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Authors: Janet Davey

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BOOK: The Taxi Queue
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‘I'm really grateful,' Abe said. He was conscious of his voice in the quiet.

‘This wasn't forecast,' Richard said. Neither of them had mentioned the weather. It was as if they had, until then, made a pact to disregard it.

‘It would have taken me a long time to walk home,' Abe said.

‘Anyone there who'll be worrying about you?'

‘No. My sister won't worry. I share a house with my sister.'

‘Sounds a good arrangement.' Richard paused. ‘Is it?'

‘Suits me,' Abe said. ‘We moved in together a couple of months ago.'

‘What's she called?'

‘Kirsty. Kirsty Rivers. We're both Rivers.'

‘Abe and Kirsty.' Richard tried the combination. ‘Does anyone call you Abraham?' he asked, though the change was no better.

‘Just Abe.'

‘Father of many nations,' Richard said, as if Abe hadn't replied.

‘Probably not. Not yet, anyway. It's a family name. My grandad's.'

‘Continuity's good,' Richard said.

‘Every now and then,' Abe said.

They carried on walking up the looped bends of the hill. They had got used to not talking in the time they had spent together but lapsing into silence out of doors felt less manageable, more awkward. On each side of the road were tall, bare-branched trees. There were mysterious curlicued gates, rewritten in white, but the houses, if they existed, had been built out of sight of passers-by.

Richard indicated that they should turn off. With the edge of the kerbs buried, the side road gave the illusion of a country lane. Space was measured differently in falling snow. Newish detached houses began to occur at regular intervals, faintly ridiculous in the winter landscape, four-square under pitched roofs, with wide porches made up of two pillars and a triangular pediment. The only asymmetries were the double garages to the side of each house. The gardens were spacious in their tidy whiteness.

‘The house isn't far now,' Richard said. ‘The tree ahead, the silver fir. That's in the drive.'

2

THE FRONTAGE WAS
open, without gates or hedges. The downstairs windows were dark, behind half-closed curtains, but a light that was on in the hall beamed through the blurred glass in the front door and out on to the snow. There was no visible path to the house but Richard approached as if there were one, walking to a point opposite the front door and making a right-angled turn. Abe took the same route, making his own footprints. A bulb at the top of a miniature lamp-post came on as they passed. Richard collapsed his umbrella and propped it against the wall of the porch. He put his hand in his pocket for his keys. He and Abe both stamped their feet simultaneously, to shake off loose snow. Richard opened the door and set the house alarm bleeping. He went across to a panel and punched in four numbers. Abe hung back politely in the doorway and looked away, as if he were waiting to use a bank cashpoint.

‘It's all right, Abe, come in, you can close the door,' Richard said.

The hall was very warm and smelled of new carpet. Everything was neatly arranged in the spaces between closed doors. Radiators were concealed behind polished mahogany grilles and matching console tables stood facing them. The house was as silent as the road but with a shut-in kind of silence, as though it were sealed. The snow that clung to them seemed an impertinence – something wild that had been let in. Abe knelt down and took off his shoes.

‘We'll go in the kitchen,' Richard said. ‘I'll put our wet things in the utility room.'

Abe stood up. If he had arrived blindfold he wouldn't, once the blindfold was off, have known where he was. He might have guessed a lobby to private consulting rooms or a small new hotel. The interior had an impersonality and neatness he couldn't place. There was nothing that matched his notion of home. He followed Richard along a passage that led from the hall. A staircase was tucked round the corner. The carpet flowed upwards. Abe glanced at the dark hollow at the top where the steps disappeared into shadow. Bedrooms presumably – but he had no view of what was up there or what the layout might be.

Richard opened a door at the end of the passage and switched on a light. ‘We live in here,' he said. ‘I sometimes wonder why I bothered to buy a house with reception rooms. We hardly ever go in them.'

Abe blinked. The kitchen was a family room, sparklingly lit – equipped with giant floor cushions, plastic stacking boxes, television, computer – and backed by walls of sleek-looking cupboards and appliances. The main impression, though, was of space – stretches of uncluttered wooden floor. Abe started to peel off his hat, coat and scarf.

