Free Give The Devil His Due by H G White Page A

living with me. I explained prison and the drink-driving conviction and managed to convince him it was due to the marriage break-up and it was all ancient history. Neil hadn't re-offended since (at least I hoped he hadn't).
           Alan listened. At the end he just said, ‘Bring him to see me this Thursday. If everything's as you say we'll accept the application.’
           ‘Thanks Alan.’
           Result! I came away from the greasy spoon smiling. Back home I phoned Peach with the news. He was ecstatic.
           ‘All we've got to do is try and get Neil down here for Thursday.’
           With that in mind I told Peachy to get off the line so I could phone Neil's mum. It was now past 1 p.m. I’d been trying Neil's mum since just after ten when finally Neil's dad picked up – not the voice I wanted to hear. I asked to speak to Mrs Fairburn, knowing that if I gave the message to her it would definitely get to Neil. His old man might not bother if asked to do the same thing. Neil's mum came on the line. Peachy’s presumption was correct, they had indeed been away on holiday and had not long arrived back.
           I related everything Trev and I’d agreed upon, then said my goodbyes. It was now a case of wait and hope for the best ...
           A quick phone call to the archivist and off to work; I had to keep the wolves from the door. It was raining and that usually meant things were busier. But it also meant I’d get wet, in and out of the cab to put shopping in the boot. By late afternoon the rain had eased. I had a call dispatched to me.
           ‘Car 23?’
           I replied, ‘Car 23.’
           ‘Car 23, go to Tesco's for Mrs Smythe-White.’
           Mrs Smythe-White was a woman with attitude. When you arrived at the supermarket there was usually a group of people waiting for taxis. The standard operating procedure was to get out of the cab and call the surname of the person you were there to pick up. They would bring their trolley to the cab you’d help them load their shopping then depart. That's how it worked.
           Not if you were Mrs Smythe-White.
           Upon announcement of her name, Mrs Smythe-White would flick her thumb and forefinger then give the royal command, ‘Ovaar hyaar drivaar!’ She would then point to the trolley as she majestically strolled away from it and got into the back seat of the cab. At this point it was the servant/driver's responsibility to take the trolley to the cab, deal with the contents and return the trolley to the store while Lady S-W waited in the back of the carriage.
           A similar sequence of events took place on arrival at S-W Towers (a 1930s 3-bed semi). It wasn't in the worst part of town, but it certainly wasn't any great shakes either. Mrs S-W used to rile every single driver on the fleet, except the very anti-establishment Martin Sedgely.
           I once asked Mart how he could cope with her without getting the red mist. Mart said, ‘Because I get payback, man!’
           ‘Payback?’
           ‘Yeah, next time you pick her up and she does her ladyship-thing, while you're loading the boot, squeeze her loaf of bread, hot cross buns or whatever. When she has her tea and toast in the morning, she's gonna have a fuckin’ mighty thick slice to put in her toaster. Try it man; it works.’
           I did, and Mart, as usual, was right. Soon the whole fleet was getting payback. She must have thought the sliced bread in Tesco's had become pretty substandard. It didn't make any difference which brand she bought. It was all one big slice. I picked up Mrs Smythe-White, shopping et al and dropped her off at S-W Towers, had a little chuckle to myself and went home.
           Shortly after arriving I rang Phil and explained everything about Neil. He was shocked and upset in the same way both Trev and I had been. I kept our chat brief because, for all I knew, Neil