The Taxi Queue

by Janet Davey

  ‘Put your clothes back on, Martha, and come and have some supper. You like sausages and new potatoes,’ Vivienne said.

  The clock whirred and started to strike. It struck six times. Vivienne heard the clinks of plates being put in the oven to warm. Someone opened the door of the freezer. Martha walked round the room, touching the circlets of blue flowers on the wallpaper and touching twice when they coincided with the bumps of the uneven wall underneath. They could hear Bethany and Frances’s voices coming up through the floorboards from the kitchen below, and the bees outside. Martha started to hum.

  ‘It’s a lovely room but it will still be here after supper,’ Vivienne said. She could see why Martha liked it. The smell of the room, clean and damp – the green twining stems that squiggled in underneath the window frame. It was different from home. Vivienne had tossed a coin for the children’s beds and tails had won, so Martha had chosen the bed on the left because the fringe on the bed cover was the same all the way round. The one on the other bed had some loops that were missing and some that hung down to the floor. Bethany said that the long loops could easily be cut with scissors but Martha said that wasn’t true. The beds didn’t belong to them. They belonged to Mr and Mrs Riggers who owned the cottage. You couldn’t use scissors on other people’s things. Vivienne had listened patiently, hoping to maintain the shallow peace. In the end, Martha had refused to come down. Vivienne understood. She, too, would have liked to remain up there. It would have been easier than lurching about, seeing different points of view, reconciling the generations. ‘If you don’t want to get dressed again, Martha, put your pyjamas on. They’re in the top drawer,’ she said.

  ‘It’s got funny handles.’

  The drawer had two handles that were fastened with screws each side and the one on the right had a screw that didn’t match the others. It was steel instead of brass and had a cross in the middle. Martha shuddered, backing away, as her mother opened the drawer.

  ‘Come on, Martha. Put your arms up.’ Vivienne held the pink shape out taut, as if it were on a washing line.

  Martha held her arms straight up and Vivienne pulled the pyjama top down over them. Martha stepped into the trousers. ‘Pyjamas are a defence,’ she said.

  ‘They certainly are,’ Vivienne said.

  5

  IN SUSSEX, THE day lasted longer than in London – or the curtains were thinner. They were lightweight and filled out like clouds when the air moved through them. Then the shadows on the walls changed shape, flexing and overlapping. Although it was only ten o’clock, Vivienne had gone up to the bedroom. It had been the only way to bring the evening to an end. Frances loved to talk. She had a reservoir of memory and comment that had no regular outlet. Given a listener, the words gushed out as from an overflow pipe.

  There was a gap between the two beds that was deep but not wide. On the other side of the divide the bed was empty, though Vivienne had turned down the covers. Vivienne imagined waking in the morning and seeing Richard with his face towards her, breathing, in sleep. It was years since they had slept in twin beds. A mistake in a hotel booking – and a mistake again now. She was sure that the cottage brochure had said two twins and a double. Then – whenever it was, she couldn’t remember – they had both squeezed into the one bed, not wanting to be separate. What were the chances of that happening this weekend?

  Although Richard would probably not turn up for another hour or two, Vivienne listened out for cars coming down the lane. They came every three to five minutes and the headlamps beamed through the curtains. She thought of Richard driving alone along the motorway – a long, grey, straight stretch between hills.

  Vivienne felt she had changed in some way. She was like a picture that had slipped down behind the glass and was no longer parallel with the frame.

  Between the time of the strange presentiment in Prayer Clinic and the telephone call to Kirsty Rivers, she had suspected a woman at the bottom of Richard’s troubles. Without knowing, or guessing anything about her, she had existed. Then, when Kirsty Rivers told her to contact her brother Abe, the Woman became more elusive.

