‘Anyone near Streatham Common? Streatham Common anyone?’
‘Courier 89.’
‘Courier 89. You want Bill and Doris in the Saloon Bar of The Pied Bull.’
‘Courier 89. Roger.’
It’s approaching 10.30 pm on a balmy mid-summer’s night in south London in the late 1980s. I’ve been at work since 6pm. I’ll finish at 6am, unless there’s an airport to hang on for. Which will mean finishing at 9am. After a short lull in business and a tasteless garage sandwich, I’m back with a pick-up. The Pied Bull is a warm and welcoming Youngs pub on Streatham High Road, the A23. There’s a gentle hum inside. I locate my passengers in the bar and return to the car park.
5 minutes later, Bill and Doris emerge like two astronauts at the door of the pub.
They’re short and well-dressed and in their eighties. They could be brother and sister, but are probably husband and wife. Another 3 minutes pass as they float in a peculiar way. Finally, they land in the back seat from either side of the car. I don’t think they’re drunk
‘So. Where can I take you?’
‘Berridge Road please, Driver.’
‘Berridge Road? You mean, the road across the road. That road over there?’
‘That’s the one.’
I almost ask them if we can see their house from here, but instead I ease out of the car park, across the road and..
’Just here driver. Thank-you.’
The fare is £1.80. The back doors slowly open. Doris slides up and using the car roof for added support heads off to their Mother ship, alone. Bill meanwhile has pulled out a soiled checked hankie from his pocket. It has the same effect as a Christmas cracker fuse. A barrage of shrapnel explodes onto the floor. Bill treads air as I pick up the change.
‘Is that enough there for you?’
‘That’ll do fine.’
‘Thank-you,’ he mutters, as he follows his wife into the dark void.
Total time of trip :15 minutes. Total of dropped change: £1.27.
‘Courier 89 clear Streatham Common.’
‘Roger 89. Head back to base.’