The Oven Gloves at the Taxi Rank

The taxi rank in Ostwick has room for four cars, one wooden hut and a single bench that nobody trusts. On a hot afternoon in July, three of the cars are empty. The fourth, Lorenzo's, is making a noise like a kettle with a grudge. White steam leaks from under the bonnet in thin, determined lines.

Gunnar comes out of the hut with a sandwich in his hand. He has worked at this rank for twenty years, and he can diagnose most problems by sound alone.

"That is not a good noise," he says.

"It is a very good noise," says Lorenzo. "It tells me the engine is still alive. I just don't know how long it will stay that way."

Lorenzo is new. He bought the cab in spring from a man who promised that it was "full of character". So far, the character has included a broken radio, a door that opens only from outside and now this.

A customer is also waiting. She stands by the hut with a suitcase, looking at her watch. She needs to reach the junction station before the half-past-four train, and Lorenzo's cab is next in line. The next train after that, she mentions, is on Sunday.

"Twenty minutes," she says. "I can wait twenty minutes. After that I have to find a horse."

"There is no horse," says Gunnar. "Only me."

"Then take me," she says. "Please."

"I can't," he says, with real regret. "My cab is at the garage. Today I am only the man who answers the phone."

Lorenzo switches off the engine and lifts the bonnet. A cloud of steam rolls out and fogs his glasses. Under it, the radiator cap sits on its little metal neck, far too hot to touch. The manual says never to open it while the engine is warm, and for once the manual is right.

"We need to cool it down," Lorenzo says. "Fast. Does anyone have a cold cloth?"

Gunnar thinks. Then he disappears into the hut and returns with a pair of oven gloves shaped like crocodiles. They are bright green, with white felt teeth and round yellow eyes.

"My wife made them," he says, a little defensive. "She sells pasties from the hut in summer. They were meant to be a joke, but they are surprisingly thick."

"They are very thick," Lorenzo agrees. "They are also staring at me."

Gunnar is a man of action, and he does not wait to be told. He puts both hands into the crocodiles and reaches for the cap with a look of great confidence. The cap lets out a sharp hiss, like a snake that has been woken up. Gunnar yelps, jumps back and drops one crocodile in the gutter.

"Well," says Lorenzo, "that was brave."

"That was stupid," says Gunnar, shaking out his fingers. "I was in too much of a hurry. I nearly opened it like a jar of jam."

The customer checks her watch again. "Seventeen minutes."

Lorenzo stares at the engine, and then at the crocodile in the gutter. It lies on its back with its yellow eyes fixed on the sky. Something about the way it is lying makes him think of the water barrel behind the hut. The drivers keep it there for washing their cars.

"We don't touch the cap yet," he says slowly. "First we let the engine cool. Gunnar, soak both gloves in the barrel. Make them as wet as you can."

"Wet gloves on a hot engine?" says Gunnar. "I thought the whole point of gloves was to keep hands dry."

"The point is to keep my hands safe," Lorenzo answers. "Water takes the heat out of the metal. If we cool the hose and the cap, there is less pressure inside when we finally turn it."

Gunnar looks at him for a moment, then nods and runs. He comes back with the crocodiles dripping, one of them still wearing a leaf of lettuce on its nose. Lorenzo drapes the first glove over the top hose and the second over the cap, without touching either with his bare skin. They hiss at once and give off a thin smell of hot cotton. They wait one minute, and then another, while the customer watches in silence. Twice they dip the gloves again.

"Nine minutes," she says at last.

"I know," says Lorenzo. "Please don't say it again."

The steam has faded into a faint tick. Lorenzo puts his hand near the hose, and it is warm now, not scalding. He tells Gunnar to stand well back. Then he takes the cap through a layer of wet felt, turns his face away and turns it only a quarter of a turn. A short breath of steam escapes. He waits until it stops. He turns it a little more, and the cap lifts away in his hand like a coin.

Inside, the radiator is almost empty. The water level has dropped far below the line.

"That is the whole problem," says Gunnar. "It was dry. Nothing is wrong with the engine, it is simply thirsty."

"Then let's give it a drink," says Lorenzo. "Slowly. Is there anything in the hut?"

The only liquid in the hut is a case of bottled spring water that Gunnar's wife delivered on Monday. Together they pour six bottles into the radiator, a little at a time. The customer holds the bonnet up with both hands, her suitcase balanced on one knee. The water gurgles down. The steam thins out, shrinks to a wisp and disappears.

Lorenzo screws the cap back on, closes the bonnet, climbs in and turns the key. The engine coughs once, sighs, and begins to purr.

"Five minutes," announces the customer, already in the back seat. "Is it going to make it?"

"It has to," says Lorenzo. "I have a reputation to build."

He drives away from the rank slowly at first, to be safe, and then faster, down the long hill toward the junction. In his mirror he sees Gunnar standing in the road with a dripping crocodile on each hand. He waves them above his head like a man who has just won a small, strange war.

They reach the station with a minute to spare. The customer pays, runs across the car park with her suitcase bouncing behind her, and boards the train just as its doors begin to close.

When Lorenzo comes back to the rank, Gunnar is sitting on the untrustworthy bench with the gloves spread out to dry beside him. One of them is missing half a tooth.

"Good news," says Lorenzo. "She caught the train."

"Excellent," says Gunnar. He picks up the damaged crocodile and turns it over with a worried frown. "But tell me one thing. Who is going to explain to my wife that her best work has retired from the pasty business?"