  On her journey to Shoreditch, and particularly once Vivienne had left the main thoroughfare of Bishopsgate and started walking through the unfamiliar side streets, she began to be nervous. She put flesh on the alarming ‘brother’ who materialised from the old warehouse buildings. She considered turning back and ringing the number she had been given from a safer spot. But she kept going – all the time processing her recent concerns about Richard: the mental lapses, the unexplained latenesses, the malaise and the moodiness. Her mind swung back and forth, checking her husband’s ‘symptoms’ against random information she had picked up from the media and which she had never thought would be relevant to her. She ranged through problems involving ex-colleagues with grudges, ex-employees with grudges, bent auditors, conmen and stuck, finally, somewhere quite improbable – the pendulum at a gravity-defying angle – say, ten to twelve. Richard had gone to Shoreditch to buy drugs.

  Vivienne forced herself up the stairs of the building where Karumi was located, as if carrying her own body up a steep hill. The room at the top came as a surprise: the calm and airy interior, the beautiful Japanese teapots. Immediately, Vivienne put this mismatch down to her own lack of sophistication. And Abe himself, although different from the crook she was expecting, also made sense in the context of her misunderstanding. In real life he would be an engaging man in his twenties and not a shady-looking fellow in a hat. The white-coated Tariq, the lifestyle magazines and the books, with titles like Look After Your Back, all contributed to the upgrading of her database. The odd thing was that once Vivienne accepted that her suspicion was utterly off target – which happened by the end of her conversation with Abe – she didn’t revert to her former innocence. She was aware that she wasn’t wrong to bin off the old assumptions. Even though Abe was not a drug dealer and Karumi not the perfect front, they might have been. This was, she could see, how things were nowadays. Her mistake had been to lay the finger on Abe as an individual – not a type – and on her husband in any way whatsoever.

  After she had said goodbye to Abe and closed the door of Karumi behind her, she stood in the cell-like lobby, looking back through the frosted internal window at the room she had just left. She caught a milky version of her own reflection staring from the window, the pale green of her suit an odd bronze colour, her sunglasses black patches off-centre on her head. She reached up to straighten them before summoning the lift that she had been too afraid to use on the way up. It came clanking and rattling through the shaft. When it juddered to a stop, she released the catch and pulled open the grille. The action caused the inner structure to wobble in the way of a jack-in-the-box attached to a spring. She stepped inside and, feeling suddenly nauseous, stepped out again, closing the grille with a clang that reverberated through the building. She started to walk down the stairs. At each new floor level her heels tapped across the metal platforms. She continued until she reached the ground floor, then paused for breath as the constant turning and descending had made her dizzy. She pressed the buzzer to exit and pushed open the door. She was back in the street. Her situation seemed to her suddenly neutral, wiped clean – as if she had arrived there, without volition, from nowhere. She stood for a few moments on the front step of the building, reorientating herself, then headed back to the main road. Her head spun from more than the stairs. She had never before been to this extraordinary part of London, nor to a sports injury treatment centre, nor felt so keyed up by a conversation as the one she had just had with Abe Rivers. She was tempted to stay longer in the area – to go into one of the cafés, or look for the chic East End shops that she had read about in the weekend papers. Relief put her in a strange mood. She perceived new worlds, flickering on and off, and wanted to drop by.

  Going down the escalator at Liverpool Street Station – Vivienne seemed to have done nothing but descend – she realised that she wouldn’t be able tell Richard anything, even though
he was the person she most wanted to tell. When she asked him how his day had been and he, having told her, asked about hers, she would not be able to say that she had travelled to a sports injury treatment centre located somewhere between Bishopsgate and Shoreditch, in search of a man called Abe Rivers. Richard would never get to hear about Abe – who turned out to be rather attractive – or his poor sister, or the ins and outs of alternative religion. Unless she came out with the essence of the story – that her trust in Richard had wobbled and that she had gone through the contents of his desk – she wouldn’t have the scope to discuss the by-products, nor to share her excitement with him.

