The Taxi
By: Mike Curtis
Tags: Short Story, Taxi

I was just sitting there, at the bottom of the stairs with my old brown suitcase waiting for the taxi. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. I had been there once on a visit but it was all such a blur. I didn’t know what it would be like or whether there would be anyone like you that I could talk to. Going into a home was just one step away from dying, that was all I could think of. You would have thought my boy Nick could have managed to come and get me, being my last time ever in the home I have lived in all my life, but no, too busy, sends a taxi instead. He is a good lad really, such an important job he has, ‘Systems Architect’ no less, but I am not sure what one of them does! Always flying around the world he is; it’s a wonder his Ellen puts up with it, what with those twins to look after, what a handful they are! I’m not sure he isn’t doing something that he shouldn’t while he is away; a mother knows, you know, and Ellen seems to look more miserable every time I see her.

Anyway, I was looking around at the house. I was born there. Nick was born there and my Mum and Dad both died in the big bedroom, just three weeks between them. The wallpaper’s the same now as it was then, a bit dirtier and peeling in places. I should have done something to brighten it up, but I didn’t have the heart, not after my Paul went and got himself killed. Iraq it was, doesn’t sound as if it did much good either from what’s on the news. Not much point with the whole street coming down to make room for an office block. You’d have thought they had enough of them wouldn’t you, without knocking down decent homes. I couldn’t stay anyway, on account of me keeping falling over. That’s why I’m here. Not much space for all my things, is there? Dr Singh said that I ‘needed looking after’ and I ‘would be much happier in a home.’ He’s nice enough, but not like old Dr. Sanders, you could have a right laugh with him!

I could see Dad’s old bureau in the front room. He said that it had belonged to his Grandad and might be worth a bob or two. I always kept that nice and polished. There are still some of his papers and photographs in the drawers. I was beginning to get a bit weepy; I said ‘where’s that bloomin’ taxi’ to myself several times. I was hoping Nick would sort all of my things out properly. He kept saying that he will take the nice pieces back to their house, but they don’t have much room and all their stuff is all modern; my old stuff won’t really fit in. He said that he would ‘find a good home’ for the rest, but that might just be a charity shop if I am lucky and the tip if not. I do wish he was a bit more reliable, but he is always so busy.

I could also see Paul’s favourite picture, you know the one, that old ship, ‘The Fighting Temeraire’ I think it’s called. He really loved that picture. I wanted to bring it here, but it was too big, they said. They have let me have a couple of my old pictures on the wall here, so that’s nice.

Anyway, I kept hearing cars outside and thinking ‘that’s my taxi,’ but it wasn’t. I was so sure one time that I got up and opened the door, but it was only Mrs Kowalski next door coming back with some shopping. I suppose they will have to move out soon, only seems like a few months that they’ve been there, but I suppose it must be getting on for five years now. They are nice enough, always say ‘Hello’ when I see them, but it is not the same as when Josie lived there. We did have a good old natter most days and several cups of tea! She was never quite the same after her Victor passed away. She went to a home, not around here but down South, somewhere near Reading near where her boy Stephen works. I went down to see her once but it was an awful long way and she wasn’t very happy when I got there. I got a card last Christmas though, and she seemed to have perked up a bit. It would have been nice if she was here, someone I knew to help me get my bearings. Not that you aren’t all ever so nice, still not quite the same as knowing someone is it.

So, to cut a long story short, eventually the doorbell rang and it was the taxi. I opened the door and there was this huge man standing there, must have been nearly seven feet tall and black as the night, but such a nice smile you couldn’t tell him off. He wasn’t really late anyway. He picked up that big heavy suitcase and all my other bags like they were toys and he was off down the path; just a couple of strides the whole way down it seemed; I was running to try and keep up. He kept on talking, how I was feeling, how long I had lived here; I suppose he must have known I wouldn’t be coming back because of where he was taking me. It turned out that he lived close by, just a few streets away on Maple Street, just a few doors down from where my cousin Jackie used to live; he even remembered her! I started telling him about the old days, all the old places from when I was young; it turned out that he knew about quite a few; his grandparents had come over on that ship, the Windrush, back in 1948 and they moved here soon after. His Grandad and his Dad had both worked on the busses all their lives so I must have seen them any number of times!

