The Taxi Queue (6 page)

Vivienne had been seeing her mother for Lent. Every Friday morning. Her daughters, Bethany and Martha, had given up chocolate. Richard had given up alcohol and she, Vivienne, had given up her free morning. For the rest of the week she worked at a bathroom design centre in Ruislip where she was manager. Friday was the only time that felt approximately her own. The self-denial wasn't pure mortification; it had a weary purpose behind it. Perhaps this was always the case with mortification. Vivienne needed to steel herself for the task and Easter was a convenient deadline.

For nearly a year Frances had talked of downsizing – trading in her ample semi, with its stairs and landings, for neater accommodation all on one level. She had lived alone since her husband, Vivienne's father, died, coping for most of that time, though routine turned into effort. Frances wished her house would shrink. ‘I need an easy-to-manage box,' she said. ‘Preferably above ground. I'm going to be seventy, you know. Three score years and ten. That's Your Chap's recommended cut-off point.' She had accumulated piles of particulars but refused to visit prospective properties on her own – by which she meant without Vivienne – citing random hazards such as wet floors, marble floors, unexpected changes of level involving steps, vendors who didn't speak up, vendors who weren't her sort of people.

They had clocked up three of these mornings already. This was the fourth. They followed a pattern: viewings, then coffee and, over coffee, Frances verbally arranged her furniture around the properties viewed and failed to fit it in. Vivienne could see the arrangement going on for ever. House-hunting involved so many things that gave Frances pleasure: talking to strangers, looking at people's possessions, being driven round half-remembered suburban lanes, having her daughter to herself. She hadn't been told that she was a Lenten penance. The weekliness had been a mistake, Vivienne reflected, wondering whether she should have factored in a lapse. Was it even possible to factor in a lapse? The slippery nature of the word suggested not. Richard, for instance, would undoubtedly have benefited from a relaxing glass of wine. He had been rather low since New Year and uninterested in sex, even on an occasional basis. Once or twice when he was working on an audit away from London she had the silly idea that the change of scene might ginger him up. Rather self-consciously, on the night of his return – or on edge the following morning because of the girls and the time factor – she waited for Richard to make a move and he didn't. So she didn't.

Vivienne tucked her sleek short hair behind her ears and touched one of her moonstone earrings, twisting it round in the piercing. Perhaps the absence was never long enough. She stared out at the rain.

The previous evening, Prayer Clinic had prayed for a couple called Ross and Julia. Ross had been diagnosed as having a rare cancer but had failed to tell Julia. He had even
had treatment
without telling her. Julia was a friend of one of the group – not herself a member of St Dunstan's – so, in the general chat afterwards, they had discussed the situation in some detail. Prayer Clinic was in some ways rather like Book Club, where everyone ended up talking about characters and their actions in relation to their own lives, only in Prayer Clinic the comments were more respectful and
sympathetic because the people were real. Everyone present, including Vivienne, had agreed it was impossible that any of their husbands would have withheld information about a serious illness, or that they themselves wouldn't have known intuitively that something was wrong. She hadn't been quite truthful. Even as she heard herself chiming in, saying the same as the others, only in a slightly different way, she could imagine all too clearly Richard keeping quiet – being brave and hoping to be cured without fuss. She should have said, ‘Hang on a minute. I made a mistake. Richard might well be a Ross-type person. He's very uncommunicative.' Her proclaimed confidence in female intuition had also been wishful thinking. Her own was almost certainly faulty, like a lamp with a poor connection.

Vivienne's friend, Paula de Witt, would have shone a light into the dimmest corners of Hartley, her husband. Everything about Paula was on full power. She was even able to witness – had the nerve to witness – stopping people in the street and talking to them about their insecurities and inviting them to groups and Sunday worship at St Dunstan's. She had a super smile and thick fair hair, which she secured with bright-coloured combs. Vivienne was only able to hand out leaflets. That was hazardous enough, since people were often quite rude. She recalled the man, wearing a Stetson, standing on the traffic island at Piccadilly Circus, addressing the crowds with the help of a microphone. She had examined his expression – the blank look in his eyes – and wondered if it was panic.

