The next word that came to my lips was “Damn!” I repeated it several times, as there was a distressingly large space where I was certain I’d left my car.
I walked up and down the street in case I’d forgotten where I’d parked it, cursed again, then marched off in search of a phone box, unsure if my car had been stolen or towed away. There was a pay phone just around the corner in Kingsway. I picked up the receiver and jabbed three nines into it.
“Which service do you require? Fire, Police, or Ambulance?” a voice asked.
“Police,” I said, and was immediately put through to another voice.
“Charing Cross Police Station. What is the nature of your inquiry?”
“I think my car has been stolen.”
“Can you tell me the make, color and registration number please, sir?”
“It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV”
There was a long pause, during which I could hear other voices talking in the background.
“No, it hasn’t been stolen, sir,” said the officer when he came back on the line. “The car was illegally parked on a double yellow line. It’s been removed and taken to the Vauxhall Bridge Pound.”
“Can I pick it up now?” I asked sulkily.
“Certainly, sir. How will you be getting there?”
“I’ll take a taxi.”
“Then just ask the driver for the Vauxhall Bridge Pound. Once you get there, you’ll need some form of identification, and a check for one hundred and five pounds with a banker’s card—that is if you don’t have the full amount in cash.”
“One hundred and five pounds?” I repeated in disbelief.
“Mat’s correct, sir.”
I slammed the phone down just as it started to rain. I scurried back to the corner of the Aldwych in search of a taxi, only to find that they were all being commandeered by the hordes of people still hanging around outside the theater.
I put my collar up and nipped across the road, dodging between the slow-moving traffic. Once I had reached the far side, I continued running until I found an overhanging ledge broad enough to shield me from the blustery rain.
I shivered, and sneezed several times before an empty cab eventually came to my rescue.
“Vauxhall Bridge Pound,” I told the driver as I jumped in.
“Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie. “You’re my second this evening.”
I frowned.
As the taxi maneuvered its way slowly through the rain-swept post-theater traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.
When we reached the car pound I passed him a ten-pound note and waited in the rain for my change. Then I dashed off in the direction of a little Portakabin, where I was faced by my second line that evening. This one was considerably longer than the first, and I knew that when I eventually reached the front of it and paid for my ticket, I wouldn’t be rewarded with any memorable entertainment. When my turn finally came, a burly policeman pointed to a form taped to the counter.
I followed its instructions to the letter, first producing my driver’s license, then writing out a check for £105, payable to the Metropolitan Police. I handed them both over, with my check card, to the policeman, who towered over me. The man’s sheer bulk was the only reason I didn’t suggest that perhaps he ought to have more important things to do with his time, like catching drug dealers. Or even car thieves.
“Your vehicle is in the far corner,” said the officer, pointing into the distance, over row upon row of cars.
“Of course it is,” I replied. I stepped out of the Portakabin and back into the rain, dodging puddles as I ran between the lines of cars. I didn’t stop until I reached the farthest corner of the pound. It still took me several more minutes to locate my red Ford Fiesta—one disadvantage, I thought, of owning the most popular car in Britain.
I unlocked the door, squelched down onto the front seat, and sneezed again. I turned the key in the ignition, but the engine barely turned over, letting out only the occasional splutter before giving up altogether. Then I remembered I hadn’t switched the sidelights off when I made my unscheduled dash for the theater. I uttered a string of expletives that only partly expressed my true feelings.
I watched as another figure came running across the pound toward a Range Rover parked in the row in front of me. I quickly wound down my window, but he had driven off before I could shout the magic words “jump cables.” I got out and retrieved my jumper cables from the trunk, walked to the front of the car, raised the hood, and attached the cables to the battery. I began to shiver once again as I settled down for another wait.
I couldn’t get Anna out of my mind, but accepted that the only thing I’d succeeded in picking up that evening was the flu.
In the following forty rain-drenched minutes, three people passed by before a young black man asked, “So what’s the trouble, man?” Once I had explained my problem he maneuvered his old van alongside my car, then raised his bonnet and attached the jump leads to his battery. When he switched on his ignition, my engine began to turn over.
“Thanks,” I shouted, rather inadequately, once I’d revved the engine several times.
“My pleasure, man,” he replied, and disappeared into the night.
As I drove out of the car pound I switched on my radio, to hear Big Ben striking twelve. It reminded me that I hadn’t turned up for work that night. The first thing I needed to do, if I wanted to keep my job, was to come up with a good excuse. I sneezed again, and decided on the flu. Although they’d probably taken the last orders by now, Gerald wouldn’t have closed the kitchens yet.
I peered through the rain, searching the sidewalks for a pay phone, and eventually spotted a row of three outside a post office. I stopped the car and jumped out, but a cursory inspection revealed that they’d all been vandalized. I climbed back into the car and continued my search. After dashing in and out of the rain several times, I finally spotted a single phone box on the corner of Warwick Way that looked as if it might just be in working order.
