The Silent Cab Driver

The Silent Cab Driver

You never listen, do you!

The words echoed off the kitchen tiles as I slammed my plate into the sink, sending a spray of water toward the ceiling. Eleven years. The same words, the same walls. And without fail, he always said it firstas if I were the only one at fault, as if everything was always down to me.

Edward stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded. Nearly forty now, but when he argued, he was as stubborn and infuriating as a schoolboy, determined to have the last word. Over the years, Id memorised that look: the clenched jaw, eyes cast somewhere past my shoulder. He turned away, staring out the window, making it clear the conversation was over.

But for me, it had only just begun.

You forgot to ring my mum, I said, voice trembling. Shes sixty-three, Ed. She waited all day. Not for a giftjust a call. Three minutes, thats all. And you couldnt manage it.

I forgot, it happens. Don’t make such a fuss.

It happens? You forget every time. Anniversaries, birthdays, even mine last yearforgot?

Weve had this out a thousand times already. I apologised then.

Apologised and then forgot again! Am I supposed to remind you every time? What am Ia walking alarm clock?

He turned toward me, eyes weary and sharp. You never listen, he repeated quietly. I say one thing, you hear another. Im tired of explaining myself.

I snatched my jacket off the hook, fingers fumbling for my phone in the pocket.

Where are you going?

To see mum.

Always your mum. Every time, off to your mum.

I didnt answer. The door snapped shut behind me, and the chill of a March evening flooded over me as I left the block of flats. My fingers darted over the screenthin, knuckly from a lifetime of clenching whenever I got wound up. Call a cab. Finchley. Card payment. Three-minute wait.

I lingered by the entrance, collar up, staring at our second-floor windows. I felt cold. And angry. And mostly angry at myselffor being the one to shout, for always letting it get this far. The kitchen light was still on. He must still be standing there. Arms folded. Waiting for me to come back.

I wouldnt go back. Not tonight.

A dark car pulled up alongside the curb, noiseless as a whisper. I clambered into the back, not looking at the driver. The interior smelt of pinereal pine, not some green plastic tree on the mirror, but an earthy, comforting tang, as if there was a branch stashed somewhere under the mat. It was completely quiet. No radio, no sat-nav voice, no music. Nothing but the soft blue glow of the route on the dashboard.

The driver nodded, eyes glancing once at the sat-nav, and we eased out onto the road.

I pressed my forehead to the cold window and closed my eyes, desperate for just a minutes peace. But there was no peace, not really. Everything inside was in turmoil; the words battered at me from the inside. Id stormed out, left my husband mid-argument and run off to my mums againfor the tenth time in the last three years. Every time, I promised myself that was it, the last time. Every time, I broke that promise.

Were we ever going to break out of this?

Sorry, I said to the empty quiet, not sure if he could hear me. But I need to talk. I have to say this out loud. Just to someone.

The silence lingered. He didnt answer. But he didnt say no either. I took that for permission.

Weve been married eleven years, I began, my voice wobbling almost immediately. I married him at twenty-five, thought Id found someone who really understood me. Who listened when I spoke, who wouldnt turn away when I was struggling.

Streetlamps flashed by. Finchley was familiar, every corner and light. They looked as indifferent as the night itself. The car coasted through a gentle turn and I swayed with it.

And then everything became the same. Do you know that feeling? Every argument, a copy of the last. He says I dont listen. I say he doesnt hear me. And both of us are right, and neither of us, and nothing we do ever seems to help. Quiet talksweve tried. Silent treatmentsdone those too. Couples counsellingEd quit after the third session. Said, Im not paying some bloke to tell me how to live. And that was that.

I caught the drivers gaze in the mirroreyes wide-set, dark gold and creased at the corners. He was focused on the road, but glanced at me for a moment, not judging. Justit seemedto note that I was there.

I went on, words needing out.

***

Do you know what hurts the most? I said to no one in particular, watching the dark houses speed by. Its that, honestly, hes good. Ed is a good man. Doesnt drink, doesnt mess around, brings his wages home. When I was ill three years agocaught a terrible chest infectionhe never left my bedside. Made soup. Terrible, oversalted soup, but he tried.

