Free Schreiber's Secret by Roger Radford

Jewish wife and kids syndrome.
    Joe picked thoughtfully at his fleshy nose and prayed that the next fare would be going his way. True, there was less traffic on nights, but six years of working through the early hours was getting him down. It had ruined his metabolism and had probably ruined his marriage. 
    Still, the Heathrow run wasn’t too bad. At least he usually got a decent class of fare. No drunks, no anti-Semites. He knew he looked very Jewish and it didn’t happen very often, but there was always the odd occasion when he might pick up a fascist, drunk or otherwise.
    Joe spotted Sam Spiegel two cabs ahead in the rank. Bastard had nicked a good fare off him more than once. Now lived with the wealth y hoiche Fenster s in Edgware. Ilford was no longer good enough for him. “I hope you get a last fare to south London , mumse r ,” Joe mouthed as Spiegel leant out of his cab and smiled.
    “How’s things, Joe?” the man with flat cap asked.
    Hyams gave Spiegel a middle-finger salute. Why waste breath on the man, he asked himself as he edged the cab closer to the front of the rank. Please let him get Croydon and me Ilford. Please.
    There they were. A couple of Yank tourists by the look of them. Lucky bastard’ll probably get Edgware. One straight road. All the way home. Joe watched Spiegel pull away and then jumped out of his cab.
    “Hey, you,” he called to the cabbie in front, “did you hear where his fare was?”
    “Yeah, Croydon, I think.”
    “Bingo!” Now all he needed was for the second half of his win-double to come true. The driver in front was soon loaded up with a couple of Pakis and now it was his turn.
    “Over here, sir,” he called out to a man leaving the exit to the terminal carrying a briefcase. It was obvious he was looking for a cab.
    “Where to, guv?” Joe Hyams called out with false nonchalance.
    “Do you know Ilford?”
    Bingo! This time Joe Hyams exulted inwardly.
    “Of course, guv,” he enthused. “Know it well.”
    “Drive to Fairlop station. I left my car there.”
    Strange accent, thought Hyams as his fare climbed in. Like someone trying to pretend to be a Kraut in a bad war movie.
    “Where have you just come from, guv?” the cabbie called out as he drove away. “Anywhere nice?”
    “Berlin,” said the fare. “But you’ll have to excuse me. I’m not feeling so well and I’d like to get some sleep, if you don’t mind.”
    “No trouble at all, guv,” said the cabbie kindly, and he closed the glass partition. What did he care? The man was going his way and Joe Hyams Esquire wasn’t bothered if he kep t shtu m all the way home.
    Joe switched on the radio. The dark early November night was damp but not cold. Just the way he liked it. Although he preferred to do the North Circular, the shortest route was through the West End and City. Best not to bother the fare again, he thought. The man seemed all in. Must have had too much schnapps.
    Joe Hyams knew the way blindfolded. At Stratford Broadway he tired of listening to James Last and the other muzak of the night. As he leaned forward to switch off the radio, his horn-rims did their usual skiing act. He was always meaning to get his nephew Stephen the optician to tighten them up but never seemed to get around to it. “Maybe I should try out some contact lenses,” he muttered, suddenly startled by the sound of his own voice. Becky might fancy him more without glasses. She certainly couldn’t fancy him any less. That’s why she made him do nights. It was Becky’s way of saying she had a headache. On the other hand, maybe it was his own way of sayin g h e had a headache. The plain fact is, Joe Hyams, old boy, he mused, your whole bloody life is a headache. Your wife doesn’t understand you, and your two sons, glorified barrow boys each, areconsumed by dreams of bright-red Porsches. Love and respect for the father didn’t matter anymore. Not like the old days, when children catered to their father’s every whim and