As funerals go Aunt Lou's bone job was pretty uneventful,
except for a howling gale blowing landwards from the sea, and
a minor emotional storm during the ceremonies when a member of
the mourners and middle-aged orphans present suggested that Aunt
Lou undoubtedly welcomed being withdrawn from circulation, given
Birkenhead's inability to offer anything praiseworthy to its living
inhabitants.
This untimely observation, which some are apt to agree with,
had sent one attendee standing across the open grave from Samuel
into paroxysmys. Sandwiched between two male medical orderlies
in starched whites the previously docile patient unexpededly
propelled himself towards the offending mourner, catching the
two minders completely off guard.
"Behave yourself Rupert!" scolded the larger orderly, attempting
to restrain his middle-age charge intent upon fisticuffs. Briefly the
air was filled with the sound of ripping jackets and tearing material;
a button separating from its cotton anchors spinning through the air,
and depositing itself upon the bronzed coffin with the clatter of a
well aimed tiddly wink.
"Mnnn...Erggg..."
"Ooof!"
"Grrr..."
"Watch it Rupert, or its the jacket," the same orderly warned
as Rupert's stray hand winged him on the cheek.
This threat brought a lull in hostilities, and calm prevailed
once more. The pacified Rupert, however, still had unsettled
business on his mind and another round of hair pulling and tussles
began, followed by an anguished yelp as an ear became painfully
trapped between bared teeth - Rupert's teeth.
'That must be cousin Rupert,' Samuel found himself thinking as
he gazed at the orderlies grappling with his distant relation's
flailing limbs. 'I always wondered what had become of him.'
Those relatives unfamiliar with Rupert's unpredictable nature
looked startled by events, and to be truthful Samuel's acquaintance
with tormented Rupert was virtually non-existent too. Rupert's name
had occasionally surfaced during past discussions about family
skeletons, but they had never met face to face. Until now. The one
positive aspect about Rupert was that he was a very distantly
removed cousin, so hopefully any loopiness was well and truly
in the other half of the family, although Mad Carrot Disease might
muddy one's own faculties in years to come.
The troubled Rupert would have tested the patience of Job himself
but eventually the orderlies pacified their wriggling, scrabbling,
charge; the second be-coated minder hissing menacingly:
"Keep quiet Rupert, or Dr. Peters will be frying synapse tonight."
Oblivious to the commotion, perhaps because outbursts of raw
emotion are typical at funerals, the Vicar continued delivering his
service for the reclusive Aunt Lou who had finally popped her clogs
at the grand age of one hundred and something. No one knew exactly
how old Aunt Lou was, and there had been a degree of uncertainty
as to what score should be chiselled on her granite headpiece.
In the end everyone settled on an innings of 105 for argument's
sake. Besides, what was a few years among old friends and wrinkly
relatives?
For years Aunt Lou had lived alone in a vast Victorian house
on the bleak, windswept hilltop a mile from the church which had
become her place of worship for the best part of a century.
The house had been built as a wedding present by her late
sea-captain husband in the early part of the century, which meant
that Aunt Lou had either been a child-bride, or that she was even
more ancient than her gravestone tally suggested. After her
husband's death she had remained in the house; unable to part with
memories it held, or perhaps because moving heaps of furniture
accumulated over decades to a new home was a trifle bothersome.
Aunt Lou shared this gothic styled edifice with a posse of stray
cats, a cage of canaries, and a doddery Mauritian tortoise the size
of a washing up bowl named Hortense. By all accounts Aunt Lou
hadn't stepped beyond her little world for nearly ten years, after
suffering a major stroke. Since then it had been an existence of
meals-on-wheels, home helps, and reminiscing about her long life
with any stranger happening to stray through the front portal; and
with her death Aunt Lou's secret world was laid bare to the prying
eyes of inquisitive relatives and lawyers.
The house, where the post-service reception was held, was an
anachronism; a world of brass taps and bedsteads, toxic lead paint,
enamelled iron bathtubs, and Thomas Crapper loos. Truly, when you
stepped into Aunt Lou's world you stepped back into a past age.
In the kitchen dusky glass storage jars and salt-glazed
earthenware lined shelves bowed with age. There was even a disused,
age-blackened fridge - one of those types cooled by chunks of ice
bought from visiting door-to-door ice salesmen. From the kitchen a
cascade of lethal stone steps descended to a vaulted cellar; its
whitewashed brickwork blistered with age and damp, and a cobweb
smothered meatsafe coccooning the mildewed remnants of old
game tucked away in one corner. The cellar was also home to
what, in Queen Victoria's day, must have passed for a state-of-
the-art central heating system; though the boiler better resembled
a rustic moonshine still.
