By Anne Brooke

You never know what you’re going to pick up in the back of your cab some nights, honest you don’t. You get all sorts in here: party goers; party poopers; chatty people; those with not a tongue in their head; fares I’d be happy to see again one day; fares I wouldn’t; good tippers; bad tippers; and some who don’t tip at all.

But that night, now that night was a corker, oh yes. And it happened like this. I’d just dropped off a fare on the Old Heath Road - not a part of town I like - when I got the call from Pete that a woman needed picking up from one of those posh houses out west. I was onto it like a shot, thinking there might be a decent tip in this one. Though more often than not it’s the poorer folk who are the better tippers. Maybe that’s how the rich keep rich? Anyway, it was a nice area, so I told Pete I was nearer than I was, and set off humming a tune under my breath.

When I came to the address, a young woman was standing on the pavement, glancing from left to right. She had her arms folded but, as I slowed down, she wiped one hand across her eyes.

I stuck my head out of the cab. “Taxi, love?”

“S-sorry?” She jumped and I put on my best I-wouldn’t-harm-a-living-being smile.

“Taxi. Did you call for a taxi, Miss?”

“Oh. Yes, I did. Thanks.”

She wiped her eyes again, opened the back door and stepped in. I waited until she’d fastened her seat-belt and then moved off, listening for instructions. She just stared out of the window. Poor kid, I thought, probably some no-good boyfriend or other. At the end of the road, I slowed down and came to a complete halt. Glancing in the rear-view mirror, I realised she was sobbing, making no noise but with her face screwed up like my son’s when he’d been a toddler and couldn’t get his own way. So I did what any decent bloke would do. I waited.

Five minutes later, my passenger gave a huge sigh and blew her nose on a large handkerchief.

“Where are we?” she said.

“At the end of the road I picked you up from, love. I was going to ask where you wanted to go, but I saw … I mean …”

I trailed off, not knowing how to end the sentence and wishing my wife were here. She always knew what to say.

“Oh.” The girl gave a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sob. “Oh, I see.”

“Don’t worry,” I chipped in, not wanting to take advantage of what might be repeat business after all. “I won’t charge you. Just tell me where you need to be and I’ll reset the timer.”

“Thanks. That’s so kind, I …”

As she looked as if she might start up again, I leapt into the gap before it turned into anything worse.

“So where would you like to go?” I asked again.

She gave me the address which was back near the Old Heath Road, where I’d just been. Was that where she lived? And, if so, what was she doing out here? I was keen to find out; after all people are my business.

So as I slipped into first gear and turned left, I tut-tutted, “Men trouble, eh?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

I shook my head whilst keeping an eye on the road, “I thought as much. Maybe you’re better off without him.”

There was no answer and I checked to see what she was doing. Her face was set in that half-grimace people have when they’re trying not to cry and I wondered why I hadn’t kept my big mouth shut. I was going to have to do something to cheer her up or that soggy hankie might ruin my upholstery. So I said the first thing which popped into my head, and came out with a mish-mash of ideas which owed a lot to my wife’s complaints over the years.

“You see, love,” I said. “You see, the trouble with men is they just don’t know a good thing when they have it. And most of their brain power is taken up with motorbikes, snooker and beer, or at least that’s what I thought about most when I was young.”

From the back there was a muffled snort of laughter and I felt a glow of pride at my success.

“And of course they can only do one thing at a time, and what use is that in today’s world, eh? No, love, the future’s female and you’re best off on your own, that’s what I say.”

“But …but I love him.”

Ah. This was serious then. Love’s something I’ve learnt not to argue with. That, and the wife of course.

Over the next fifteen minutes I found out all about my passenger - Ellie - and her on-off relationship with Charles who lived in the house where I’d just picked her up. It seemed like she’d been meeting his parents for the first time and his mother had said something less than polite about the council estate where Ellie lived. Which wouldn’t have been so bad, she said – she’d lived with this sort of comment all the way through school - but that Charles had laughed too. And that was unforgivable.

