The Fare

The Fare.

Charlie, a middle-aged Cockney cab driver, dozed in his cab and dreamt of a different life. Years of dealing with the public had left him indifferent to most fares. Unlike many cabbies, he didn’t mind waiting. Fishing had taught him patience. As he sat, his mind empty, peace enveloped him.

         In another world, he jumped when his radio blasted into life.

         “Charlie, it’s collect and deliver. Mrs Page, Chester Road. Drop off at Sunny Bay Rest Home.”

         “Tell her I’m on my way. Fifteen minutes.”

         While he drove, the traffic snaked along two lines of steel. Today, each vehicle moved toward a set of roadworks in stop-start fashion. Potholes littered the road, making driving difficult. He turned into the street written on his notepad. Three hundred metres later, he stopped outside a large, dilapidated red brick house. The roof needed repair, judging by the broken slates on the ground. The gate hung on one hinge. A garden once tended and loved now grew an impressive variety of weeds. He hurried along the tiled path, took long strides, and climbed the worn stone steps. He pressed the bell push; silence. He tried again; nothing.

         Annoyed, he pounded the door with his right fist. Faint footsteps echoed from an uncarpeted floor. Moments later, one half of the double door opened.   The short, grey-haired woman was old and frail but fighting the battle of age. Her face was pale, and her skin wrinkled with time, but her eyes sparkled.      He guessed she was in her late eighties.

         “Thank you for being so prompt. If it’s not too much trouble, would you be so kind as to help me with my case? I’m not as strong as I once was.”

         As he looked at her, he thought of his old mum. She made the best bacon butties in the street. “Yeah, no problem, missus.” As he strolled along behind her, his eyes adjusted to the gloom. A bare wooden staircase rose and disappeared into the dark. Large doors led from both sides of the long panelled hall. In a spacious back room, dust sheets covered the few items of furniture.         On the polished wood floor, a small brown case rested.

         “It’s everything I need,” she said.

         Charlie picked up the case and, for an instant, staggered by its weight. “What you got in here, love? The Crown Jewels?”

      A thin smile formed on her lips. “In there are the pictures of my life. When I need to talk to my husband, I open one and remember. With each album, we became a little older. As I flip through the pages, I rattle on, cry and laugh. He never answers my questions, but I know he’s there, listening.”

         Charlie stood still. “Tell you what, love. I’ll put this in the car and come back. Don’t want you falling down those steps, do we?”

         “I’ll wait right here. You’re very thoughtful.” She closed and locked the front door.

         The bag was heavy, but he kept his back straight and walked to his car.

         He ran back and took her arm as they descended the steps.

         She stopped, turned, tilting her head to the upper floors. She glanced away as if the recollections hurt. Tears formed and ran over her cheeks as she turned to Charlie. “Today, I leave my lifetime home. I love the memories it brings to mind. To whoever lives here next, it’s only a house, but there is so much love here. Although I’m leaving, I know part of me remains.”

         “It’s a large house. Have you sold it? A developer will turn it into flats.”

         She shook her head as if amused. “Not yet.” She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a card. “Please, can you take me here?”

         He gave the card a casual glance. “Sunny Bay Rest Home.”

         She smiled. “What’s your name? Are you in a hurry?”

         “Me mum had me christened Charles Adams. When I tell them the fare, my friends call me Charlie and the punter’s other names. And no, I’m not in a hurry. You’re my last fare of the day.”

      Her cheeks flushed. “Well, I’m Victoria Page. Please call me Vicky. My husband always did. My mother gave birth in that house. We don’t always get to choose when we leave, but sometimes we’re lucky enough to choose how.

Would you drive me through Wanstead and then to the park?”

         Charlie checked the time.

         She frowned. “I’m sorry, but I’ve lived on my own for such a long time. I tend to forget other people have lives.”

         “Vicky, it’s no trouble. I’ve no wife, no kids I know of and live in a one-bed council flat in a high-rise on the Isle of Dogs.”

“       Can I sit in the front passenger seat?” Charlie helped her in and fastened the seat belt. A silence followed.

         The cab eased along the road, negotiating mountainous road humps, while she chatted. She told him who lived where and pointed at the church with twin steeples where she married her late husband. “It’s a carpet warehouse now and the old Regal cinema a mosque.”

         He pointed to the mass of men leaving the building. “Looks busy enough in there.”

         “They’re no different from the rest of us, and you can’t save souls in an empty mosque.”

         “If you say so, Vicky.”

      He drove around Wanstead Flats, stopped at the park, alighted, opened the door, and helped her out. The park covered a vast area. A winding path circled the edges while benches dotted the grounds. Children’s swings stood empty now, the last of the daylight fading over flower beds and neatly trimmed bushes. In the cool of the evening, it remained a pleasant sanctuary from the surrounding streets.

         She extended her hand. “I’ve asked for too much, but I’d love one more go on the swings.”

         Charlie smiled. “Come on, love. I need the exercise. Take my arm.”

         She sat on the one swing, moving back and forth. “When I was a girl, I’d come here and chat to the boys.”

