Free The Levels by Peter Benson

he’d make something of himself, more than a basketmaker, cut ice, but it was something he’d never had any choice in. He was a boy when the school children in Somerset were given time off to hand-strip willow, he was a baby in the withy beds, sat by a cradle of cider and bread, no choice. He had visions, he claimed, where he saw things and was able to see that same thing somewhere else later, like at the pictures, on the television, or on a walk; he said he wished he could paint. The only picture in the workshop is called ‘In the basketmaker’s shop Widow Garson found Sammy, with her arms around little Sue’s neck, trying to comfort her’. A whitehaired man with a beard, sat on a chair, with a basket between his legs, his eyes closed, worked a border, while a dog watched, two small children and the widow in the doorway watched; a crude watercolour, but my father would have painted it cruder. He was never out of the starting blocks, he was never even given a pair of running shoes, in the free country of his youth, he would never do anything but what was coming. I have had better chances but chose this, but only these days, because there is nothing else to do. I was wondering what the girl from Drove House had done to deserve her blessings when there was a crack from the engine, the van jolted, and I was forced to steer into the verge to avoid a coach.
    â€˜What happened!’ the old man jumped in his seat. ‘Why we stopped?’ He’d been asleep.
    â€˜Something went. I thought you had it fixed.’
    â€˜The exhaust …’
    â€˜It was in the engine.’
    â€˜You sure?’
    â€˜Fan belt?’
    â€˜No.’
    He didn’t know the first thing. We watched the rain fall, the traffic thundered past.
    â€˜I suppose I’ve got to,’ I said.
    â€˜Well done. You’ll have it fixed.’
    Ten minutes later, and a new belt, I climbed back into my seat, soaked, lucky to be alive, so I could listen to him crow.
    â€˜Lucky I kept a fresh one in the van,’ he said.
    â€˜You thought it was something else, you wouldn’t have a clue.’
    â€˜Who thought of carrying a spare?’
    â€˜It got left by mistake when they fixed the exhaust.’
    â€˜Good, isn’t it?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜The new exhaust. Quieter. A good run, like this, do it the world of good.’
    Of the three, Sanderson Wrigley and Butt, the last Wrigley had died in 1947, nobody knew where Mr Sanderson was, and Mr Butt was definitely out for sandwiches. I was met by a sub-manager, a small man with the habit of picking flesh off the edge of his thumb with an index finger. Tiny pieces of dry, white skin dropped to the floor, as I told him we were outside with the baskets.
    â€˜About time,’ he said, rudely. ‘They were meant to be here last week. What’s been going on?’
    â€˜You didn’t get a phone call?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Then someone’s let you down …’ I paused to read the name on the plastic tag pinned to his chest, ‘Mr Podmore.’
    â€˜Oh?’
    â€˜Someone here,’ I said. He looked doubtful.
    â€˜My father phoned to say we were waiting for white sevens.’
    â€˜White sevens?’
    â€˜Seven foot, white.’
    â€˜Seven foot, white?’
    â€˜It’s willow.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜So we were held up, nothing to do with us. We can’t tell what’s available all the time. Not our fault.’
    I gave him our invoice, he told me to stack the order in the back. I went out to the van, we unloaded the baskets, and left them with a surly boy who said, ‘Thanks a lot.’
    â€˜If he says anything,’ I said, ‘about a phone call, just say you did.’ Mr Podmore tried to give us a cheque, but the old man insisted on cash; no reason, he was in one of those moods. The journey had upset him.
    â€˜I’ve no cash here.’
    â€˜Then get