourmill whom Bill falls in love with and eventually marries. Their relationship, at first uncertain, flourishes as the storyline unfolds.

If publication is achieved then a subsequent book is envisaged continuing from the end of this work.

Extract from Chapter Five

We made ready to leave and thanked the Burton's for their kindness and hospitality. We opened the door when Helen spoke up,

"Bill, Diane is a good rider, and you will bring her again to see me and ride with me, won't you?"

"Of course I will Helen, but she might want to come on her own now and again," I answered.

Then, with the innocence of an eight and a half year old child she said, "Will you and Diane be married next time you come to see me?"

Maggie interrupted, "Oh Helen that is very naughty, it has nothing to do with you, don't be so nosy."

But I knew that the lingering, smiling, slightly embarrassed look between Diane and myself did not go unnoticed by High and Maggie.

We drove away from the farm and I found a suitable, peaceful, and quiet place to stop. "Do you know, Diane, I think young Helen asked a very good question a little while ago."

The beautiful young woman I had fallen in love with turned to me with an expectant, loving, look in her eyes.

"Diane, will you do me the great honour of marrying me and becoming my wife?"

After a moment or two that seemed like an eternity she replied in a slightly husky, whispering voice. "Of course I will Bill, I thought you would never ask."

Now I was relieved, happy, elated, joyful and ecstatic. But I remembered one important aspect of protocol I had forgotten. "Your father, I haven't asked him. What will he say?"

Diane replied, "That will be a mere formality. You have nothing to worry about there. And, besides, if he did say 'no', I'm twenty-two and an independent woman. It is my decision alone."

There was no orchestra playing, no proposal on bended knee, no gushing poetry or prose, just a simple question and answer in the unromantic setting of a Ford Cortina 1600E. But Mother Nature had provided a display which bettered any of that as we gazed out with the light rapidly fading, across to Longridge Fell, which was silhouetted by the red sky of a perfect sunset that promised a frosty, clear night to come.

Extract from Chapter Nine

Back in the nineteen seventies road traffic was much lighter than it is now. Accidents did happen of course, but they did seem to happen less frequently then than they do now. We had an excellent record in that respect at Greenwood's and I personally saw very few crashes actually happen when I was driving. In rural northern Lancashire's winter months there were often icy roads to contend with and be aware of. One frosty morning I was heading for a small town a few miles east of Kendal, and unusually for that area, I had a ton or so of flour on the back of my Leyland for a bakery customer there. Pat Threllfall regularly patronised the tearoom the baker's wife had opened. Pat got to know them both and actually managed to sell them some of our flour when the baker was experiencing a few problems with his regular miller. Pat knew nothing about flour and had to telephone the mill for prices and specifications. It was his first flour sale and it made him a proud man. Thereafter Pat always carried details of our flour range and if things were a bit quiet on the provender front he canvassed some of the other bakeries in his sales territory and picked up some useful business here and there.

This particular client had asked for an early delivery that day because they had run short of wheatmeal and wanted some for the same day's bakery shop sales. I arrived about seven thirty and it was still freezing. In places the road surfaces were treacherous with black ice, which an experienced driver recognizes by tyre feel feedback from the tarmac through the steering wheel. Also, all tyre noise usually disappears. With their help I had unloaded the flour and accepted a quick cup of tea from the proprietor and his bread-baker, who was an Irishman. That baker always fascinated me. A cigarette was always placed between his lips the instant he went outside the bakehouse, and he could actually take all of it inside his mouth with his tongue when it was lit. The first time I saw him do it I thought, "My goodness, he's swallowed his cigarette." Then it reappeared between his lips.

As I was climbing into my cab a milk collection lorry went past loaded with churns. I started up and drove out of the town heading towards Kendal, and on a bend an accident had just happened. The milk lorry I had seen was in a hedge and culvert with churns scattered everywhere and an estate car was similarly in the ditch on the opposite side of the road. The road surface was a sheet of black ice; even standing up on it was difficult. Both vehicles were on their respective wrong sides of the road. I was the first person on the scene and it did not look good. The milk-collection driver was unconscious and his cab was badly mangled. The car driver was very dazed and his passenger, who I later discovered was his twelve years old son, was unconscious but also had a badly gashed head. Having no knowledge of first-aid I had to find help quickly. I could not turn my lorry round and go back into the town, so I set off running to find the nearest telephone kiosk. Luckily a car was approaching so I waved it down, explained as quickly as I could what had happened, and its driver, who was a middle aged woman, turned around and drove off into the town to summon assistance. After what seemed an age, but in reality was probably less than ten minutes the local doctor was on the scene, assisted by a couple of nurses who were travelling by car to start their day's work at the hospital in Kendal. Soon afterwards the fire-appliance, ambulance, and police were all in attendance. The young lad eventually made a full recovery from his injuries, but the lorry driver was not so fortunate. His legs were badly crushed and one had to be amputated, so he never drove lorries for a living again. It transpired that both vehicles skidded on the black ice as they met on the bend, but had somehow managed to avoid colliding into each other and that was how they ended up on the wrong sides of the road.

When I told Diane about my harrowing day I had said, "You know, I felt so helpless at that accident, I hadn't a clue what to do and two of those involved were very badly injured. I think I'll learn some first-aid Diane."

"It's a good idea, I believe it's something like a six weeks course, one evening weekly, for the basic training. I passed my first aid badge in the Girl Guides, but I wouldn't mind doing a refresher course, you never know when it might come in useful."

Diane had told me before she was a Girl Guide, but I hadn't realised she knew first aid. We both enrolled for and completed the basic first-aid course taught by the St. John Ambulance. Our fees were paid for by Greenwood's.