         “I’m sure you were a right beauty in those days. Bet all the boys fancied you.”

         She gave a wry smile. “I was pretty.”

         The last remnants of the weak sun disappeared. “It’s time,” she said.

         He glanced at his watch. “It’ll be dark soon. Have one more swing.”

         “Thank you.”

         He knew it was a trick of the light, but for a moment or two, he watched a young girl enjoying herself on a swing.

         “Time to go,” he said. “Hold my arm.”

         “You’re a good boy. Few would bother with an old woman as you have.”

         “You remind me of me, old mum.”

         “I bet you take care of her.”

         He chuckled. “Not anymore; she kicked it a few years back.”

         “I’m so sorry. Me and my big mouth.”

         “She had a reasonable life but nothing special.”

         “What about your father? Did he work hard?”

         Charlie shrugged. “Never knew him. Mum told me he died during the Falklands War. They said he was a hero, but it didn’t help me, Mum.” They stopped, and he opened the door. “Here we are, safe and sound.” She slid into the passenger seat.

         “Where to now?”

         “I’m tired. Sunny Bay, please.”

         At that moment, he thought he understood. Memories once clear were all she had left.

         Time was a silent thief, stealing everything until nothing remained.

         The journey took an age in rush-hour traffic, and it rained. He found the home, drove up the long, bush-lined drive, and stopped to help her out.

         “How much do I owe you?”

         Charlie peered into the car. “Shit,” he muttered, “I forgot to trip the meter.” He lifted his head, ran his hand over his face and smiled. “I enjoyed my trip down memory lane. This time, it’s on me.”

         She hugged him, and he held her in his arms. “Take this and thank you, Charlie. I had a lovely time.” She took a few notes from her purse and pressed them into his hand.

         He picked up her case and escorted her through the entrance to the reception. The girl behind the desk stopped reading a magazine, stood and smiled.

         “Hello, Mrs Page.” She turned to Charlie. “No need to worry. We’ll take good care of her.”

         “So, you should. She’s a proper lady.”

         Vicky gave him a little wave as he turned his collar up and stepped out into the pouring rain. “I’ll come and make sure she’s okay in a day or two,” he muttered. “Time for me fish and chips.”

         He parked his cab outside ‘There’s A Plaice for Us’, his favourite greasy spoon. Once inside, he sat at a wooden table covered with a red-and-white chequered plastic tablecloth. He ordered cod and chips with mushy peas, plus half a dozen slices of white bread and butter, at the counter. He removed his coat and hung it on the back of the chair.

         The waitress placed the overflowing plate in front of him. “Busy day, Charlie?”

         “Bloody awful, Sheena.” From his top pocket, he pulled Vicky’s crumpled money. He stared wide-eyed at five fifty-pound notes.

         She chuckled. “Couldn’t have been that bad. Fancy a coffee at my place when I finish?”

         “No thanks. Early start in the morning.”

         Charlie could not sleep. He leaned against the headboard, his mind in a whirl. By six, he gave up trying. He showered, dressed, made a pot of coffee and some toast. He ate the toast and sipped his coffee while watching the news.

         He stood at the entrance at Sunny Bay and removed a buff envelope from his pocket. He checked its contents. With determination, he entered and waited at reception.

         “Can I help you?” asked a blonde, middle-aged woman.

         “I hope so. Last night I dropped Victoria Page here. It was dark, and she paid too much.” He smiled and placed his envelope on the desk. “This is her change.”

      The woman grimaced. “I’m sorry. Mrs Page passed away peacefully during the night. You must be Charlie. She said if you came back, I was to give you this.”

         Confused, and with tears in his eyes, he took the envelope. Upset, he thrust it into his trouser pocket and left.

         For an hour, he drove around without direction. Why he returned to the old woman’s place was a mystery. He stared at the once-grand house and thought of the days it pulsed with life. Now it was a broken shell full of memories. He pulled a crumpled envelope from his pocket and read a note written on the outside.

Dear Charlie,

I knew you would come back. You are that sort of man.

         Before you read the enclosed copy of my will, you should know something.

         Six months ago, my doctor told me that I was dying. At my age, it was hardly a surprise, but it left me with a problem. I had spent a lifetime collecting memories, yet no one was left to share them with.

         Yesterday was not an ordinary day. It was my farewell journey. I wanted to see my home one last time, drive through the streets where I grew up, pass the church where I married, and sit in the park where I once laughed as a young girl.

         You gave me more than a taxi ride, Charlie. You gave me your time. You listened to an old woman who talked too much and asked for too many detours.     You treated me with kindness and dignity when many others would have hurried me along.

         During our journey, I realised something. The house deserves someone who understands what really makes a home. Not bricks or mortar, but memories and love.

         I hope you will accept my gift and make a life there. Fill the rooms with laughter again. Repair the roof. Pull up the weeds. Let the old place breathe once more.

Most of all, be happy.

Thank you for making my last day one of the happiest I can remember.

With affection,

Victoria Page