I dialed the restaurant, and waited a long time for someone to answer.
“Laguna 50,” said an Italian-sounding young girl.
“Janice, is that you? It’s Mike.”
“Yes, it’s me, Mike,” she whispered, reverting to her Lambeth accent. “I’d better warn you that every time your name’s been mentioned this evening, Gerald picks up the nearest meat ax.”
“Why?” I asked. “You’ve still got Nick in the kitchen to see you through.”
“Nick chopped the top off one of his fingers earlier this evening, and Gerald had to take him to hospital. I was left in charge. He’s not best pleased.”
“Oh, hell,” I said. “But I’ve got …”
“The sack,” said another voice, and this one wasn’t whispering.
“Gerald, I can explain …”
“Why you didn’t turn up for work this evening?”
I sneezed, then held my nose. “I’ve got the flu. If I’d come in tonight I would have given it to half the customers.”
“Would you?” said Gerald. “Well, I suppose that might have been marginally worse than giving it to the girl who was sitting next to you in the theater.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, letting go of my nose.
“Exactly what I said, Mike. You see, unfortunately for you, a couple of our regulars were two rows behind you at the Aldwych. They enjoyed the show almost as much as you seemed to, and one of them added, for good measure, that he thought your date was ‘absolutely stunning.”’
“He must have mistaken me for someone else,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.
“He may have done, Mike, but I haven’t. You’re sacked, and don’t even think about coming in to collect your pay packet, because there isn’t one for a head waiter who’d
rather take some bimbo to the theater than do a night’s work.” The line went dead.
I hung up the phone and started muttering obscenities under my breath as I walked slowly back toward my car. I was only a dozen paces away from it when a young lad jumped into the front seat, switched on the ignition, and lurched hesitatingly into the center of the road in what sounded horribly like third gear. I chased after the retreating car, but once the youth began to accelerate, I knew I had no hope of catching him.
I ran all the way back to the phone box, and dialled 999 once again.
“Fire, Police, or Ambulance?” I was asked for a second time that night.
“Police,” I said, and a moment later I was put through to another voice.
“Belgravia Police Station. What is the nature of your enquiry?”
“I’ve just had my car stolen!” I shouted.
“Make, model and registration number please, sir.”
“It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV”
I waited impatiently.
“It hasn’t been stolen, sir. It was illegally parked on a double …”
“No it wasn’t!” I shouted even more loudly. “I paid £105 to get the damn thing out of the Vauxhall Bridge Pound less than half an hour ago, and I’ve just seen it being driven off by a joyrider while I was making a phone call.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“In a phone box on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge Road and Warwick Way.”
“And in which direction was the car travelling when you last saw it?” asked the voice.
“North up Vauxhall Bridge Road.”
“And what is your home telephone number, sir?”
“081 290 4820.”
“And at work?”
“Like the car, I don’t have a job any longer.”
“Right, I’ll get straight onto it, sir. We’ll be in touch with you the moment we have any news.”
I put the phone down and thought about what I should do next. I hadn’t been left with a great deal of choice. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to Victoria, and was relieved to find that this driver showed no desire to offer any opinions on anything during the short journey to the station. When he dropped me I passed him my last note, and patiently waited while he handed over every last penny of my change. He also muttered an expletive or two. I bought a ticket for Bromley with my few remaining coins, and went in search of the platform.
“You’ve just about made it, mate,” the ticket collector told me. “The last train’s due in at any minute.” But I still had to wait for another twenty minutes on the cold, empty platform before the last train eventually pulled into the station. By then I had memorized every advertisement in sight, from Guinness to Mates, while continuing to sneeze at regular intervals.
When the train came to a halt and the doors squelched open I took a seat in a carriage near the front. It was another ten minutes before the engine lurched into action, and another forty before it finally pulled into Bromley station.
I emerged into the Kent night a few minutes before one o’clock, and set off in the direction of my little terraced house.
Twenty-five minutes later, I staggered up the short path to my front door. I began to search for my keys, then remembered that I’d left them in the car ignition. I didn’t have the energy even to swear, and began to grovel around in the dark for the spare front-door key that was always hidden under a particular stone. But which one? At last I found it, put it in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. No sooner had I stepped inside than the phone on the hall table began to ring.
I grabbed the receiver.
“Mr. Whitaker?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the Belgravia police. We’ve located your car, sir, and …”
“Thank God for that,” I said, before the officer had a chance to finish the sentence. “Where is it?”
“At this precise moment, sir, it’s on the back of a pick-up lorry somewhere in Chelsea. It seems the lad who nicked it only managed to travel a mile or so before he hit the kerb at seventy, and bounced straight into a wall. I’m sorry to have to inform you, sir, that your car’s a total write-off.”
“A total write-off?” I said in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. The garage who towed it away has been given your number, and they’ll be in touch with you first thing in the morning.”
