The atmosphere had a slight crackle of nerves and excitement. A unique atmosphere, experienced only before a wedding. Two childhood friends, together for 11 years were getting married in Rutland and I was staying with a friend the night before. I needed to check into a hotel and get to the wedding for four o’clock.
It was a fine morning, a morning for a wedding. My friend’s mother drove me the mile or two to the dual carriageway, kindly offering a backup if I got nowhere. Left on the slip road I wrote Kettering on my board. May was fragrant in the air though I didn’t enjoy it long. The first vehicle to pass swung to a stop.
Sam was driving to Bath and the map said three and a half hours. He was a young man, early 30s, in a black T-shirt and cap. He was easy company and had spent three years in Canada. He couldn’t afford a truck for the first. “I used to just thumb out, and it worked pretty decent,’ he said with a grin, "But I’ve never hitchhiked to a wedding!”
He was heading home from a job nearby, fixing a generator. He was called to work on generators across the country, from South Wales to London. They paid him door to door so he didn’t mind the distance. The generators he worked on were backups for construction sites and bigger than the van we were in. He said they were 1.5 mega watts.
“How much would that power?” I asked, “Three houses?”
“Three housing estates,” he replied.
We weren’t together long. Kettering was only a few miles up the road. He dropped me on the roundabout and I waded through the overgrown verge. Stuck in the middle I waited to cross, bags slung across my shoulders. A police car pulled up and blocked my way. The policewoman leant out and shouted. “What are you doing?”
Just crossing the road, I replied.
“Where are you heading?”
“Corby next.”
“On foot?”
“No hitchhiking.”
“Right…” she said, “Are you ok?”
She declined to give me a lift.
I crossed but there was no satisfactory place to hitch from - dual carriageway, fast traffic, no hard shoulder let alone a lay-by. There was a metal railing though so I could hang up my suit, a small bonus. Another van stopped shortly after and a youngish heavy set man jumped out to slide back the door. It revealed his friend, leaning forward, his trainers spattered with paint. I leapt in and we drove, the hedge whipping the door as I pulled it shut.
Lee, Jamie and Adam were on their way home from decorating in Kettering. They were supposed to start at 7 but they’d got there at 8. “We had a big night,” Lee on the backseat grumbled. His voice was slow and croaky and he was still leaning forward on his knees. They weren’t especially chatty as groups of men often aren’t. They reminded me of rugby players.
They were going to a pub to get back on it for the FA cup final. Lee was Liverpool fan and he cried last week when Klopp left. Jamie said he supported whichever team Liverpool were playing.
Suddenly Adam honked the horn several times and pointed to a motorcyclist. Jamie wound down the window as we accelerated alongside and shouted that his bag was loose, jabbing his finger at the back wheel.
“Coulda got caught up,” Adam said, shaking his head, “He’s killin’ himself.”
“Good deed that,” Jamie nodded.
“Good to do a good deed,” Lee agreed. I added that they’d done two in quick succession.
“Did you put any filler on that wall?” Adam asked Lee over his shoulder, once the window was closed.
“Yeah but it was shit,” Lee shrugged.
The van suddenly halted, throwing us all forward. “Ahhh look at them ducklings!” Adam cooed, peering over the wheel at a mother waddling across the road with a tail of offspring. We crawled into Corby behind a Ford Fiesta. “Why is everyone driving at 2 mile an hour today?” He asked.
Adam told me that they call Corby Little Scotland because how many Scots live there. They all came from Glasgow in the 30s when a Glaswegian steelworks built a branch in the town. I asked if it was the same for Kettering.
“Nah Kettering’s a shithole mate.”
They dropped me in Corby at the my hotel. The stone facade was grey and overbearing, the windows grubby and cracked.
“Seeee ya,” Jamie said blankly and they were gone.
I unlocked the plain white door to my room and turned on the telly to hear ‘Abide With Me’ ringing through Wembley. Through the window I could see the arched white backs of bowls players bobbing up and down on the green next door. I got changed, had half a pint, then raced to the edge of town.
I wondered if anyone would stop for someone looking like an undertaker.
Steve, in a bright blue VW camper, swung into the drive of the Land Rover Experience opposite, the wheels crunching on the gravel. He admitted he didn’t like to pick up hitchhikers nowadays, too many nutters. He never did if he was with the family, but he thought I didn’t look like a murderer.
Steve spent 12 years in Riyadh as a navy pilot. He was loaned to the RAF and they loaned him to the Saudis to help train them. He used to fly helicopters for the navy and two seater trainers in Saudi. He loved every minute, “I’d pay to do it again,” he told me. He had short grey hair and blue sunglasses.
He was enjoying being back though. Here he could do plenty of outdoors activities, climbing and motor biking. He liked taking his E bike into the Peaks. “My wife says she sees less of me now that I’m back,” he chuckled.
Steve thought Riyadh was a great place to live. People were very friendly and the traditional family values meant it was like it was here in the 50s. He thought that made it very pleasant. “As long as you’re a man,” I added slightly flippantly. Steve agreed but said it was changing. Women could drive now and don’t have to wear burkas. Many wear jeans.
The building projects out there was mind blowing, he told me. “They’re building a park that’ll make Central Park look like a tiny garden.” We talked about The Line and how they’ve scaled it back because they wouldn’t finish it in time otherwise.
We came into a town called Uppingham. Steve told me that it was embarrassing how little money there is in the navy now. He didn’t sound angry or even that embarrassed he just said it matter of factly. The numbers needed to fund it were vast: it cost £40 million for a Merlin helicopter. Three of those cost the same as a frigate.
I jumped out at the traffic lights and walked slowly to the road. It was a beautiful afternoon despite the forecast for rain. As I did so a friend, en route to the wedding too, drove past and offered to take me the last couple of miles.
Half an hour later we arrived. The hills glowing gold in the afternoon. The church was made of flint, garlanded with flowers. It was a beautiful day for a wedding.