The car shifted lanes gently. The sat-nav reroutedtraffic up ahead, perhaps. I noticed it still hadnt spoken. Odd. Most sat-navs drone on about turn left in three hundred yards. Not this one. I guessed the driver just liked silence. I understood that.

But he doesnt hear me, I whispered. Not really. Not deliberatelyhe just cant. I tell him Im worn out, Im lonely, I just need him to nod and say its alright. And all I get back is, What more do you want? Weve got a flat, a car, I go to work.

This silence wasnt the tense sort, nor cold or indifferent. It was more like an empty room you could shout in without anyone frowning at you. A strange thought, likening a cab to an empty room. I must have sounded mad to him.

Still, I felt lighter for speaking.

We argue over nonsense. Today it was mums birthday. Last week, it was a wet towel left on the bed. A wet towel! I yelled as if hed sold the house out from under us. He yelled back that I was always picking on him. And both of us were right. And both of us, wrong.

I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand. Mascara probably everywhere, but who cared? Mum would see me blotchy and red-eyed, and either way shed be more worried if I phoned in tears than if I just turned up.

My friendsI cant call them. Emilys out in the country, barely any signal. Margarets husband has just had an operation, she hasnt the time. And theres no calling mum in tearsthat puts her up all night, worrying and checking her phone every hour. Thats why I come in personso she can see for herself Im fine, still in one piece. She opens the door, takes one look at me, and just puts the kettle on.

I checked the mirror again. The drivers calm, square hands lay easy on the wheel, each finger thick as a marker pen. Solid, broad-shouldered man, maybe past fifty. He nodded softly, at something only he knew. Or maybe the road dipped.

But I took it as encouragement. I kept talking. Didnt matter anymore what he thought. In that moment, I forgot he was a stranger; I was just talking to myself.

I know Im to blame too. I shout as well. I say things I cant take back. Yesterday I told him, maybe it was a mistake us getting married. Saw his face twist, but I couldnt stop myself. You know that feeling? When youre off on a tirade, and you hear yourself from the outside, saying awful things, but just cant stop?

We passed a petrol station. Neon lights flickered through the taxi, then died. For a moment I remembered midnight drives there with Ed, grabbing coffee from the machine, simply because we liked being out together.

Yesterday he said, You never listen, and I thoughthes right. I dont listen, not really. I wait for him to stop talking so I can get my bit in. Thats not listening. Thats queuing up your go. Theres a big difference.

Tears were gone now, somewhere back on the North Circular. My voice was steady. Each word spoken out loud seemed to lift a little of the weight. It felt, if not good, at least easier.

I thinkI think what scares us most is that the other might leave. And so we shout, to stop ourselves being the one left behind. Round and round. Shouting until we cant, then silence until it hurts, then shouting again. And I have no idea how to step out of it.

The driver moved into the inside lane. I caught his glance in the mirrorwarm, gold. He looked at me properly, for a second, then back to the road. No pity. No annoyance. Just, I suppose, being present.

That was enough. Presence, without judgement, was what I had sorely missed.

***

When I was twenty-five, do you know what I dreamed of? I almost managed a laugh, though it came out lopsided. Coming home and being asked, How was your day?and him really meaning it. Not out of politeness, or habit, but actually interested. Wanting to know what I think, what I feel, what scares me. Is that so much to ask?

The car slipped off the main road onto a narrower street. Trees closed in, making the inside darker. I could barely make out the outline of the driver nowbroad-shouldered, close-cropped hair, the sat-nav screen glowing softly but speaking no words.

But hed walk in and say, Whats for tea? And Id think, well, thats men for you. Itll get better in time. And it didnt. Not at first. It just faded, like water cooling from warm, to tepid, to cold. One day you realise youre standing under a freezing shower, and you cant remember when it last felt warm.

I fell quiet. Ten seconds, maybe fifteen. In that silence, I heard my own heartbeat pounding. Not from fearrelief. Id said out loud what Id never told anyone before. Not even mum. Or Emily. And strangely, there was no shame. Only lightness.

Perhaps because he kept silent as well. No well, you know really No advice. No eye-rolling. Justlet me fill the space any way I needed.