  As Vivienne stood on the crowded platform, waiting for a train to take her westwards, she felt desolate. For once, she had something riveting to talk to Richard about, something that would surprise him about her – but it was stronger than that. She had a feeling that her rediscovered ‘trust’ in him was a parody of what was really needed. She had a chance of a different outcome, if only she were able to speak. The black hole at the end of the platform that the train would rush out of seemed more like a vacuum – something that sucked people in. Vivienne felt the warm indrawing of air.

  A car braked suddenly at the corner of the lane. Vivienne sat up, one of the straps of her silk nightdress sliding off her shoulder. She woke, panicking that she had lost the card inscribed with the feather. Then, seeing the curtains blowing over the window, she remembered where she was. The card had gone back into the wallet and she was in the country. She must have dozed off. She glanced at the empty white bed next to her. Richard still hadn’t arrived. She considered getting up and looking out but she knew what she would see: the low wall filled with rock plants that divided the garden from the road, her own car backed against the farm gate opposite, the space next to it that she had left for Richard. She felt superstitious about seeing the unoccupied spot. She fell back on to the pillow.

  Vivienne was still puzzled – though in a more objective way, since she was away from home – as to exactly why Richard had kept the card. She mused over it without reaching a conclusion – not in an anxious way, more as if it were some figure in the business plan that no one but the tax accountant understood. The clock whirred and struck the half-hour. It was still only half past ten. On impulse, she picked up her telephone from the bedside table and called Paula’s number.

  ‘Darling,’ Paula said. ‘I thought you were in Sussex. Wait a mo. I’m in the bath. I just need to dry off the phone.’ Tapping sounds and odd knockings came down the line. ‘Hello. I’m with you.’

  ‘How was Normandy?’

  ‘Terrific. But that’s not why you’re calling, is it, darling?’

  ‘No,’ Vivienne admitted.

  ‘Sweetie,’ Paula said.

  ‘This is going to sound so ridiculous.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I found out, in a roundabout sort of way, that Richard was approached by a woman who tried to convert him to some esoteric cult,’ Vivienne said. She kept her voice down, mindful of her mother and daughters in rooms across the landing.

  ‘He saw her off, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Exactly what I’d expect of him. Hurrah! I must remember to ask him about it.’

  ‘No. You mustn’t. Promise, Paula. He doesn’t like talking about it. You do promise, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Vivienne paused. ‘He kept her card with her number on.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s feeble of me. There’s nothing at all to worry about. But I keep wondering why.’

  ‘It was definitely a woman?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Well, she was called Kirsty. Oh, Paula, should I be worried?’ Vivienne heard the slap of water against the side of the bath. ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘I can tell you exactly why he’s kept the card,’ Paula said. ‘Sorry, I’m just getting out.’

  Vivienne waited.

  ‘It’s obvious. He intends to pray for this person – Kirsty, did you say – and needs a reminder. Richard doesn’t draw attention to himself. He’s not a Pharisee, if I can put it like that. He doesn’t sound off about his good deeds.’

  ‘No, he doesn’t. That’s quite a good idea. You might be right.’

  ‘I’m certainly right. Don’t even think about it again, darling. God, if I suspected Hartley’s business cards had hidden meanings I’d be a nervous wreck. Say your prayers and sleep tight.’

  ‘Thank you, Paula.’

  ‘Thank you for calling. I love to hear from you. Always.’

  Vivienne replaced the phone on the bedside table and lay down again. She took a few deep breaths. Paula had succeeded in calming her – though it was the calm of the credulous. Vivienne found the idea that Richard might have been planning to pray for Kirsty Rivers oddly depressing. She preferred, for the moment, to delve around. Was the card with the feather a memento? Richard had had a blameless encounter with a misguided young woman and kept a token of it. Vivienne understood how such an action might arise – the safeguarding of a small but significant item that didn’t fit normal life, a secret, in fact. She wondered whether possessing a secret, of a harmless but grown-up kind, made a person more interesting. She felt, for a second, quickened by the thought. Then – since the person was also herself – the flutter slowed and came to rest.