If there was a heart to the house, then undoubtedly it was the
grand hallway lined with giant mirrors, frothy asparagus ferns,
and a sweeping curved staircase edged with an immense mahogany
bannister. Aunt Lou's grandchildren and great grandchildren spent
endless hours sliding down this roller-coaster, much to the
consternation of worried parents who, with hearts in mouths,
frequently reclaimed miscreant offspring teetering on the
bannister's edge. Even Samuel had scooted down the polished
woodwork inhis childhood years.
And so it was that Samuel found himself in Birkenhead: where men
are men; where the local house mice wear boots and mufflers to
maintain their circulation; and from where Samuel would return to
civilisation, providing that someone at the reception could hail
a taxi to shuttle him to the railway station.
The tired minicab which duly chugged into the driveway was a
sight to behold; one of those shapeless, non-descript designs of
the 1970s which would not be going down in history as a gas buggy
classic. In colour the car was a sort of toffee brown, though more
earthy words sprang to Samuel's mind as he surveyed the scabs of
rust creeping round the bodywork; some of them roughly patched and
painted over to avoid detection by the cabbie's less observant
patrons.
'Beggers can't be choosers,' thought Samuel as he opened the
ill-fitting nearside door and slipped in. 'Must get that five past
four London train.'
Samuel settled himself and eyeballed the driver who watched in
the mirror.
"Where tew, mayt?"
"Runcorn station please."
There was a pause. In fact, a worryingly long pause. And then
the cabbie swivelled round to look at his passenger. It was Samuel's
first opportunity to take a good look at the dishevelled minicab's
owner; a thickset, swarthy character in his thirties and, judging by
the dialect, one of the local natives. A baseball cap worn back-to-
front added the final manic touch to the character filling the
driver's seat.
"Rooncawn stayshun?" the cabbie checked.
There was a hint of disbelief and uncertainty in the voice, but
Samuel thought nothing of it. Runcorn station was, after all, just
thirty minutes down the motorway; being Samuel's rendevous earlier
in the day with a relative kind enough to provide a lift to the
funeral service.
The minicab's engine stuttered into life and Samuel looked back
at the old house; its natural gloom added to by layers of Birkenhead
grime glued to the minicab's windows.
Something about the engine's tardiness as the car rolled forward
caught Samuel's attention, though he put this down to the driver
getting into gear. Less than a hundred yards later the cabbie looked
back in the mirror to catch Samuel's eye.
"Yiw're not in a hoory are yiw? Thees car's not beelt for spaid."
'It's true,' Samuel momentarily thought to himself with a sinking
heart. 'I'm in Henry Ford's first taxi.'
He turned his attention towards the driver.
"I've a train to catch at five past four. Got to get back to
London."
"Oh, we should geet there in tam fer that," the cabbie responded
positively.
According to Samuel's Japanese horological masterpiece it was
three fifteen, and after a moment calculating distance and current
speed he decided that he might get the train. Just!
A minute or so later the driver piped up: "Weech rowd did yiw take
thees morning?"
"The motorway. What is it? The M53?"
The cabbie said nothing, leaving Samuel wondering exactly what he
had let himself in for.
'Surely,' thought Samuel, 'he must know the way to a city thirty
miles away, and connected by motorway.'
"How about looking at your map?" Samuel prompted.
"Don't 'ave one."
Some thirty seconds later the cabbie reached forward for the
handset of his radio which had been babbling continuously in
the background. Except, that is, when the toffee brown wreck
traversed a pothole in the tarmac causing the signal to falter
and evaporate.
"Hellow bays. Thees ease Jonesey hayer. 'Ow do I geet tew Rooncawn?"
'This is madness!' thought Samuel. 'The man doesn't know his
bloody way.'
Certainly he didn't hail from the A1 School of Cabbiedom and yet,
according to the official identification tag knotted round the
driver's mirror, he was licensed to drive the brown heap
masquerading as a minicab. The Controller confirmed that the
simplest route to 'Rooncawn' was, indeed, the M53; the tarmac strip
which ran past the cloud belching petrochemical plants strung along
the Mersey.
Somewhere in Birkenhead's suburbs, as they reached a neck-breaking
41mph Jonesey announced:
"Yiw don't mind if I stop fer soom petrol do yiw?"
"Not at all."
In his mind Samuel wondered what sort of blithering idiot would
even contemplate travelling on a motorway without enough petrol, but
then decided the answer to that question resided in the barrel-like
occupying the driver's seat.
At the filling station Jonesey leapt from his seat to squirt a few
gallons of essence, leaving Samuel contemplating his situation and
the minicab's interior.
His gaze was first drawn to the door rest on the driver's side;
several strips of shiny plumber's tape conspicuously covering worn
patches. He then noticed two single wires protruding from a rocker
switch on the dashboard, which had become a makeshift hotwire
ignition. The thought even crossed Samuel's mind as to whether the
vehicle was stolen, although that seemed an unlikely probability
such was the decayed state of the car. The one exception to this,
he decided, would be the maniacs who participated in stockcar
racing and wrecking derbies. Or maybe he was in the company
of one of cousin Rupert's mentally confused friends out on a joyride.
And then there was the upholstery; worn bald in places, and
stained with gobs of baby sick, curried paw takeaways upset during
back seat gropes, and cat pee. At least that is what Samuel
suspected from the cocktail of musty odours haunting the rear
passenger compartment.
The cabbie returned to the car and Samuel sat silently as they
travelled onwards through very urban Birkenhead, without so much
as a motorway within sight. Samuel looked nervously at his watch;
calculating that if the motorway stretch of their journey took
thirty minutes he might catch his train by a cat's whisker.
The scenery straddling the motorway was uninspiring
and unmemorable. Even the tree foliage had a lacklustre appearance
which made Samuel ponder on whether acid rain bleached the
colour from leaves or merely made them curl and die.
In deference to Samuel's appointment with the railway company
the cabbie put his foot down; a princely 45mph registering on the
speedo. This magnificent outburst of energy, however, was soon
overcome by an incline in the motorway. It was only a small incline
but the needle slipped gradually backwards. Fourty, thirty nine,
thirty eight, thirty seven. Could it slip any further, Samuel
wondered? It could, to 35mph; every man and his rickshaw
passing the struggling minicab in the motorway's slow lane.
The cabbie shook his head and tutted:
"Yiw shouldn't have sent may on thees treep,' he whined.
'As if it's my fault that your car's a useless heap of crud!'
Samuel thought angrily.
He felt like telling Jonesey that his excuse for a motor car gave
decent cab drivers a bad name, but restrained himself on the grounds
that the unhappy cabbie might rebel and dump his passenger on the
hard shoulder.
Once again the motorway levelled out and their speed increased.
Samuel looked at his watch and grimaced. Just twenty minutes to
catch the train.
Shortly they hit a second, steeper, incline and the minicab's
engine struggled.
'This is absolutely ridiculous,' Samuel simmered.
"Can yiw smayl soomthing bairning?" the cabbie asked suddenly.
Samuel sniffed the air.
"No."
Another sniff a few moments later filled his nostrils with fumes.
"I can now. Where's it coming from?"
Together they looked anxiously for tell-tale clues; the cabbie
opening his window an inch and volunteering:
"I clained may aingine with daisel the oother day. It may be joost
be bairning off."
Wishing to reassure himself, Samuel agreed, although he continued
to watch eagle-eyed for signs of smoke, and tried to dismiss any
negative waves about the minicab breaking down from mind. At crucial
times like this it didn't pay to tempt fate with negative waves.
Again the motorway levelled out and the minicab picked up a
few extra miles per hour. This gain in speed was short-lived as
another gentle hill took its toll. Samuel cast his eyes towards
the speedometer but a far more sinister sight greeted his eyes.
"There's smoke coming out of the vents!"
Indeed, a hazy smog was fanning through the driver's side air
vents. Jonesey took his eyes off the motorway ahead and peered
nervously at the source; opening his window another few inches to
evacuate the fumes. As the incline of the road increased so the
smoke became denser; funelling through the open window.
For the first time Samuel became concerned.
'The whole thing might burst into flames,' he thought to himself,
quickly checking where the door handles were placed and looking out
of the window to see if any cars passing the labouring minicab had
noticed the smoke. None had, and Samuel was left wondering whether
smouldering cars were so commonplace thereabouts that nobody took
the blindest notice.
Jonesey pulled onto the hard shoulder to spend several minutes
ferreting under the bonnet and prodding his ailing engine.
'No one would believe me if I told them about this journey,'
Samuel thought quietly to himself. 'This has got to be the taxi
from hell.'
"Carn't faind anytheeng wrong," Jonesey said slumping into the
driver's seat.