‘Where shall we go next week, darling?' Frances was asking. ‘I'm tempted by Princes Risborough, or do you think that's too far out? You're the one who would have to make the journey. In an emergency it would be a long way for you to drive.'

‘What sort of emergency?' Vivienne picked up her cup of coffee and drained it. Some aspect of the depressing street
scene – or her mother's voice – had influenced her mood. She was shocked that Frances had abandoned fitting her furniture into the flats they had visited that morning. She had only got halfway through the second property that they had looked around. She hadn't reached the most promising one yet: a pleasant flat in Burnham Beeches with a lift and a wide balcony, large enough to sit out on. She
was
in it just for the ride.

Frances looked wistful. ‘If anything should happen to me.'

‘Something's far more likely to happen to you in “Lostwithiel” at the far end of the garden or coming down the front steps. You know how steep they are. They also have that odd dip in the middle where the frost settles,' Vivienne said.

‘Please don't use that horrible word, dear. The house has a number, not a name.'

‘It's engraved on the wall.'

‘Well, we never look at it and it's not part of the address,' Frances said. ‘Nobody uses it.'

Vivienne reached down for her bag and took out her purse. It gave her a jolt when her mother said ‘we' in the present tense, as if her father's death had been a trick and Frances actually had him banged up in a cupboard. She had always organised Douglas, and his death hadn't put an end to that. ‘She's out of the house. Now's your chance, Daddy,' Vivienne muttered. She hoped he had had some quiet moments of rebellion.

‘What was that?' Frances asked.

Vivienne shook her head. Somewhere she had jotted down what time the pay and display ticket ran out. The array of cards in her purse, debit and credit, the loyalty store cards, the wodge of banknotes, suggested she was grown-up. ‘I really think the best thing would be for you to go through all the particulars we've collected so far and decide which of the flats you'd like to see a second time,' she said. ‘The
agents will stop taking you seriously if you keep flitting from place to place. And you should put the house on the market. It's the right time of year.'

‘Flitting, did you say? Surely not, darling.'

‘They'll lose interest,' Vivienne said. ‘They want to tie up deals.'

Frances shuddered slightly. ‘So, you're saying no to Princes Risborough?'

‘I am,' Vivienne agreed. ‘Are you ready to go, Mummy? There aren't many minutes left.'

The chugger with the ponytail and green tunic had stopped someone. A man with tinted spectacles and a white stick. How insensitive of the girl to have collared someone too blind to avoid her. Vivienne was shocked. She hoped he wouldn't agree to anything.

‘We need to pay, darling. I think it's my turn, isn't it?' Frances said in her sweetest voice.

‘I paid at the counter when we came in,' Vivienne said. ‘We're in Starbucks.'

PARKING NEAR THE
de Witts' for their annual Easter lunch was a problem – made worse since a couple of innocuous cafés at the end of the road had been smartened up and now attracted late breakfasters who sat around in cashmere scarves. The streets and cul-de-sacs of stuccoed Victorian houses were lined with cars. One or two of Paula and Hartley's guests double parked, hoping the locals would be lenient in this well-decorated part of west London, but Richard Epworth considered the strategy risky. A scratch etched along the side of the car, or an outraged note, would ruin his day. He found a spot nearly a quarter of a mile away and he and the family walked briskly. A cold wind drove them along the pavement. Easter was early.

A smiling young woman from a catering company opened the front door and directed people down to the open-plan basement. Another stood at the foot of the stairs, with a tray of glasses filled with sparkling wine or fresh orange juice. Talk was loud, trapped under the low ceiling, but Paula's greetings rose above it. Richard edged his way down the stripped-pine stairs, hampered by children who pushed past his legs. Arriving at the tray, he chose the wine – his first drink since the start of Lent. He grasped the glass by its stem and made for a patch of empty space. There was already quite a crowd; familiar-looking adults, fresh from church, wearing confident colours. Paula had filled the room with flowers – white tulips and Madonna lilies. ‘Where's the
bride?' someone boomed. Richard took a large sip from the glass.