Ive thought about divorce, I admitted in barely a whisper. Three times these past two years. Ive counted. First, when Ed forgot our anniversary. I set the table, wore a dress, bought wine, and he walked in asking What are we celebrating? I locked myself in the bathroom for half an hour. Just sat there, on the floor, in silence.

The driver nodded again. Or so I thought.

Second time was when I was ill and he looked after me for weeks, and then never let me forget it. Every time I asked for something, it was Do you remember how I nursed you? And you barely said thanks! I said thanks. Dozens of times. He just didnt hear. Or chose not to.

And thirdtonight. When he said again, You never listen. And I realised those words meant nothing. Like a wall you bang your head againstit hurts, but youre used to it.

But I realised something else: I wouldnt leave. Not for the flat, not just out of habit. Because I still remembered how he can be. Not angry, not tired, not at workjust him, the way I married him. The way he smiles with his eyes. Sunday mornings, when he brings me tea in bed. The way he fixes my collar when he thinks Im not looking.

We stopped at a red light. The cars interior glowed scarlet, and I saw the drivers face in profilecalm, composed. Unhurried. The stillness you get from people whove outgrown the need for fuss.

I think we simply never learnt how to talk to each other. Or never learnt to keep it gentle. Maybe we shout because its all we know. My parents shouted a lot too. Dad left when I was fourteen. Mum raised me alone. I swore things would be different for me. That Id be patient, wise, that Id hold my family together.

The light switched. The car moved off. I thought: here I am, in tears all over again.

But patience isnt silence. Patience is hearing and not exploding. I just go quiet until finally I blow and the windows rattle. All these yearsit wasnt patience, just bottling it up.

Seven minutes to Finchley. Nearly there.

And suddenly, I didnt feel like I wanted to leave the car. Not because I didnt want to see mum, but because for the first time in ages, it was really, truly quiet inside me. Nobody arguing. Nobody correcting. Just space.

Spacehealing space. I felt the weight in my shoulders slip away, that heavy hunch from an evening waiting to be struck.

I think Ive told you more than Ive told anyone for years, I said, surprised by the thought myself. And you havent interrupted once. Not given advice. Not said Have you tried talking calmly?as if that hadnt occurred to me. As if I havent tried.

Still, he said nothing. For the first time all day, I was grateful for silence. My shoulders finally dropped, no longer raised as if waiting for the next blow.

Thank you, I said. Im sure you get all sorts in your cab. Women like me, pouring their hearts out. But stillthank you.

***

We turned onto mums road. I recognised the fencestill green from last autumns paint. The lamppost by the gate. Light in the kitchen window. Mum stayed up late now, said she liked to read, but really I knew she waitedevery Friday, just in case.

Here, please, I said.

The driver braked to a gentle stop. Killed the engine.

The card payment went through automatically. I glanced at him.

Thank you, I said again, putting everything I could into it. You listened better in an hour than my husband has in years. I mean it.

He turned towards me, catching me off guard. For the first time, I saw all his face: broad, calm, eyes the colour of dark honey. He smileda gentle, warm smileraised his hand, and touched his fingertips to his lips, lowering them in a simple, graceful gesture.

Thank youin sign.

I froze. He handed me a business card: small, white, big print. I took it, read:

Driver Thomas. Deaf. If you ever need to get it off your chest againcall me. I literally wont tell a soul.

I looked up at him.

He hadnt heard a single word in that entire hour. Id spilled my heart out to a man who couldnt have made out a sound. Not about Ed. Not about eleven years. Not about the soup, or divorce, or the wet towel. Nothing.

He simply drove. Silent not by choice, but by nature. And he nodded, because sometimes a look in the mirror is enough to understand someone needs you there.

Now the silent sat-nav made sensehe didnt need instructions he couldnt hear. He watched, and read, and listened his own way.

I laughed. For the first time all dayhonestly, freely. The sort of laugh you give when life is both daft and wonderful, and tears are pointless.

Thomas smiled along. Gave me a thumbs up. Then pressed his palm to his heart in another silent gestureI didnt know what it meant, but somehow felt it meant everything.

I stepped out. Paused by the gate, clutching the card. Looked backhe stayed until I was inside, headlights blinking once as I waved.