  6

  THE SAME EVENING Richard had an early dinner appointment in the West End. On leaving the restaurant, he shook hands with his hosts, but instead of hailing a taxi or making his way back to a station, he started walking. Vivienne had already reached Sussex. She had left a message on his phone. Richard omitted to send one back, telling her that the dinner had ended. He passed through waves of din, as he looped round pavement drinkers lapping out from the pubs, then through calmer stretches, outside closed shops, where he was the only pedestrian. At Marylebone he saw the sign to the Underground but walked on, ignoring the trains that would have taken him home. He was heading in the direction of Paddington, where he hadn’t set foot since January. It wasn’t a part of London he had much call to go to.

  He descended into the underpass beneath the Marylebone flyover and emerged in a different landscape. The Paddington Basin development had moved on in six months. All around were new buildings, some occupied, some empty – all lights blazing – and sites still under construction, wrapped up like parcels in what appeared to be stout polythene. Richard hadn’t paid much attention to the precise state of the project back then – the snow had been a distraction – but he could tell that there were fewer gaps in the skyline, fewer holes in the ground. The wine bar, at the foot of the office block where his meeting had taken place, was below street level though there was no street – just a wide open space consisting of shallow concrete steps that went down and then up again. The doors of the wine bar slid apart as he approached.

  He found a table in a quiet corner and sat down. The place was air-conditioned – a degree or so too cold – but Richard loosened his tie out of habit. He raised his hand to attract the attention of the waiter and ordered a glass of house red – his first drink of the evening. He had stuck to mineral water with dinner, conscious of the drive later on.

  He had only spent one evening with the family that week. He had walked round the side of the house and called out hello. Martha had called back, but Bethany, with a bat outstretched, was concentrating on the ball that was about to leave Henka’s hand. Richard, poised to clap, had changed the gesture to a two-handed wave when Bethany missed and the ball had sailed past into the pyracantha and stuck there. Whatever was arbitrary about the family – the tendency to spill out in unexpected directions – Henka firmed up. There was a frame – in this case the garden fence, partially concealed by shrubs, and the hours from the end of school until bedtime – which bounded them and from which there was no escape. The remains of the girls’ supper and drinks lay on the slatted wooden table; their cardigans were draped
over the bench. After homework and food, out came the supervised games. Bethany and Martha seemed united in a way that was hard to achieve when he and Vivienne were in charge. Watching the three of them – Martha, Bethany, Henka – at different stages of girlhood, Richard’s thoughts seemed to fall in line. The opportunity to be depressed or troubled didn’t arise. The minutes progressed in an orderly way.

  He had entered the house through the back door. The shower was running upstairs, which meant Vivienne was back. Richard leafed through the pile of post that was lying on the kitchen table. He remained standing, automatically sorting, and making a pile of the flyers and junk mail. He slit open the envelopes that were addressed to him. Everything was familiar; the fruit in the big blue-and-white bowl, the biscuit tin covered in pink pigs, the girls’ homework books with their names in their own particular scripts – Martha’s large and erratic, Bethany’s neat and square. Even the sun that sliced the table in half in the early evening, making half light, half shade, was domesticated – what he expected at that time of year. These seemed to be visible signs, not of a perfect family, necessarily, but one without loose ends – justified, in every sense of that word.

  Richard took out the evening paper – dependable camouflage – and folded it back so that the quick crossword was in front of him. There was a cryptic equivalent that fitted into the same grid but his brain wasn’t wired for it. He glanced at the impossible clues as if they were television shots of tribal people wearing bizarre headgear. He wasn’t troubled that he couldn’t relate to them. The waiter returned with the wine. Richard took a gulp and pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. Short sleep. Three letters. He thought for a moment and put in a word. Within five minutes he had finished the wine. He placed some cash on the table and returned the pen to his pocket. He abandoned the newspaper. The white squares of the crossword were empty – all but the three letters. Better to have left it blank since the word looked ridiculous. The waiter would think he was brain-dead. Richard left the bar and went in search of a taxi.