‘Here, give them to me.' Richard took the wet clothes, one by one, as Abe removed them. The pull-on hat, the skimpy coat that weighed too little, the long nubbly scarf. For the first time Abe saw Richard clearly, face on; the mix of regularity and restlessness that had attracted him – it hadn't been a trick of the light. The two men looked at one another. Their gestures of giving and taking seemed to be in slow motion, almost exaggerated.

Richard bore the clothes away through a door on the far side of the kitchen. Abe wandered round the room, wearing the suit he always wore on work days: baggy trousers, slightly nipped-in jacket. ‘Coal' was the name of the colour. He pulled at the damp ends of his hair.

What was left of the family was on the cork noticeboard. Abe examined it. Two little dark-haired girls in a paddling pool. The same again, but taller, side by side, wearing oversized sunglasses and staring at the camera. And again, dressed up for Hallowe'en in witches' hats and masks. Paintings. Collages. Home-made cards sprinkled with glitter. Swimming. Fun French. Gym Club. Bible Bus, a list of dates and addresses headed ‘Prayer, Praise and Pasta'.

Richard reappeared. Abe turned away from the noticeboard. He turned deliberately. He didn't pretend he hadn't been looking at it. Richard came across to him. He touched Abe's arm and leant forward towards him. Without exerting pressure, he kissed Abe on the mouth. He had startled himself. Abe saw that in his eyes – the pinpoints of surprise in the pupils. Richard cleared his throat. ‘Right,' he said, after a short pause that lasted longer than the kiss. He walked to the fridge and opened the door. ‘Vivienne's left me all these meals marked up. What's today? Wednesday? Fish pie. Is that all right for you? We'll have Thursday's as well, or there won't be enough. Vegetable cannelloni. They'll go together all right, won't they? And some wine. Definitely wine.'

Richard picked up a towel and rubbed his hair, until soft tufts of it stood up. He took off his jacket and placed it over the back of a chair. From the knee down his trousers were wet and furrowed, the crease still holding up. The fridge behind him was chock-full, so crammed that its internal light was masked and everything inside looked shadowy. Suddenly he noticed that the door was wide open and began to rummage inside. He was unaware of Abe staring at him.

‘Prayer, Praise and Pasta,' Abe said. ‘Do your girls like that?' He said it to be friendly.

Richard straightened up. He looked, for a second, taken aback by Abe's question. ‘It's more a grown-up thing,' he said. ‘We take it in turns to go to each other's houses. Vivienne's good about all that. PP and P. Actually, the girls can't eat pasta. They're allergic to wheat.'

‘I'm interested in religion,' Abe said.

‘Religion,' Richard repeated as if it were a strange and perplexing word. He paused. ‘Faith, I suppose, is what Vivienne would call it. What she'd say we –
had
.' He shut the fridge door without having taken anything out. He seemed undecided.

‘Yes. Faith,' Abe said. ‘Whatever. My mother's started one up.'

‘She has?'

‘Well, not started from scratch. More revived an old one. She does chanting.'

‘Good heavens.'

‘Egyptian. It seemed wrong to let all that stuff lie around unused,' Abe said. ‘I'm going to make her a website. I'll give you the card I made, if you like. You can keep it.' His mother had given him
The Egyptian Book of the Dead
as part of his Christmas present, but he hadn't made much headway with it.
There was one part of the book that he liked, though; it hovered on the edge of his thoughts. After death, a person had to give an account of his life and what counted was not what he had or had not done, but how truthful the account was. The person's heart was weighed against truth. Abe put his hand in his top pocket and laid a small rectangular card on the table. ‘Truth's a feather,' he said. ‘That's why that feather's on it.'

Richard walked over to the table and picked up the card. He looked at it and laid it down again carefully. ‘I'm a bit out of my depth on this one, I'm afraid, but thank you very much.'

‘My mum sings – and my sister,' Abe said.

‘What's your sort of music?' Richard asked.

Abe hesitated. He was a bit allergic to older people discussing their favourite albums. He hoped Richard wouldn't go down that path. ‘Ba-roque,' he said, with a hint of challenge. He had never used the word before. He left the very shortest pause between the two syllables.

‘Is that something I should know about?' Richard said, cautiously.

Abe shrugged his shoulders. ‘It depends,' he said. ‘Been around a while.'

Richard seemed as if he might ask another question. He ran his hand up and down the side of his face, as if testing his shaving, then he nodded and went back to the fridge and took out two dishes.

‘Where are they, Vivienne and the girls?' Abe asked.

