Waterloo Station and joined the other waiting taxis, hoping to get away quickly with a decent fare. It would be my first that day, and my last, because of what was about to happen. This was one day I will never forget.
I drove my cab along the ever-increasing queue of punters, some tired from their journey, some excited and coming home to loved ones, until it was my turn. There they were, four extremely attractive, teenage American girls. They wanted to hear a Cockney accent but were not too disappointed when all I could provide was an Irish brogue. We laughed and joked in the usual way. They told me they were all from New York â from, of all places, Manhattan. They said they had spent some time touring around Europe and London was their last city to visit. The next day they would all fly home from Heathrow. They were very exited about grabbing a tour bus in order to see London, âthe greatest city in the worldâ.
These lovely New Yorkers were all much larger than me so I did not get in their way as they loaded their own luggage into the baggage compartment. I might have been squashed in the process.
âWhere to, ladies?â I enquired. They told me they wanted the Lancaster Hotel in Bayswater, so off we went, manoeuvring withease around Hyde Park Corner, up Park Lane, around Marble Arch and into Bayswater Road.
It was then that I turned on the radio. I heard the announcer say these two words, âNew Yorkâ, followed by the word âManhattanâ. (As I remember this, a tear has fallen on my keyboard and Iâve had to take a break to dry my eyes so I can continue with this sad tale.)
One of the American girls asked me to turn up the volume and we heard the newsreader say that a plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers in Manhattan. He said six people had been killed. (How wrong was that man.) He then went on to say in a broken and shaky voice that another plane had crashed into the second tower, and that both buildings were beginning to collapse.
The American girls were weeping and screaming in the back. Tragically, they all had relatives working in the Twin Towers on that fateful day. We were only a few minutes away from the hotel, so I put my foot down to get them to their destination as quickly as possible. The situation was getting out of hand and I couldnât handle it. When we arrived at the Lancaster I ran into the foyer and alerted the head porter, who then emerged with the concierge and another porter. The girls were now guests of the Lancaster Hotel and it was up to the staff to look after them.
I did not take a fare from these distressed girls, it would have been inappropriate. I never saw any of them again but they pop into my mind quite regularly. I hope they all recovered from their awful ordeal in London. As for me, I drove my cab straight home to get over my traumatic day.
Chapter 9
It was April 1984. I was hailed in the street by a man who wanted me to drive him to an address in St Jamesâs Square. When we arrived at the destination, my customer paid the fare and went on his way. I started to leave the Square but my movement was blocked by a chanting crowd of dissident Libyans who were opposed to the dictatorial rule of Colonel Gadaffi. They had gathered just across the road from their embassy and were blocking my exit. A young policewoman cleared a way for me and I was off out into Lower Regent Street with my âFor Hireâ light blazing away in order to attract my next customer.
Later I heard on the radio that an automatic gun had sprayed a volley of bullets from the window of the embassy. Around thirteen Libyan protesters were wounded and one policewoman was shot dead. This was the very same lady who had freed me from the Square minutes earlier. I was in the line of fire ten minutes before that murder. It just goes to show that you never know when your time is up.
This poor woman was only doing her job. She was WPC Yvonne Fletcher and thanks to
I drove my cab along the ever-increasing queue of punters, some tired from their journey, some excited and coming home to loved ones, until it was my turn. There they were, four extremely attractive, teenage American girls. They wanted to hear a Cockney accent but were not too disappointed when all I could provide was an Irish brogue. We laughed and joked in the usual way. They told me they were all from New York â from, of all places, Manhattan. They said they had spent some time touring around Europe and London was their last city to visit. The next day they would all fly home from Heathrow. They were very exited about grabbing a tour bus in order to see London, âthe greatest city in the worldâ.
These lovely New Yorkers were all much larger than me so I did not get in their way as they loaded their own luggage into the baggage compartment. I might have been squashed in the process.
âWhere to, ladies?â I enquired. They told me they wanted the Lancaster Hotel in Bayswater, so off we went, manoeuvring withease around Hyde Park Corner, up Park Lane, around Marble Arch and into Bayswater Road.
It was then that I turned on the radio. I heard the announcer say these two words, âNew Yorkâ, followed by the word âManhattanâ. (As I remember this, a tear has fallen on my keyboard and Iâve had to take a break to dry my eyes so I can continue with this sad tale.)
One of the American girls asked me to turn up the volume and we heard the newsreader say that a plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers in Manhattan. He said six people had been killed. (How wrong was that man.) He then went on to say in a broken and shaky voice that another plane had crashed into the second tower, and that both buildings were beginning to collapse.
The American girls were weeping and screaming in the back. Tragically, they all had relatives working in the Twin Towers on that fateful day. We were only a few minutes away from the hotel, so I put my foot down to get them to their destination as quickly as possible. The situation was getting out of hand and I couldnât handle it. When we arrived at the Lancaster I ran into the foyer and alerted the head porter, who then emerged with the concierge and another porter. The girls were now guests of the Lancaster Hotel and it was up to the staff to look after them.
I did not take a fare from these distressed girls, it would have been inappropriate. I never saw any of them again but they pop into my mind quite regularly. I hope they all recovered from their awful ordeal in London. As for me, I drove my cab straight home to get over my traumatic day.
Chapter 9
It was April 1984. I was hailed in the street by a man who wanted me to drive him to an address in St Jamesâs Square. When we arrived at the destination, my customer paid the fare and went on his way. I started to leave the Square but my movement was blocked by a chanting crowd of dissident Libyans who were opposed to the dictatorial rule of Colonel Gadaffi. They had gathered just across the road from their embassy and were blocking my exit. A young policewoman cleared a way for me and I was off out into Lower Regent Street with my âFor Hireâ light blazing away in order to attract my next customer.
Later I heard on the radio that an automatic gun had sprayed a volley of bullets from the window of the embassy. Around thirteen Libyan protesters were wounded and one policewoman was shot dead. This was the very same lady who had freed me from the Square minutes earlier. I was in the line of fire ten minutes before that murder. It just goes to show that you never know when your time is up.
This poor woman was only doing her job. She was WPC Yvonne Fletcher and thanks to
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