“George, you free?” a voice crackled from the intercom. “Can you pickup 88 River road, East Ham at ten o’clock?”
George clicked his mike. “Hi Sue, got that. Where to?”
“Airport I think.”
“OK.” He didn’t mention the funny turn he’d had earlier. Best keep mum, he thought, anyway I’m alright now.
He checked in his ancient A-Z. There were roadworks on the A13 causing enormous tailbacks. George turned off down a narrow lane thinking, it must lead somewhere.
Another look at his A-Z and he was soon in River Road. Just one long terrace, it seemed. A woman answered his knock at number 88. Shouting over her shoulder, “Jeff, taxi’s here,” she said to George, “We’re all ready.”
Jeff came out with two children, saying, “Do you need this receipt?”
George looked at it; “You’re going to Tilbury? They told me the airport, so much for instructions.”
Arriving at Tilbury docks, he wished them good luck in Australia, then Jeff said, “Could you do us a favour, put these keys through the letterbox of 88? I forgot and the landlord did stress it.
“No problem,” said George.
He drove to a transport café. It was midday and he’d only had a cup of tea at seven. Perhaps that’s what was wrong this morning, he thought, they say not eating can make you dizzy. After toad-in-the-hole and apple pie, and a snooze in the cab, he felt like a new man.
He tried his mike. Nothing, probably out of range. Driving back to East Ham there was no sign of roadworks. Strange, he thought, or was I on the old road earlier? He took the slip road to the town centre. Pulled over and, reaching for his A-Z, he spotted a postman. He jumped out and asked him if he knew River Road.
“Oh you mean the road through the park.”
“No, there’s no park just terrace houses.”
The postman was bemused. “Look mate, I know River Road. You must have a long memory. The houses were knocked down after the fire, when the fireworks factory blew up, twenty years ago. I know, my friend Jeff lived there, emigrated to Australia they did, two days before; what’s up…”
George, stunned, blurted out, “Here, you better have these then.” He dropped the keys with the ‘88 River Road’ tag into the startled man’s hand, ran to his cab and drove off in panic.
Outside his house he tried the intercom. Sue’s voice came on, “George! Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you pick up your West Ham job? They missed their plane to Greece and are holding us responsible…”
“Hang on Sue, you said River Road, EAST Ham.”
“No, WEST Ham, going to Stansted.”
George switched off, totally confused, his mind a jumble. On the radio, the pips for three o’clock had just gone when he heard, “We are just receiving reports that a plane from Stansted bound for Greece has crashed in the North Sea.
George clicked his mike. “Hi Sue, got that. Where to?”
“Airport I think.”
“OK.” He didn’t mention the funny turn he’d had earlier. Best keep mum, he thought, anyway I’m alright now.
He checked in his ancient A-Z. There were roadworks on the A13 causing enormous tailbacks. George turned off down a narrow lane thinking, it must lead somewhere.
Another look at his A-Z and he was soon in River Road. Just one long terrace, it seemed. A woman answered his knock at number 88. Shouting over her shoulder, “Jeff, taxi’s here,” she said to George, “We’re all ready.”
Jeff came out with two children, saying, “Do you need this receipt?”
George looked at it; “You’re going to Tilbury? They told me the airport, so much for instructions.”
Arriving at Tilbury docks, he wished them good luck in Australia, then Jeff said, “Could you do us a favour, put these keys through the letterbox of 88? I forgot and the landlord did stress it.
“No problem,” said George.
He drove to a transport café. It was midday and he’d only had a cup of tea at seven. Perhaps that’s what was wrong this morning, he thought, they say not eating can make you dizzy. After toad-in-the-hole and apple pie, and a snooze in the cab, he felt like a new man.
He tried his mike. Nothing, probably out of range. Driving back to East Ham there was no sign of roadworks. Strange, he thought, or was I on the old road earlier? He took the slip road to the town centre. Pulled over and, reaching for his A-Z, he spotted a postman. He jumped out and asked him if he knew River Road.
“Oh you mean the road through the park.”
“No, there’s no park just terrace houses.”
The postman was bemused. “Look mate, I know River Road. You must have a long memory. The houses were knocked down after the fire, when the fireworks factory blew up, twenty years ago. I know, my friend Jeff lived there, emigrated to Australia they did, two days before; what’s up…”
George, stunned, blurted out, “Here, you better have these then.” He dropped the keys with the ‘88 River Road’ tag into the startled man’s hand, ran to his cab and drove off in panic.
Outside his house he tried the intercom. Sue’s voice came on, “George! Where’ve you been? Why didn’t you pick up your West Ham job? They missed their plane to Greece and are holding us responsible…”
“Hang on Sue, you said River Road, EAST Ham.”
“No, WEST Ham, going to Stansted.”
George switched off, totally confused, his mind a jumble. On the radio, the pips for three o’clock had just gone when he heard, “We are just receiving reports that a plane from Stansted bound for Greece has crashed in the North Sea.