‘Vivienne and the girls here?' The face, close to Richard's, which appeared to conceal two symmetrically placed boiled sweets in the lower jaw, was topped by a fuzz of greyish hair. Everything below the face was dominated by a yellow V-necked jersey, stretched over a prominent stomach. A pair of beige trousers was belted beneath the curve.

‘Somewhere,' Richard said. ‘I lost them at the top of the stairs.'

‘Any plans for the holiday?'

‘No. I go back to work on Tuesday. How about you?' Richard took another gulp. He didn't recognise the man though the fellow seemed to know who he was.

‘Off to France this evening to check up on the builder. See if he's managed to saw through any more pipes,' the man said.

‘Sounds fun.'

‘Three times he's done it. Numero uno,
notre ami
went through the mains – massive great fountain, high as the trees – cut off the neighbours' water supply. Madame et Monsieur were none too pleased, I can tell you, started jabbering on about
indemnité
. They seemed to care more about that than getting the damned thing mended . . .'

The man was in full flood, looking over Richard's shoulder, somewhere past his left ear. The oblique gaze made Richard feel paranoid and slightly woozy, as if the room had tipped. The ceiling seemed oppressively near his head. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths.

‘Is something the matter, my friend?' The man was holding Richard's elbow and looking at him with concern. The jersey was brighter than previously. God, it was bright.

‘No, no,' Richard said, releasing himself. ‘I'm absolutely fine. Just forgot where I was for a moment. Nothing to worry about.'

Vivienne appeared at Richard's side. ‘Vivienne, my dear.
You're looking neat.' The man took her hands and held her at arm's length, before kissing her. ‘Hang on.
A la française
, please. That's at least three times in our village.' He kissed her twice more, making more luscious contact each time. Vivienne waited, smiling faintly. Her right cheek glistened. ‘I was just about to say to Richard it could be petit mal, this lapse thing,' the man said. ‘Go and see a good neurologist. I can recommend someone if you like. Get him checked out.'

Vivienne looked puzzled. Richard raised his eyebrows a couple of times at her in what he hoped was a comic French manner.

‘How's the bespoke bathroom business?' the man asked Vivienne.

Richard took the opportunity to slip away. He dodged between a woman in a delphinium-blue jacket and Glen, the vicar of St Dunstan's, who touched his forehead in a mock salute as Richard passed. One of the patio doors on to the garden was propped open and although the draught coming through the gap was chilly and a dozen children, including his own, were racing round the lawn, Richard stepped outside.

‘Darling. Happy Easter,' Paula said. ‘You look as if you could do with a top-up. If Poppy doesn't appear with the bottle, I'll go and get you one myself as soon as I've blown the starting whistle for the Easter egg hunt. Do you
want to blow the whistle? You could, you know.'

‘No, I'm sure you'll do it better than me. Super party,' Richard said. He was glad to be in the fresh air.

Paula pushed back the fair curls that were lifting in the wind. She was wearing a red wind-proof coat over her party dress and had a whistle on a ribbon round her neck. ‘Just look at the energy these guys have,' she said.

Under the flowering fruit trees the children were gathering up handfuls of wind-blown blossom and chasing each
other, flinging petals that never met their targets. They were hopeless projectiles. The little ones kept on trying, hurling with greater and greater force, but Bethany, Richard's elder daughter, and an older boy whom Richard didn't recognise, changed tactic. They began closing in on the children, grabbing whoever they could get hold of and cramming petals down their necks. Martha, his younger daughter, wasn't taking part. She was at the far end of the garden by the summer house. Enveloped in Vivienne's pashmina, she stood on one leg and clasped the foot of her raised leg behind her. She hopped on the spot, staring at her reflection in the glass doors of the summer house, hopping closer and closer, until the pashmina slid off her head and on to the floor. Then, wearing only her vest and knickers, she stood with her bare feet digging into the cloth, and began to twirl round and round until the folds had wound in a spiral up to her ankles. She was more fragile-looking than her sister – more Vivienne's build – with the same pale skin like the inside of shells. Richard wondered where her clothes had gone. He called her name but she ignored him.