‘France. Skiing,' Richard said. ‘I'm not a skier. Are you?'

Abe shook his head.

‘I never got the hang of it. To be truthful I'm afraid of falling.' Richard stood, holding a dish in either hand, poised like a pair of scales.

Abe went across and took them from him. ‘Do the girls go out on their own?' he asked, going to the microwave oven and opening the door.

‘No, not yet. They're too young for that,' Richard said.

Abe adjusted the rack inside the oven and inserted the dishes. ‘I had this idea when I was about twelve that I'd choose a tube station where I'd never been, go there and see what was going on. I went to Chalk Farm. I knew it wasn't country but I was expecting, from the name, that it might be different from London. Somewhere you could get real cider or magic mushrooms. Fresh eggs. I can remember expecting eggs. Pale – like chalk. Some rubbish. I thought I might bring a present back for my mum.'

‘They haven't been anywhere on their own yet – apart from sleepovers and we try to keep them to a minimum,' Richard said.

‘Why's that?' Abe punched in a number and pressed the start button.

‘Too many sweets after lights out,' Richard said. ‘They get hyper.'

‘Hyper? That's good isn't it?' Abe said. ‘Being hyper? Part of the fun. I'd like kids one day. I like kids.'

Richard gave him a strange look. ‘But not yet.'

‘No. That's on hold.'

‘Where else did you go?' Richard asked. ‘On your mystery tours.'

‘I only did it the once. There wasn't the same romance. I was left with the edges of the tube map. And weird places.'

Richard smiled. ‘Bounds Green,' he said. ‘I've always been fascinated by that name.'

‘You might be disappointed. But try it,' Abe said. He slid on to the bench seating on one side of the table and sat down. He propped a cushion behind his head and leant back against the wall. Feathers, not foam, he thought. He felt happy: not energised or wanting to make plans, but peaceful. Richard was very trusting, very hospitable. This calmed Abe. He felt the rushing of the week had stopped and need not start again. On the other side of the kitchen Richard was opening a bottle and pouring red wine into two large, solid-looking glasses, splashing it in until the glasses were full and the bottle half empty. The fish pie was starting to smell good. Richard was walking towards him. Abe held out his hand. Richard put one of the glasses into it.

‘Cheers,' Abe said and smiled. He didn't think he'd misjudged the situation.

Outside, the snow carried on falling, taking to itself the burden of movement.

3

NEIL RIVERS HAD
died the previous summer and left Abe and Kirsty his house in Kensal Rise. He had never lived with his children. Neil Rivers had been a photographer once, momentarily famous, though there was no evidence of his work in 105 Iverdale Road – not even a copy of his celebrated poster. Over thirty years before his death, he had taken a picture of a girl leaning over Waterloo Bridge. Her hair flopped in a blonde sheet and her legs, under a micro-skirt, came up to the parapet. The image was classy; set at night, with a streak of dawn in the east that seemed more apocalyptic than hopeful. It still turned up in books about the seventies. The girl, Tamsin Spira, had gone on to be a model and a celebrity depressive – though the word celebrity wasn't used liberally then. Afterwards, she had disappeared from view. Neil had given the photograph to the wrong person and had never made any money out of it. That had been the story, anyway.

Abe and Kirsty used to get palmed off on Neil two or three times a year because Gloria, their mother, thought he ought to be aware of them. When Gloria gave up accompanying them, the visits to Iverdale Road decreased and eventually stopped. Neil made no effort to keep in touch. On one occasion the children rang the bell and there was no reply. Abe climbed from the front steps on to the dirty windowsill to see, he said, if Neil was lying there dead. But he wasn't, so Abe and Kirsty went home. They often guessed
information about him and got it wrong. Neil Rivers wasn't especially interested in children but he was brazen enough to get along with them – not supplicating. He had a husky voice that kept getting caught up on bits of itself, as if it were a frayed piece of rope, being pulled along a pipe. ‘Hiya, kids,' he used to say when they walked in and, ‘Fucking Ada,' in an up-and-down drawl, if things weren't going well. Having shown them where the biscuits were – in a tin with the pattern half missing – he left them alone. ‘I'll take you out later,' he said. ‘Think about where you want to go.' Then he sat at the kitchen table and opened the newspaper flat in front of him.

BOOK: The Taxi Queue
9.56Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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