by Mark Dawson
He stood. No one noticed.
The man emerged from the door and took the seat to Milton’s left.
“What’s up?” he said.
“Nothing. I—”
“You going already?”
“I was just going to—”
“We just got here,” he interrupted him with a smile. “Sit down. Have your coffee. You want a slice of cake?”
“No,” he said. “I’m fine.”
He reluctantly settled back in his chair. Ten minutes. Twenty at the outside.
“You’re John.”
“Yes,” Milton said. “I’m sorry—I can’t remember your name.”
“Edward,” he said. “Eddie to my friends.”
“It’s nice to meet you.”
Milton sipped his coffee and took the moment to indulge the curiosity that had been burned into him during the years that he had worked for Group Fifteen. Eddie was in his late thirties or early forties, a little overweight, and not blessed with the best genetic material. He spoke with a nervous cadence to his sentences and perhaps the residue of a stammer that he had, for the most part, managed to conquer. His fingernails were chewed down to the quick, and he took a napkin from the dispenser and started to fret at the edges. He was a nervous man. That wasn’t unusual. Many of the men and women Milton had met in the rooms were nervous. Many of them, especially the ones who were new to sobriety, were still running from their memories. Eddie was effeminate, occasionally speaking with a slight lisp, and Milton wondered whether he was gay.
“Three years,” Eddie said. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Practically makes you a veteran.”
Milton allowed a small smile. “It doesn’t feel like it sometimes.”
“What’s your secret?”
“I don’t really have one. Just determined I’m not going to drink again. How long have you got?”
“Clean and sober for nearly six months. Well, I say six months. There was a relapse. A small one. I’m back again now.”
“One day at a time,” Milton said.
“You’ve been going to the meeting for a while.” It wasn’t a question.
“This one? I don’t know—a month, maybe? Six weeks?”
“And this is the first time you’ve come out afterwards?”
Milton nodded. “It is.”
“It’s weird to start with. Most people would head to a pub for a drink. We come out for coffee. Not very glamorous.”
“But better than the alternative.”
“Amen to that.”
Milton put his cup to his lips and sipped the coffee.
“You said you were in Australia?” Eddie said. “Never been there. I’d love to go.”
“Amazing place.”
“Shearing sheep? How’d you get into that?”
“I’ve got a friend who runs a sheep station near Broken Hill.”
“Hard work?”
“You wouldn’t believe it.”
He finished the coffee and put the cup on the table. Eddie seemed like a nice man, but Milton was not good at small talk and he knew that it would only be a matter of time before he said something that would betray his impatience.
If Eddie had noticed, he didn’t say. “What’s your story? What do you do now?”
“I work in a café.”
“Where?”
“Russell Square. It’s not really a café. It’s a cabmen’s shelter. It’s—”
He was ready to explain his unusual place of work, but Eddie cut him off. “I know it,” he said with a grin. “I’ve been in it before.”
“I doubt it,” Milton said. “Only cabbies can use it.”
“I am a cabbie,” he said.
“Black cab?”
“What else is there? I haven’t been there for a while. Does Cathy still run it?”
Milton smiled. “Yes. She does days; I’m on nights.”
“Well, look at that. What a coincidence.”
Milton allowed himself to relax. He had never met anyone outside of the shelter who knew what it and the other buildings around London like it were. He felt a moment of connection and empathy that was not unpleasant. They spoke a little longer. He found that he started to enjoy Eddie’s company. He was easy-going, with a wry and self-deprecating sense of humour that occasionally broadened out with good-natured quips at the expense of the others who had been present in the room that evening. Some of his observations were very amusing, and, as Milton’s laughter provided him with more confidence, he became more opinionated, more like the stereotypical London cabbie. His diction became more natural, too, and he became more tactile.
“What did you do before you went to Australia?” Eddie asked.
“I’ve been travelling,” Milton said.
“Before that?”
“I worked for the government.”
“What as? A civil servant?”
“Something like that.” Milton had no interest in continuing this line of questioning and quickly changed the focus back on to Eddie. “How do you like being a cabbie?”
“There are worse things to do. But there’s a lot of free time when you’re driving. Easy to take an hour off. Finish early if you want to. Can be quite boring. One of the reasons I used to drink. I have to be careful.” He paused. “Why did you drink? You didn’t say.”
“Same as all of us. Trying to forget.”
“Bad memories?”
Milton nodded. He didn’t say anything else, but Eddie raised his empty mug and touched it to Milton’s. “I’ll drink to that. Cheers.”
Milton was surprised to find that he was still smiling. “Cheers.”
Eddie was silent for a moment. “Memories,” he said at last, with an introspection that hadn’t been there before. “That’s why I drink. The things I remember. I mean, things I wish I didn’t remember.”
“What things?”
“When I was younger. I—” Eddie paused, wondering, perhaps, whether he should continue. “It stays between us, John?”
Milton was about to extricate himself; he didn’t want the responsibility of being someone’s confessor, but Eddie continued anyway.