Mum opened the door before I knocked. Catherine Evans, sixty-three, ex-librarian, the sort of mum who always knows when to put the kettle on and when to stay silent.

Off with your coat, she said. The teas ready.

I dropped my shoes, hung my jacket, and sat at the kitchen table: the same table Id done my homework at, where Id cried at eighteen after my first break-up.

Again? Mum asked, not judging, just checking.

Again, I replied.

She set a mug in front of me, pushed the jam overhome-made blackcurrant, from last summer. I wrapped my hands around the mug. Hot. Needed that.

Mum, I said. You wont believe what just happened.

Ill try, she said, settling across from me.

And I told her. About the cab. About the silence. How Id spilled everything for an hourand he hadnt heard a single word. About the card.

She listened. No interruptions. No headshaking. When I finished, she poured herself tea.

You know, she said, when your father left, I spent months talking to the fridge. Genuinely. Id get home, open the door, and tell it allmy boss, my pay, the leaking roof. It hummed, I talked. It helped.

Mum, its a fridge.

And your drivers deaf. Does it matter whos at the other end? Its not about who listens. Its about finally saying it all out loud. When thoughts buzz in your head, theyre like bees in a jarrelentless, inescapable. Let them out, and they settle.

I sipped my tea, burnt my lip, blew on it.

I told him I thought about divorce.

Told Ed?

No, the cabbie.

Well, hes safe. He literally cant repeat it.

I laughed again. So did she. Sitting at this kitchen table, in the home I grew up in, we laughed at lifes weirdness. At the fact the best listener Id had in years hadnt heard a syllable. At how that made everything lighter. At how sometimes the universe gives you exactly what you need, just not how you expected.

Then Mum grew solemn. So, tell me honestlyare you really considering divorce?

I was silent. Rolled the mug in my hands.

I dont know. Sometimes I do. And then I remember how he fixes my collar when he thinks Im not looking, and I knowno. I dont want to be without him.

Then stop shouting and start listening, Mum said softly. I never learned how. I lost your dad, not because he was bad, but because both of us chose not to hear. Not like your driverreally deafbut deaf by choice. Thats worse.

I looked at her. She turned her face to the window, hiding her feelings as she always didand as Id learned to do.

Ive thought about it for twenty years, she continued. I still regret not saying, Lets just talk. Not shout. No blame. Just tell me what hurts. Maybe hed have stayed. Maybe not. But at least Id have tried.

No words came. I wanted to say something wise; nothing did.

Go to bed in your room, Mum said, lighter now. Ive made it up. Knew youd come.

How did you know?

Friday, full moon. You and Edalways a row at full moon.

I nearly objected, remembered the last few arguments, and stayed quiet. Maybe she had a point.

In my old room, on the narrow lumpy bed, I stared at the ceiling for ages. Thomas card lay on the bedside table, white even in the gloom.

The best listener Id ever met hadnt heard a thing. Id told him what I never told anyonejust because hed stayed silent, without judgement or advice. Just space. Quiet. Space big enough to fill with all the things Id been carrying.

Maybe I didnt need answers. Maybe I just needed to hear myself.

I liked that thought. Turned over and slept.

***

Next morning, I woke to the phone buzzing on the bedside. Eds name on the screen.

I looked at it. Normally, Id answer at the first ringso I could speak first, so I could set the tone, be in charge. Today, I waited.

Rob, he saidmy name soft, tired. Ive not slept. Rob, Im sorry.

I said nothing. Waited.

I should have rung Catherine. I remembered, all day. Then work called, I got distracted. Not because I dont care. I forgot because Im an idiot. And what I saidabout you not listeningthats me. Thats me not listening. You talk, and I just wait for my turn. It isnt listening.

He stopped. I realised he expected me to jump inair my grievances, offer forgiveness, fire back a sharp remark. Waited for the old pattern.

But I sat there, cross-legged, quietly listening. Not planning a reply. Not gathering my case. Not prepping a retort. Just listening.

And I heard him. Maybe for the first time in years.

You still there? he asked, nervous.

Yes, I said. Im listening.

He paused. Then, That might be the first time youve said that. