Showdown in Puddlewick
There are two airports that service Greater London: Heathrow to the west, which is convenient for Central and West London, Windsor and Oxford; and Gatwick to the south east, which is handy for South London and the Southern English countryside.
For my recent trip I used Heathrow, as I usually do; but a set of unforeseen circumstances had resulted in my spending my last day and night, not in London as planned, but in a quite delightful little English seaside town I’ll call Puddlewick. This was far from a hardship in itself as Puddlewick boasts many attractions, including, by happiest coincidence, my dear friend Josephine, who comes complete with laughter, fabulous gossip, and a spare room halfway to heaven in her former rectory on the High Street. The only slight wrinkle was that I would be required to be at Heathrow, clear on the other side of London, by 10.00 the next morning, the only realistic way I could see to accomplish which being to bite the financial bullet and order a taxi.
So I called a cab company in Puddlewick.
“Do you offer a cab service to Heathrow Airport?” I asked.
“We do,” said the gentleman on the telephone. “Seventy pounds flat rate and an hour door to door.”
This was excellent news.
“Well, that’s very nice,” I said. “That’s more or less the same price as from Central London.”
“Oh, well,” said the gentleman. “London.”
“London,” I agreed, shamelessly defaming my smoky native town. “And you think an hour door to door should get us there in time?”
“More than enough time,” said the gentleman.
Well, well, I thought, how England’s country roads had improved in my absence.
“Then I’d like to book one,” I said. “Tuesday the 22nd at 9.00 in the morning.”
“Mind you,” said the gentleman, then, “that’s Gatwick Airport, not Heathrow.”
“Oh,” I said. “But you see, I want to go to Heathrow.”
“No you don’t,” he said. “Gatwick’s much closer. Heathrow’ll take you an hour extra, easy.”
“Gatwick’s closer,” I agreed. “But the problem with Gatwick is that the plane I’m catching leaves from Heathrow.”
“But we’re in Puddlewick,” he said.
“I know you are,” I said. “Puddlewick is where I’ll be staying on the Monday night.”
“Gatwick’s much closer to Puddlewick,” he said. “If you’re staying in Puddlewick, you’d have to be mad to book a ticket from Heathrow. That’ll take you an hour extra, easy.”
It was becoming apparent that the pace of life in Puddlewick was slow.
“I know Gatwick’s closer,” I said. “But my plane goes from Heathrow.”
“But why didn’t you book a plane from Gatwick?” he said.
“I didn’t know I’d be staying in Puddlewick,” I said.
“Oh, well, then,” he explained to himself.
I decided to start again from the beginning.
“Do you offer a cab service to Heathrow?” I said.
“Where are you going to from Heathrow anyway?” he said.
“America,” I said.
“They do planes to America from Gatwick too,” he said.
“I know they do,” I said, somewhat heroically refraining from commenting that since they billed themselves as an international airport it would be strange if they didn’t. “But the plane I have a seat on is leaving from Heathrow.”
“And why do you even want to go to America?” he said. “It’s full of raving lunatics, that place.”
This stung.
“Have you been to America?” I said.
“’Course not,” he said. “Why would I want to go to a place full of raving lunatics? I don’t know why you want to go there either.”
“I’m not going there,” I said. “I live there.”
This set him back a little.
“Really?” he said after a moment.
“Really,” I confirmed.
“Are you sure?” he said.
“Of course I’m sure!” I said. “It’s not the sort of thing you’re not sure about, really, is it?”
“You’d be surprised,” he said, darkly. “And anyway, you don’t sound like you’re from America at all.”
“I grew up in England,” I said. “But I moved to America a long time ago.”
“You poor old sausage,” he said.
“I like it there,” I said.
He said – or rather, bellowed from the rooftops – nothing.
“Anyway,” I said. I was not marrying the man, I reminded myself, only ordering a cab from him. “Do you offer a cab service to Heathrow?”
Across the miles came the faint susurration of a head being shaken and teeth whistled through.
“Well, we do,” he finally allowed. “But it’s only for emergencies, really.”
I reminded myself that excessive grinding of teeth could cause damage.
“And how much does it cost?” I said.
The whistling increased
“It’d set you back a bob or two,” he warned me. “A hundred and sixty-five quid plus driver tip.”
When an English person says quid instead of pounds, it means a serious sum is involved: however, I did, as they say, have a plane to catch.
“I’ll take it,” I said. “Leaving at 8.00 in the morning on Tuesday 22nd, please.”
“We could shave twenty quid off,” he said. “If you want to leave at 5.30.”
“I don’t want to leave at 5.30,” I said.
“The roads are quieter then,” he said. “So it’s that bit cheaper.”
“I don’t want to leave at 5.30,” I said.
“Why not?” he said. “Early to bed, early to rise, that’s good advice, that is.”
“I don’t want to get up that early,” I said. “And I don’t want to spend an extra two hours sitting in Heathrow drinking Heathrow coffee.”
“Lovely coffee they have at Gatwick,” he said.
I took a swig of chamomile tea, and noticed that the liquor cabinet was looking particularly attractive that morning.
“I’m going to Heathrow,” I said. “And I’m perfectly prepared to pay the 8.00 a.m. fare.”
He exhaled in amazement.
“Happy to pay that, are you?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. Happy might have been putting it a little strongly; but the circumstances, after all, were what they were. “If it’s what it costs, it’s what it costs.”
He exhaled again.
“Well, you must be doing well then,” he said.
I had had enough.
“I am doing well,” I said. “I have my health, my loved ones love me back, and my conscience is spotlessly clean.”
“If you’re going to be rude,” he said, “I’m going to hang up.”
For all I knew, this was how all Puddlewick taxi companies talked to their clients.
“Can I order a taxi?” I said. “From Puddlewick to Heathrow, leaving at 8.00 in the morning on Tuesday 22nd?”
He thought for a moment.
“Well, you can,” he admitted at last. “But you’d have to call back later.”
“Why?” I said.
“Well, see,” he said, “you’d have to book in advance.”
The liquor cabinet by now was making positive goo-goo eyes at me.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s what I’d like to do.”
“You have to book in advance,” he said, “so we can check if we’ve got a car free that day.”
“OK,” I said, having previously familiarized myself with the concept of booking in advance. “Today is the fourth, and the day I want to book a cab is the 22nd. So can I book it now, please?”
“No,” he said.
I switched my chair so that the liquor cabinet would no longer be in view.
“Why not?” I said.
“’Cause I’d have to look in my booking diary,” he said. “To see if we’ve got a car free. And I’m in the office now, and the diary’s not here.”
“Your booking diary is not in your booking office,” I confirmed. And, interested despite myself, “Where is it?”
“Sam’s got it,” he said.
“Sam,” I said.
“He’s a lovely driver, Sam,” he said. “Matter of fact, he’s out on a trip right now.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I said.
“No idea,” he said. “You never know with Sam. Could be five minutes, could be hours.”
“Oh,” I said. “Isn’t that a bit … inconvenient? When he has the diary with him, I mean?”
“He’s a lovely driver,” he said. “He takes his time coming back sometimes. Stops for a ciggie and such. Truth to tell, I don’t really know what he does. But he’s a lovely driver.”
“That’s reassuring to know,” I said.
“He’s gone to Gatwick,” he said.
It turns out that there are at least two taxi companies in Puddlewick. And the other one has a diary that stays in the office, and an automated booking system, and all sorts of lovely things.
Hi, ho, ho