“I had a difficult childhood. Things happened to me, when I was a kid, bad things that stayed with me all my life.” Eddie paused and Milton could see that he was thinking again about how much he was comfortable disclosing. “Ah, fuck it. It’ll be better once I’ve got it off my chest.” He inhaled deeply, then let out a long sigh. “My folks died when I was little. Car crash. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters, no grandparents or aunts and uncles. It was just me. They put me in a children’s home in Jersey.”
“I lost my parents the same way,” Milton offered.
He brightened. “There you go. Listen to the similarities, not the differences, right?” That was one of the main teachings of the program. It was repeated in every meeting. You listened to the things you had in common. You figured out that others were like you, that you were nothing special. They said drunks tended to be grandiose. Finding out you were just like everyone else made it difficult to hold on to the notion that you were special.
Eddie continued. “The home was an awful place. Haut de la Garenne. Heard of it?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy. They had special rooms they used to discipline the kids. They called them punishment rooms. I was a bit wild, very unruly, so I got to spend a lot of time in those rooms. Lucky me, right?” He paused again and Milton could see that he had reached the point where he would either speak about what was tormenting him or he would not. “They abused us. Not just beatings. Sexual. People came to visit from the mainland because they could do whatever they wanted there. What were we going to do? We had no one to talk to. They were brazen about it. Sometimes they took us to the mainland. Little holidays, they called them. They took us to parties in London. There were men there. They did… things to us.”
Milton felt awkward. He didn’t know how to resp
ond to Eddie’s story, so he said nothing and just listened.
“I didn’t say anything,” Eddie said. “Didn’t report it. We were orphans. No one cared. What were we going to do? Nothing.”
Milton heard the deep rumble of an engine as a bus went by outside.
Eddie leaned back in the chair. “I got out eventually. Adopted. I was one of the lucky ones; there were others there who didn’t get out. I knew at least one boy who died there, and I’m sure he wasn’t the only one. They had me for eighteen months. What happened to me then is one of the reasons I am how I am now. It made me who I am. It made me want to kill myself. I nearly did, more than once. And then, when I realised I didn’t have the guts to do that, it led me to the drink. It gets bad, sometimes, the memories, the pain of remembering it all, and I can’t feel anything when I’m drunk.”
“I know that feeling.”
Eddie paused, and Milton regarded him. He hoped it was helpful for him to talk. He found, to his surprise, that he liked him and wanted to help.
“One of the reasons?” Milton said.
“What?”
“You said it was one of the reasons you drank. There was another one?”
Eddie exhaled and shook his head. “Can’t talk about that yet. Family shit. Much more complicated. One step at a time.”
Milton let it go. “But the program is helping?”
Eddie nodded. “It took me a lot of time and a lot of therapy to realise that none of what happened to me was my fault. The rooms have helped me to work that out. And then, when I had that fixed, I decided that I was going to take an account of my life. I was owed some justice for what happened to me, and there are people I’ve hurt who deserve the same. The eighth and ninth steps, right? Make a list of the people you’ve hurt and then make amends. I know it’ll help me, and maybe it’ll help others, too.”
The time had passed without Milton really noticing it, and, when he did check his watch, he saw that it was time to go. He stood.
“Off to work?”
“Yes. It was nice to meet you, Eddie.”
“You too. Thanks for listening.”
“My pleasure.”
“Maybe I’ll see you at the shelter. If I get a fare out west, I’ll pop in and get a cuppa.”
“I’ll be there. Every night.”
He said goodbye to the others around the table, zipped up his leather jacket, and went outside. It was dark and damp, and, although the rain had stopped, the roads were slicked with water. Milton took out his packet of cigarettes and put one in his mouth. The weather was cold. He zipped the jacket all the way to the top, lit the cigarette with his Ronson lighter, and set off for the entrance to the underground.
Chapter Five
MILTON TOOK THE TUBE to Oxford Circus, walked from there to Russell Square, and arrived with five minutes to spare. His place of work was a building that looked nothing more than a large green shed with a shingled roof that was equipped with a ventilation chimney. A line of black cabs was parked alongside it, and steam piled out of one of the windows. Milton approached, and, as he drew nearer, he began to smell the distinctive atmosphere. The place was redolent with conflicting scents. Fried bacon was the most prevalent, with fried onions and tobacco beneath it. There was the smell of tea and coffee, too. Damp clothes and sweat.
Milton had found the job online and had Googled it. The sheds had been built all around London in the middle of the eighteenth century. They were intended to serve horse cabmen as somewhere they could have a meal or a drink, shelter from the elements and chew the fat with their colleagues. They were built on the road, and, because of that, the regulations stipulated that they could take up no more space than a four-wheel horse cab. There had been dozens at their peak, but there were only thirteen left now. The entrance to this one was next to the black rail that had once been used for tethering horses and ran along the outside of the structure. The shelters were less exclusive now, and this one advertised that fact with a chalked sign that read TAXI DRIVERS ONLY INSIDE—WINDOW OPEN TO EVERYONE ELSE. A second sign, older and more weather-beaten, announced that the shelter was supported by the Cabmen’s Shelter Fund and that there were a number of regulations that had to be observed.
