order or placement, zipping up the pockets and refastening the straps as fast as I could, although I’m sure I must’ve still appeared unduly clumsy. “I was so certain I put it in here,” I said. “Not at all my usual place for it, though; silly of me really.” Then I had a sudden thought and felt along an upper seam of the bag and pulled open the hidden pocket. “Here it is, of course, in the so-called handy secret pocket. Thank heaven for that; I’d so hate to have lost another iPhone. Don’t seem to know where my head is these days.”
The cabby nodded in seeming sympathy and gave me another look. “Right then, sir, now we’ve got that … er … sorted, Baker Street, you said?”
“Ah, no, look, on second thought, I think I better head straight over to St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, Giltspur Street.”
“Barts? Right you are, sir.” He paused, and I’d swear that for a brief moment a shadow flickered across his face. “That new Cancer Centre, is it, sir?”
I shook my head and gave him a reassuring smile. “No, no, nothing so serious; just a visit to the museum, the north wing; the Henry VIII gate will do.”
“With the one-way, I’d best drop you on West Smithfield Road, if that’d be okay?” I nodded. “Right you are, then, sir. If you’d just hop back in.”
So off we set again, my mobile phone now safely in my hand, my canvas shoulder bag by my side. London sped by at what a good and dear friend of mine had deduced was no faster than ever it’d been in the time of horse-drawn hansom cabs. I shook my head. Times and tides, indeed. I have to admit I felt not a little silly about the whole wretched incident and I could only imagine what the cab driver must’ve thought about it all. I took more deep breaths to help calm myself and looked around the interior of the cab. It was bright, airy, and clean, everything one expects of a London taxi, but there was something else besides.
“Excuse me, is this one of those new-style London cabs?” I asked, in a voice loud enough to attract the taxi driver’s attention.
“Yes, very well spotted,” he shouted over his shoulder. “Haven’t had it long, coming up on three or four weeks, now; the LTX4, top of the line, all mod cons, lovely little job; still got that lovely new cab smell.”
“Can’t quite put my finger on it,” I offered, by way of observation, “but it seems so much nicer, all round, somehow.”
“The makers would love to hear you say that,” he chortled. “Take this intercom we’re speaking over, most people don’t even realize the plexiglass partition isn’t open between them and me and they just start talking, normal like. You just press the button back there or I do in here; works a treat. So there’s no need for any more of that looking-back-over-my-shoulder-and-shouting-my-head-off malarkey. Even with a full complement of five passengers, everyone can clearly be heard. There’s even an induction loop for the hard of hearing.”
“How very thoughtful,” I said, surreptitiously checking my iPhone for any e-mails or text messages.
“It is,” he said. “On top of which the cab’s specially designed to accommodate a wheelchair if need be. Add individual head restraints, a child harness, air-conditioning with separate climate controls for the passengers, plus directional spotlights if anyone wants to read a newspaper or catch up on office work, and it’s a real step up in creature comforts. Same goes for me: lumbar support, coil-spring suspension, powerassisted steering, anti-lock braking, the lot. I can even hook my MP3 player in for a bit of music if I want. It’s got a computer and a navigation system, too, should ever I have need.”
He chatted on, amiably, about his new pride and joy and before I knew it we’d arrived at Barts. “How fascinating,” I said, “the continuing evolution of the London taxicab; always the same, only different.” I paused. “Look, I say, I only need ten minutes or so, to take some photographs. Would it be possible for you to wait for me while I go inside?”
He wrinkled his nose. “Yes, I don’t see why not. I’ll just keep the meter running; you take all the time you want. It’s all the same to me.”
“Thank you,” I said. Then, clutching my canvas shoulder bag, I got out of the cab, crossed over the pedestrian divide, slipping between the bollards as I did so, and went to stand in front of the archway. I took photographs of the statue of Henry VIII, turned and waved at the taxi driver, and pointed through the arch. I held up a hand with fingers splayed. “Five minutes,” I mouthed. He nodded back, pulled out a newspaper, and began reading. I, meanwhile, went in through the archway, changed camera lenses, peered at the digital display, and took some more photos. Then I sent a quick three-word text message. After a few more minutes I glanced at my watch. Time enough. I stepped out from beneath the archway and walked back across the median to where the taxi was parked. I got in again and expressed my thanks.
