This is fiction which came out of a cliche connected to the situation, rather than from real life.
I bundled into the back of the black cab across from the Royal Free Hospital Hamstead. It was a welcome refuge from the autumn downpour.
“Where to, mate?”
“Croydon Central, please. Let’s see if the rain stops.”
“Right you are,” the driver said, prodding his meter before pulling a slick u-turn to catch the lights.
The diesel chugged amiably as I tried to wipe the rain from my face with a soaking jacket arm. I caught the driver watching me in the rear-view mirror.
“Wet out there, ain’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “It is.”
Some backseat yoga allowed me to dry my face with a shirt tail. That would have to do. I tracked London’s streets as they moved behind fogged windows. Then it came.
“You’ll never guess who I had in the back last week?”
After the day I had, I was hungry for the distraction. Let’s not waste it, I thought.
“OK. Sure. Was it George Clooney?”
“No.”
“Kofi Anan?”
“No.”
“Michael Palin?”
“No. Not Palin. You’ll never guess.”
“John Cleese.”
“No, none of the Pythons.”
I thought for a moment.
“Kevin Keegan?”
“No, not Keegan”
“Kriss Akabusi?”
“Chris Aka-who?”
“A 400m runner, on TV every now and then.”
“Oh, him, no, not unless I didn’t recognise him.”
“So he is at least a possibility?”
“I don’t really know him but I think I’d know if it was him, if you know what I mean.” I didn’t but kept silent. The key message was he wasn’t giving any ground. “You’re not supposed to guess, you know.”
That wasn’t going to stop me trying. I thought for a moment, his eyes searching me, grinning triumphantly. I struck back with a volley of guesses.
“Al Gore?”
“No.”
“Melinda Gates.”
“No.”
“Bill Gates.”
“No.”
“Sarah Palin?”
“No.”
“Edwina Curry?”
“No.”
“Andy Murray.”
“No.”
And, with that, I found I was spent. There were no people left in the world whose names I could think of.
“Yes, you were right. It seems I can’t guess who you had in the back of your cab last week…. Ever,” I conceded.
We were entering Kentish Town high street. I remembered buying stuff for our tiny flat over the newsagent. We argued over coat hooks and bought two of each. So much of the detail was forgotten of those times, but not the feeling of something beginning.
“You want me to tell you?”
“Pardon me?” I said, brought back into the cab.
“Do you want me to tell you who I had in the back last week?”
Oh, he was back on that again.
“I tell you what. Can we play a different game, for a change? Can you guess if I want to know who was in the back of your cab last week?”
“Alright. Yes you do?” he ventured, smiling.
“Sorry, but that’s not right. Try again.”
“I hardly need to, do I?”
“You see, you guessed. I win my bet and you win yours. Everyone’s happy. Right?”
“There’s no need to be like that,” he said, muttering under his breath and calling in to base on his radio.
I wiped a small porthole in the fogged window. Euston Station, I’d waited for her that day for three hours when she first visited. 2004, was it? Or was it ‘05? Since then she’d joined me in London, we’d married and moved south of the river and two kids had appeared. Both our father’s had died. Then a lump on her scan and within days–now, today–she had been kept in after exploratory surgery. What did this mean? Was it the end?
“See the match this weekend?” asked the taxi driver. You had to admire his persistence.
“The match? You mean a football match?”
“Yeah, the derby, Chelsea-Arsenal.”
“Guess.”
“There’s no need to be like that, mate! I’m only trying to make conversation.”
“Sorry. I know. I know it helps pass the time.”
“It helps pass the time. And take your mind off things.”
“Yes, it does. I tell you what, guess what am trying to take my mind off: shock, worry or grief?”
His eyes darted over me in the rear-view mirror for a moment.
“Grief?”
“No, not grief, not at this stage, just shock and worry.”
The cabbie nodded.
“Sorry to hear, mate. Don’t you mind me. You sit back.”
Time passed, the engine chugging dependably. I looked at my watch. The kids would be with her sister, expecting both of us.
“Where do you want dropping?”
“Just near the station, please, mate. I need a walk.”
We chugged on, the windows clearing now, the rain passing and finally stopped. We came to the station, my drop off. I paid in cash, waving away the change.
“You want a receipt?”
“No, thanks. Oh, yes, who was it?” I asked, as I pulled the handle to get out. “In your cab last week.”
“Maggie Philbin.”
“Damn it. I was gonna say her.”
“Ha. Course you were! You take care.”
“And you.”
And he pulled off and I began walking, working out what I was going to say when I got home to my sister-in-law and to the kids.
“It’s no big deal. It’s just a precaution. Everything’s going to be fine,” I whispered to myself as I walked. ■