After a few minutes he stopped and turned round to me and said, why not have a ride around looking at some of the old sites, or what remained of them; he hadn’t got any urgent calls waiting for him and Nick had already paid, so we spent a couple of hours just driving around looking at places. I haven’t been out much recently, and then only down to the shops and the doctors, so there were places I hadn’t seen in years and some new places I had never seen. So we drove round and he never stopped talking, telling me all about his friends and family, as well as what he knew about the places we passed.

That old Bingo Hall, the one that used to be the Rialto cinema down the end of Market Street, that’s still there, still doing Bingo, but it looks a bit shabby. I haven’t been there for must be ten years now. The Palais on Union Street, where we used to go dancing and where I first met my Paul, is still there, the building anyway. Last I remembered it was all dilapidated and ready to fall down, but they’ve done it up now, it looks all smart, and there’s a little arcade of shops inside. Winston, that’s my taxi driver’s name, said that they were all posh little shops selling all the latest trendy things at really high prices, not his type of thing. ‘Not mine either’ I said and we laughed.

Most of the shops in the High Street were new. I haven’t been any further than Burford Street for my shopping recently, not that I do very much with my hips being so fragile. I did get my Nick to take me shopping sometimes but he always took me to that big Tescos out at Mantle’s Field; he always said it was too difficult to park in town. Most of my shopping got done by that Mrs Martin from the WRVS; she’s a wonder she is, but she’s beginning to look a bit old now so I don’t know how long she can keep it up. Nick said I should ‘go online’ and get everything delivered but it just seemed beyond me. He did get me a computer, and he kept showing me how to do things but then I forgot. I could probably do it alright now. Winston told me how his Grandma had started using Facebook and had found some of the friends she had when they first came over here, and a lot of relatives back in Jamaica, so when I got here I asked that nice nurse Alice to help me and I got set up. It turned out that she knew Winston from school, said that he was always in trouble but that was because he was too easy going and everybody took advantage. Do you know, after just a couple of days I was contacted by Deborah Ashe that I knew at Wilton Road School and she knew some others that I had lost contact with when they moved away, including Rosemary Wilson, my old best friend that I hadn’t heard from since she left university and went to live in America. Just fancy, after all these years, not just reading letters but actually talking to them and seeing them on the screen; I wish I had started doing it sooner but it all sounded so complicated when Nick explained it to me. That boy of mine does turn up to see me quite often, but always in a hurry and I don’t think he is really interested in what I am doing. Ellen comes sometimes with the twins, and she has fixed it so I can talk to them sometimes; talking over the computer just comes naturally to them.

Anyway, we actually stopped and had a cup of tea and some scones at that old Mrs Connelly’s Tea Rooms, which is still there and looking just the same, though I didn’t recognise any of the people serving there. They did look at us a bit funny when I walked in with Winston, but it was very nice despite the snooty waitresses.

Well, to cut a long story short, when we got back in the taxi, Winston got a call on his radio telling him to do a pickup at the station, so he had to bring me straight here. He must have seen that I was beginning to look a bit sad, because he said ‘Vera, you mustn’t think that this is the end. You are starting a new life; you’ll be doing new things, meeting new people and having lots of fun.

‘You’ve got plenty of stories to tell and they say that everybody’s got at least one book in them, so you better start writing yours!

‘Don’t sit around moping about what’s past and gone.’

So we got here. Alice was waiting wondering where I had got to, they had expected me a lot earlier. Mrs Beale was running around looking worried; I know now that she is always like that, but she is really ever so nice. She got me set up with a nice new computer in my room so I could write without getting disturbed, so you see I did take Winston’s advice, though I am not telling stories about my old life, but making up new stories about other types of lives. I do sometimes think about the old days, but not much; past and gone they are. That all ended and my new life began as I stood there outside the front door while Winston smiled, waved and hooted his horn as he drove away in his bright blue taxi.