Milton stepped off the pavement and up through the open door. The interior was a little more spacious than might have been assumed from the outside, but it wasn’t large. Half of it was taken up with bench seating that could accommodate ten drivers. There was a narrow window smeared with trails from greasy fingers. A sign on the wall offered full English breakfasts all day and the spare space had been decorated with paintings of modern black cabs. The guitar suspended from a hook was often brought down in the early hours by one of the regular drivers who thought he had talent, leading anyone else who was around in song. There were shelves filled with second-hand books and a rack for newspapers and magazines. The other half of the space was for the tiny kitchen. There was a small stove, double racking for shelves on both walls, and a sink. A refrigerator was placed against the wall between the kitchen and the open dining area.
“Hello, John.”
The woman’s name was Cathy. She was the owner of the shelter, and, as she had proudly announced to Milton when he responded to her ad, the business had been in her family for sixty years. Her grandfather had purchased the business after the Second World War, her father had taken it over when his father had passed away, and now it was hers.
“How are you?” she said.
“I’m good,” Milton said. “How’s business?”
“Brisk. It was a good day. Always busy when it rains, and it’s going to rain again tonight.”
“It’s going to rain all week.”
“Lucky us. Lots of drivers out. I think you’re going to have your hands full.”
“Not a problem,” Milton said. “I like it better that way.”
“Makes the time go a little faster?”
“That makes it sound like I don’t enjoy it.”
“You don’t have to pretend you do, darling.”
He smiled. “I’m not pretending. I do. Seriously.”
“You’re a strange one.”
Milton had explained during their interview that he had experience in catering. He might have overplayed that a little, but it was at least partially true. He had held down a job as a chef in a restaurant in Ciudad Juarez for a night before it had been attacked by members of one of the more dangerous cartels that rendered that city so dangerous, and he had found himself plunged into an attempt to keep a young journalist safe from harm. But he was a decent if rudimentary cook and, having been single for most of his life, had taught himself the basics. He was confident that he would be able to handle the beans on toast and bacon sandwiches that made up the staples for the mainly male customers who patronised the shelter. It had been enough for her to offer him the job.
Cathy opened the door and glanced outside. The first fat droplets of rain had started to fall. “Bloody wonderful,” she said. She took her coat, put it on, and turned to Milton. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said, laying a hand on his arm. “Have a good night.”
“And you.”
She stepped down onto the pavement, raised a large pink umbrella, and headed off toward the station. She lived in Essex, all the way out in Theydon Bois near the end of the Central Line. “Excuse me, mate,” one of the customers said as he stepped around Milton and hurried through the rain to his cab. Milton watched as the cabbie drove away, honking his horn as he passed Cathy. She was popular among her clientele. Milton envied her that.
He closed the door and went to work.
#
MILTON LOVED THE SHELTER. This was the end of his first week, and he had enjoyed each shift. He arranged the bottles of sauce on the windowsill of the exterior serving hatch, replacing an empty bottle of ketchup with a fresh one. Cathy had arranged two potted plants on the corners of the sill, decorating the window, and two stools were placed outside when the weather was good.
The atmospher
e was always lively. The customers were drawn from a small collection of regulars who had obviously known each other for years. They pretended to flirt with Cathy—she made no effort to hide how much she enjoyed the banter—and took a little while to warm up to newcomers. Milton had replaced a man who had worked nights for ten years before he had fallen ill with cancer, and he knew it was going to take them a little time to come around to him. The first couple of nights had been awkward, the atmosphere clearly more reserved than it had been during the day. He knew that he would have to persevere.
The shift progressed without incident. The rain started to fall more heavily outside and, as Cathy had predicted, the weather persuaded more cabbies to take to their cabs to cater to the increased demand for their services. That, in turn, meant that there were more of them who wanted refreshment. He was busy, and the time passed quickly.
It was gone three when he heard a commotion from outside. He glanced out the window and saw, through the cloud of steam, two drunken lads from one of the local nightclubs. He eyed them for a moment, saw that they were going to be a nuisance, and wiped his hands on the tea towel that he wore in his belt. There were three drivers inside, enjoying a lively discussion about football while they filled up on hot tea.
The two young men staggered up to the front door, opened it and came inside.
“You can’t come in here,” said Jack, one of the drivers. He was an older regular who was particularly fond of the fact that the shelter was exclusive.
“Says who?”
The men were both rolling drunk, reeking of alcohol and looking for trouble. Milton knew that the drivers could sort them out themselves if he left them to it, but they did not; they looked to him first, and he realised that they were giving him the chance to prove himself.
“Says me,” Milton said. “Drivers only, lads. Outside, please. I’ll serve you through the hatch.”