“I’ve had the heater on, so it’s nice and toasty for you,” the cabby said over the intercom. “Off to Baker Street, now, is it?”
“Look, I know I said 221B Baker Street was my ultimate destination, but there are a few other places I’d really like to visit before that. I have a list.”
“A list of points of interest? And I suppose you’d like me to wait for you at each one?” I nodded and he tapped his chin with a finger, as the meter ticked on in the background. “Yes, I suppose I could do that, sir,” he said, nodding. “It still being kipper season and things a bit slack on account of winter weather.”
“It’d really be most helpful,” I said, hurriedly turning to the appropriate page in my Moleskine notebook and holding it up for the cabby to see. He opened the tiny window in the glass partition and I pushed the little black notebook through to the driver’s compartment and he took it and glanced at the list, then he looked at it again even more closely. He turned and looked at me, with eyes narrowed, an inquisitive smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“If I’m not mistaken, sir, all these points you’ve got listed feature in stories by Conan Doyle; specifically the adventures of one Sherlock Holmes?” He paused. “Would I be right in presuming you’re one of them ‘Holmesians’; ‘the game’s afoot!’ and all that malarkey?” He smiled openly, then. “Although of course it was you wanting to go to 221B Baker Street that really gave the game away. You’re not the first, you know; I’ve had lots of people like you in the cab—Yanks mostly or ‘Sherlockians’ as they call themselves over there. Though you’d be surprised at the number of people who come all the way from Japan just to say they’ve trodden in the footsteps of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. In full regalia, some of them: deerstalker and Inverness cape; magnifying lens; meerschaum calabash pipe; the whole blinking kit and caboodle; even had a person bring a violin along with them, once, although I couldn’t say whether it was a Stradivarius or not.”
I marshaled my case. “I was thinking, I know the meter’s running, and I can settle that with you now, but could I perhaps hire the cab for the entire morning? Certainly be much more relaxing for me, possibly a little more profitable for you. At whatever rate you think would be appropriate, of course.”
He tapped his chin again. “Bit unusual, but not unheard of. Happens from time to time. Americans, again, mostly, especially when the City was growing with a bang. Before that it was the Japanese, and before them the Arabs, all of them buying up the best properties as fast as they could. Now, of course, it’s as likely to be a Russian businessman or Chinese entrepreneur.”
I continued to press my case. “As you can see, all the destinations are in central London; there’s nothing farther west than Chiswick, north of St. John’s Wood, or east of Aldgate Underground, and the only place I’ve got listed south of the river is Waterloo Station.” I paused and it was then I played my trump card. “Of course, if you don’t happen to own your cab?”
He slowly slid his eyes in my direction. “I do, as a matter of fact, sir, and always have done, just like me dad and me grandad, and his dad and grandad before him. So, me being a musher, an owner-driver, I can do what I like.” He chuckled. “I take it you’re not a Yank or a Russian oligarch, are you, sir?”
It was my turn to chuckle then. “Nothing so exotic; English, through and through. I’m simply indulging in a little hobby of mine and hoping to use the photographs I get to illustrate a book I intend to write.”
“And that’d be a book about Sherlock Holmes, would it, sir?”
“Hope so, although I don’t have a publisher lined up for it yet.”
“Well, I couldn’t possibly stand in the way of literary endeavor or artistic merit. Alright then, clear what’s on the meter and we can go from there. I can do credit card, debit card, chip-and-pin, whatever you prefer.” I shook my head and handed through a twenty-pound note to cover the journey thus far and what I thought would be a suitably appropriate tip. He nodded. “Cash, is it? The poor man’s credit card, as it was once so described. Thank you much, sir, very generous of you. As for the next two-three hours, I reckon I’d normally do anything up to fifty miles, all told, so let’s call it two hundred quid, even.”
“Agreed,” I said. “And I’ll add a twenty-pound tip. And I’ll pay you now.”
