Avenue Cars

Avenue CARS Chris Speck Copyright © 2023 Chris Speck Flat City Press Hull 2023 All rights reserved. ISBN-13: 9781739330804 ‘The weakest part of a car is the fool holding the steering wheel.’ BA Baracus - The A Team This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. CHAPTER ONE Bev The sign on the front of Avenue Cars was last painted properly in 1992 when Our Dave took over the business. He bought good quality paint from Derek at Chanterlands Ave Hardware shop down the road, and did a proper job, that’s why the sign still looks good more than twenty years later. Unlike the last owner, Our Dave knows that businesses and relationships require upkeep. A few months ago, he cleaned and painted the windows inside and out, and refitted the wire mesh across the glass at the front of his taxi office. There’s no need for a new sign, people like the old one. This is Chanterlands Avenue, Hull. People like things the way they have always been. You’d like Our Dave. Most people do, that’s why he’s Our Dave. If you need a hand with something and he’s got time, he’ll help, especially if it’s a woodwork job. In Steve’s Cycles next door, the counter is rock solid with a clever hatch that flips up. All the pews in the Catholic Church of St Vincent De Paul on Queens Road are fixed and will last for at least the next fifty years, you can lean on the steady false walls between the tanning rooms at Ultra Smile, and the sign above Dundee Street chip shop doesn’t fall off when it’s windy. Before Our Dave ran the taxi office here, he was a joiner out of the council and before that he served as an apprentice fitting ships and trawlers on Hessle Road. Our Dave knows that doing the job properly will make your life easier. He might be sixty or he might be sixty-five, or fifty-eight, but he’s slim, with strong arms, big hands and a bald head, a light grey beard and a smile for anyone. He listens as well as he talks, wears shirts with the sleeves rolled up and spends less time than you would have thought at his allotment for the amount of food it produces. Our Dave opens the front door of the taxi office and the little shiny bell above jingles. It’s early Friday afternoon. There aren’t a lot of customers these days. He holds it open and a woman with a dark green headscarf walks in behind him. There are benches of solid wood around the outside of the waiting office and a locked door, beside is a square mesh where customers can tell the receptionist where they’re going. A woman with bleached blonde hair and black eyeliner looks out from behind it. “Let us in,” says Our Dave. “Why don’t you come in the back way like you normally do?” asks the blonde. Nobody uses the front door anymore, for the taxi business is not what it used to be. Our Dave has only got three drivers including himself, four with the woman who follows behind him. There are hardly any walk-ins and all his jobs come from the council. It’s a miracle that he’s still open. “I just wanted to show Dilva here the front door.” There’s the sound of a bolt sliding across, and then the yale key turning in the double lock, it opens and the white-haired blonde looks up at Dave from inside. This is Bev. She is five foot one but fierce for her size, slim and with big blue eyes that have crows’ feet because she is just into her fifties. She’s wearing an off the shoulder summer blouse that shows the top of her shoulders and cocks her head at the woman with the green headscarf who follows Our Dave into the office. “Who’s this?” she asks. Our Dave turns and smiles at her from his six foot two. He has a light tan from spending so much time on his allotment behind Newland Ave. “She’s going to be a new driver.” Bev narrows her eyes and looks the woman up and down. She has brown skin with high cheekbones and smooth mahogany eyes. The green headscarf is not tight to her head and only just covers her long black hair. “She’ll not be taking over any of my runs,” snaps Bev. Dave holds up his hand as if to stop her. “This is Dilva, she’s a Kurdish lass. She’ll be doing a few new trips that I’ve got lined up, starting next week.” The Kurdish woman looks at Bev with a fixed, neutral stare and Bev glares back. Like two big cats in the jungle, neither can work out if the other is a friend, but neither will give way for the time being. “We’ll I don’t like her, Dave, she can stay out of my way.” It’s unnecessarily rude. This is Bev all over. She comes from a long line of Hull women who, at least in public, are unable to show any emotion except strength or sarcasm. “You’ve not been asked to like her,” says Our Dave, he knows Bev is worried more than angry, and will be nervous of someone new. Dilva steps through the door behind and into Avenue Cars. It’s dim and a bit run down with an odd collection of shabby seats, an old armchair in the corner, and the smell of damp masked by air freshener. Our Dave turns round in front of her. “Here we are,” he says. Across Hull and East Yorkshire there are a range of special children who for many reasons attend schools far away from where they live. They