'Can't find your way in daylight either,' Samuel cursed in his mind.
Some short time later they both spotted a signpost to Runcorn
Airport; Samuel restraining Jonesey from eagerly turning off the
motorway on the logical basis that airports are unlikely to be
situated in a city centre or beside the central railway station.
Such gems of logic were lost on Jonesey, like proverbial pearls.
Still, without further signposts to Runcorn's centre, a map, or
guidance from other humans, a nagging doubt lurked in Samuel's mind.
Should they have taken that Airport turning? Unfortunately the radio
signals from base had also faded into a static haze, so help could
not be summoned from that quarter.
For several minutes they remained in a sort of limbo; sharing a
similar experience to those intrepid Victorian explorers who, when
faced with herculean physical obstacles or gaggles of inhospitable
natives intent upon a bit of plump missionary for dinner, had to make
decisions about continuing onwards or turning back. But then the
missionaries had unswerving faith in their beliefs, which is more
than could be said for Samuel's faith in the Jonesey's minicab.
A further rise loomed; much steeper than the previous ones, and
taxing the minicab's engine greatly. In less than a minute thick
blue smoke was pouring through the front air vents, and Samuel was
ready to abandon ship. For all he knew the car might explode into a
ball of flame; incinerating its occupants like two burnt lamb chops.
This time, the torrent of smoke sucked through the open windows
did come to the attention of passing cars; at least to the attention
of one young child who gleefully poked a finger in the direction of
Jonesey's minicab.
Just as he was about to voice his worries Samuel spotted another
roadsign.
"Look! Runcorn East!"
The barrel-like was reticent.
"Maybe we should wait fer a sign pointing tew the center iv town."
"No. Let's take the next turn off," said Samuel still thinking
of cremated mutton. "We can find our way from there."
Almost immediately the travellers became lost in the tangle of
Runcorn's suburbia and Samuel was on the point of having the cabbie
stop to ask for directions when a signpost for Runcorn East railway
station came miraculously into view.
"Ah! A railway station. You can drop me off there."
The cabbie didn't need much encouragement, though it took some
while to find the station which was hidden in a cutting behind a
clump of houses. Indeed, they spent ten fruitless minutes following
signposts which took them everywhere except Runcorn East station.
"They must think people are clairvoyant," fumed Samuel as they
returned to the point from which they had started ten minutes
earlier.
"Niver 'eerd iv her," Jonesey muttered. An utterance which
confirmed in Samuel's mind that Jonesey was possibly one of the
most witless humans he had ever happened upon.
Finally, the assistance of a local native was called upon.
"Follow the footpath round the bend," the man said pointing to
the pavement trailing behind him.
'Why don't the bloody signs point that way then?' thought Samuel
angrily; paying Jonesey and setting off along the footpath in quest
of an iron horse.
'Deliverance at last,' Samuel thought. 'Can't be long to the next
train to Central Runcorn.'
The journey had taken the best part of an hour and he had
resigned himself to missing the four o'clock train.
After a couple of minutes walk he came upon the station, the
platform reached by descending a long series of steps. The immediate
problem was the two platforms displayed not the slightest hint as to
which direction the trains travelled in. Nor were there any posters
to help or, indeed, any staff. The station was unmanned.
'This is a nightmare,' Samuel thought. 'I could be on the wrong
platform when the right train turns up.'
By chance a little old lady hobbled down the staircase, and Samuel
accosted her as she made her final, awkward, step onto the platform.
"Excuse me. I'm a bit lost. Could you tell me which platform the
trains to Runcorn Central run from?"
The lady looked at him with a steady but worried expression.
"Oh no, dear. The trains don't go to the main station from here."
"Pardon?" said Samuel in disbelief.
"You'll have to change at Manchester or Crewe to get a connection
to Central Runcorn."
Words failed Samuel and he let out a wail which made the old
lady visibly jump. After the nightmare in the taxi from hell, his
departure station was only a mile away as the crow flies, but to
reach it would require travelling twenty miles in the opposite
direction.
Some six or seven hours later a tired Samuel Wimbush arrived back
at Albert Road; Samuel allowing himself the luxury of a proper black
cab from Euston station after the day's trials.
Bed was a welcome respite, and as he lay back looking at the night
sky Samuel reflected on his hellish taxi journey, finally concluding
that:
'NASA can't have as much trouble reaching Mars,' before drifting
off. Still, it was unlikely that he would ever return to Runcorn or,
for that matter, share a hamburger with a Martian, but who knows
what little jokes fate holds in store for human kind.
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