Of course, I could see what she meant, but maybe Charles had just thought it was funny and hadn’t connected it with Ellie? It was the sort of mistake I made every day, in spite of thirty years of marriage opening my eyes to the peculiar ways in which things could be linked. At least in a woman’s mind. This I tried to explain to my passenger, but she wasn’t having any of it.

“No,” she said. “If he really loved me, he would never have laughed.”

And I couldn’t argue with that. So telling myself that women always knew more about the mysteries of character than us men, I kept my mouth shut all the way to Ellie’s home, where she gave me a large tip. I smiled and watched her open her front door before driving off.

But it was niggling at me. After ten minutes, I’d ignored two fares and was wasting petrol for no reason. I’d been happily married for so long that anything else was unthinkable, and I didn’t like other people to be miserable. Now I knew young people these days didn’t get married, but that didn’t mean they weren’t entitled to some happiness as well. So making up my mind I drove back the way I’d come.

In Ellie’s boyfriend’s road, I could see a man running towards me clutching a mobile phone to his ear and somehow I knew. Slamming to a halt next to him, I yelled, “Are you Charles?”

“What?” He stopped and gazed at me wide-eyed.

“Is your name Charles?”

“Yes. How do you know? No, don’t tell me, I don’t have time. I need to contact my girlfriend and …”

“Sure, I know. Ellie.”

“What? Who? I mean …?”

“Look, mate,” I said, wondering why posh blokes always took so long to work out what was happening. “I’ve just given her a lift home and …”

“She’s at home? So why isn’t she answering the phone? I’ll go now. Get the car. I need to speak to her and …”

“It’ll be quicker by taxi. I know all the shortcuts.”

He hesitated, then pushed his phone into his jacket pocket, opened my door and almost fell into the seat beside me.

“Okay. Drive,” he said.

I did. This time it only took ten minutes. During which I told him exactly what I thought of him and how he’d behaved, and what a great girl Ellie was. To his credit, he didn’t argue back. Or not much, anyway.

At our destination, he stumbled from the car, dazed I hope by the power of my argument, and took out his wallet.

“No,” I shook my head, surprising myself and wondering what on earth Pete was going to say. “No charge, mate, not this time. Though if there’s another row and I’m here to see it, it’ll be double, okay?”

For a second, he frowned, then gave me a wide grin. “Thank you, that’s very kind. Oh and thank you also for … for …”

“Forget it. Just go for it, mate. She’s worth it.”

He nodded once, turned and began to walk towards Ellies house.

As I put the car into gear, I yelled, “And good luck.”

Setting off as slowly as I could and glancing more often than usual in the rear-view, I was treated to the sight of Ellie opening her front door. There was a moment of stillness and then the two young people hugged as if nothing in the world would ever come between them again.

And thinking that for once this was all the payment I needed, I drove off.

About the Author:  Anne Brooke

Anne Brooke has been writing for eighteen years and is the author of seven novels, numerous short stories and poems. She was shortlisted for the Harry Bowling Novel Award in 2006, longlisted for the Betty Bolingbroke-Kent Novel Award in 2005, and shortlisted for the Royal Literary Fund Awards in 2004 and the Asham Award for Women Writers in 2003. Her crime novel, Maloney’s Law, is published by PD Publishing and available from Amazon. In addition, another crime novel, A Dangerous Man, is available from Flame Books, and her romantic comedy novel, Pink Champagne and Apple Juice, and her crime novel, Thorn in the Flesh, are both available from Goldenford Publishers. Thorn in the Flesh is also available as an eBook from Amazon.com and Mobipocket. Her work is represented by the John Jarrold Literary Agency and she is a closet birdwatcher. More information can be found at www.annebrooke.com or at www.myspace.com/annebrooke. She also keeps a terrifyingly honest journal at http://annebrooke.blogspot.com.