I couldn’t think of any comment worth making.
“The good news is we’ve caught the lad who nicked it,” continued the police officer. “The bad news is that he’s only fifteen, doesn’t have a driver’s license, and, of course, he isn’t insured.”
“That’s not a problem,” I said. “I’m fully insured myself.”
“As a matter of interest, sir, did you leave your keys in the ignition?”
“Yes, I did. I was just making a quick phone call, and thought I’d only be away from the car for a couple of minutes.”
“Then I think it’s unlikely you’ll be covered by your insurance, sir.”
“Not covered by my insurance? What are you talking about?”
“It’s standard policy nowadays not to pay out if you leave your keys in the ignition. You’d better check, sir,” were the officer’s final words before ringing off.
I put the phone down and wondered what else could possibly go wrong. I slipped off my jacket and began to climb the stairs, but came to a sudden halt when I saw my wife waiting for me on the landing.
“Maureen …” I began.
“You can tell me later why the car is a total write-off,” she said, “but not until you’ve explained why you didn’t turn up for work this evening, and just who this ‘classy tart’ is that Gerald said you were seen with at the theater.”
OVERDONE
“No, I’m not doing anything in particular,” said Anna.
I smiled, unable to mask my delight.
“Good. I know a little restaurant just down the road that I think you might enjoy.”
“That sounds just fine,” said Anna as she made her way through the dense theater crowd. I quickly followed, having to hurry just to keep up with her.
“Which way?” she asked. I pointed toward the Strand. She began walking at a brisk pace, and we continued to talk about the play.
When we reached the Strand I pointed to a large gray double door on the other side of the road. “That’s it,” I said. I would have taken her hand as she began to cross, but she stepped off the pavement ahead of me, dodged between the stationary traffic, and waited for me on the far side.
She pushed the gray doors open, and once again I followed in her wake. We descended a flight of steps into a basement restaurant buzzing with the talk of people who had just come out of theaters, and waiters dashing, plates in both hands, from table to table.
“I don’t expect you’ll be able to get a table here if you haven’t booked,” said Anna, eyeing a group of would-be customers who were clustered round the bar, impatiently waiting for someone to leave.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said with bravado, and strode across to the reservations desk. I waved a hand imperiously at the headwaiter, who was taking a customer’s order. I only hoped he would recognize me:
I turned round to smile at Anna, but she didn’t look too impressed.
After the waiter had taken the order, he walked slowly over to me. “How may I help you, sir?” he asked.
“Can you manage a table for two, Victor?”
“Victor’s off tonight, sir. Have you booked?”
“No, I haven’t, but …”
The headwaiter checked the list of reservations and then looked at his watch. “I might be able to fit you in around 11:15—11:30 at the latest,” he said, not sounding too hopeful.
“No sooner?” I pleaded. “I don’t think we can wait that long.” Anna nodded her agreement.
“I’m afraid not, sir,” said the head waiter. “We are fully booked until then.”
“As I expected,” said Anna, turning to
leave.
Once again I had to hurry to keep up with her. As we stepped out onto the pavement I said, “‘There’s a little Italian restaurant I know not far from here, where I can always get a table. Shall we risk it?”
“Can’t see that we’ve got a lot of choice,” replied Anna. “Which direction this time?”
“Just up the road to the right,” I said as a clap of thunder heralded an imminent downpour.
“Damn,” said Anna, placing her handbag over her head for protection.
“I’m sorry,” I said, looking up at the black clouds. “It’s my fault. I should have …”
“Stop apologizing all the time, Michael. It isn’t your fault if it starts to rain.”
I took a deep breath and tried again. “We’d better make a dash for it,” I said desperately. “I don’t expect we’ll be able to pick up a taxi in this weather.”
This at least secured her ringing endorsement. I began running up the road, and Anna followed closely behind. The rain was getting heavier and heavier, and although we couldn’t have had more than seventy yards to cover, we were both soaked by the time we reached the restaurant.
I sighed with relief when I opened the door and found the dining room was half-empty, although I suppose I should have been annoyed. I turned and smiled hopefully at Anna, but she was still frowning.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Fine. It’s just that my father had a theory about restaurants that were half empty at this time of night.”
I looked quizzically at my guest, but decided not to make any comment about her eye makeup, which was beginning to run, or her hair, which had come loose at the edges.
“I’d better carry out some repair work. I’ll only be a couple of minutes,” she said, heading for a door marked “Signorinas.”
I waved at Mario, who was serving no one in particular. He hurried over to me.
“There was a call for you earlier, Mr. Whitaker,” Mario said as he guided me across the restaurant to my usual table. “If you came in, I was to ask you to phone Gerald urgently. He sounded pretty desperate.”
“I’m sure it can wait. But if he rings again, let me know immediately.” At that moment Anna walked over to join us. The makeup had been restored, but the hair could have done with further attention.
Collected Short Stories Page 62