Airport Trip
On the day of the latest vote, whichever gods control the weather were letting us know what they thought about the state of play. I’d been awake on and off during the night, listening then cursing then shouting at the wind and the rain. It was no better in the morning when I peeked through the curtains in the hope that the new day had brought a better world. A man in front of a map was getting excited about the storm that was on its way. The clown behind the desk on the breakfast programme said something about not reaching for obvious metaphors. If it was so obvious, why did he have to bring it up? Kids arrived in schools with damp clothes clinging to their goosebumps, and the grown-ups – flooding the pavements and haunting bus stops with long faces – were tired and grumpy. I prefer voices to music when I’m driving, but none of my pickups felt like chatting and that’s their prerogative. It was another one of those historic moments in parliament when you’d expect your cabbie to be ready with an opinion on the only game in town, but I kept my trap shut. The punters who plugged in their earbuds and shut their eyes needn’t have bothered, but I let them have their little victories. And why not? An act of charity, on a day like today: it’s got to count for something.
One of my regulars, an interesting chap who I can’t quite figure out, called me halfway through the morning. His name is Ralph, but it’s pronounced to rhyme with safe. He says it’s because his family is Welsh, but for me it’s because he’s money. He’s not one of those who insist on Mister or Sir, which I wouldn’t mind; he comes across as relaxed about his place in the world, which fortunately for him is south facing and well appointed. It’s always the same trip: I drop him off at his bank, drive around the block and if he’s standing outside I drive him home. If he’s not there I chug around until he’s ready. He tips a tenner every time, so when I go away I give him a month’s notice to let him make other arrangements; I can see he’s a man who doesn’t like surprises. He told me he prefers to wait until I get back, so whatever it is he does in the bank, I’m guessing he does two weeks’ worth whenever I’m off to the costas. This morning when he got in the car I noticed he pulled a face. He must have sat in a wet patch left by one of the kids, or where the bloke with the raincoat had put his umbrella until I asked him to shift it to the floor. Sorry about that Ralph, I said, but I sensed he was embarrassed that I’d seen him lose his cool. Not a problem Nathaniel, he said in his not-at-all-Welsh accent, these things are sent to try us. That’s the sort of comment that could get me going for a good ten minutes, but not with old Ralphy-boy. The man likes to travel in silence and a ten pound tip and never any monkey business gets him whatever he wants.
What he wanted this morning was not his usual trip. He asked me to take him to the airport and back. I would have said no to anyone else because the route across the hills gives me the heebie-jeebies and then when you get there the traffic doesn’t move for the last mile. But I’ll put up with the cows and the sheep and rain and the icy roads for my best customer and I enjoy his company. His silence always has a calming effect on me, which suited me fine as even though I was doing my best to avoid the news, I was clutching the wheel so tight that my knuckles were throbbing. But when we turned off the main road at the Mendip Inn, the sun got the better of the rain for a few seconds and he said something about the Promised Land. The sarcasm in his voice was unmistakeable, which shocked me because I thought he had too much class for that. What do you think about this mess, Nathaniel, he asked me, and although I didn’t like to disappoint him I told him I had a golden rule in my cab: no politics. Good man, he said, quite right too. If only I could apply the same regulation to my head, but he’d set me off again and there it was, hammering away like a woodpecker on the loose with a pneumatic drill.
Ralph has always struck me as one of those need-to-know people, so despite my natural curiosity I knew better than to ask him about his business at the airport. We’d be picking someone up, or why else would we be going there and back? He was wearing a checked blazer over a white shirt and navy trousers. He likes a cravat and had opted for maroon silk, which matched his cherry loafers. Italian I’ll bet. I can’t imagine anyone not taking him seriously. Whoever he was meeting would appreciate the effort he’d made. He drummed his fingers on the seat as we sat in the queue nudging towards the terminal and when I indicated to enter the taxi lane he told me to drive on to the Hilton opposite the Short Stay. I will cover the parking, he told me. I wasn’t even going to ask. You have an hour or so to kill, he said, so you might as well get a coffee in Arrivals. I’ll let you know when I’m ready. Evidently I was not welcome in the hotel.
I ordered peppermint tea: my brain is busy enough without caffeine. I wasn’t in the mood to read and I found a table where I could lean against the window and watch the comings and goings. Six planes landed during the hour I was sitting there making up stories about the people flying back into Blighty. They burst through the automatic doors like it was some kind of walking race, dragging suitcases and heading for the Long Stay or rushing for a bus or into the arms of relatives or to the taxi rank where an unlucky driver was going to learn all about their fantastic holiday and oh you must visit Lanzarote at this time of year. Not too many Brits, you see, not enough to spoil it. Most of them scowled at the weather as though it had been put on to piss them off and I was willing them to fall on their arses, if only to slow them down and make them take a breath. One by one I watched them; you’re next, I said, you’re next to trip up on your smugness; but what I was really thinking was we’re all next, every single one of us whether we voted to or not. We’re like those two standing over there with their brand new tans, in t-shirts and flip flops despite the weather and they’re so ill-equipped, like the rest of us, for what comes next.
Maybe not everyone: we’ll always have the Ralphs of this world to show us the way. I was coveting a big Toblerone when he texted. He’d never done that before and the image of him thumbing out a message made me miss my mouth. The tea didn’t scald, but I don’t know if I’ll get the stain out of my sweater. He was on his own outside the hotel and was a bit shaky when he got in the car. He fumbled for his wallet and dropped his card as he was passing it over the seat for me to wave at the machine. Don’t forget the receipt, he said, and I knew he could tell I was troubled by his tone because he cleared his throat and took three deep breaths. Apologies, Nathaniel, he said, I need a moment...but his voice trailed off and I was about to tell him no apology necessary when I followed his stare out of the window towards one room on the top floor that had its blinds closed. All he had to say, on that journey back across the hills in the wind and rain and even sleet along the top, was could I turn down the heat. I got a twenty for my troubles, which would have made any other day were it not for this bloody vote and now on top of that, whatever time I drag myself up the stairs the last thing I’m going to think about tonight is what the hell went on in that room.