remote cards

Five miles from here, and five miles from there, on a country road, dotted by lonely cottages, and isolated bus depots, there is a petrol station. Strike that – there was a petrol station. I remember stopping there, during the night, the guy telling me how at the weekend some guys stopped by demanded all the money from the cash register, or they would burn him out. Freaky times, he was shaken. Probably not long after that they stopped being 24 hours, who needs the risk of being alone in the middle of nowhere if someone decides to rob you? It survived for a while longer. But it didn’t survive. A casualty of the fuel wars. An isolated, independent station, prices soar, people go elsewhere, it takes longer to go through stock, so they can’t catch price dips quick enough. One thing leads to another and it sits empty, orange traffic cones, with the luminous bands set out to cover the entrance. The sign where the prices were displayed flakes and crumbles, the scratched and marked “clear” plastic door clatters with the passage of cars. A circus has stopped, and slid a poster in there so that those passing see the advert, it stays there, even after the circus has been and gone. The guy who owns the place has taken steps now, revived his ghost property. For safety he got a load of wood panels, constructed frames round each of the pumps, boxed them in so that hopefully no one will hit them, no one will blow them up with the ghosts of fumes. And now he runs a shop there, from 6am to 5pm, cars stop for bread, milk, newspapers, for hot rolls and cold drinks. I’ve been in a few times, looking for milk, but usually their shelves are half empty – waiting for delivery. At that time it was still spring, and a young girl stood behind the counter, a huge thick jacket on, her arms across her chest, shivering between the need to serve periodic customers. The owner, pottering around in the back, his sports car parked outside – a relic of better days?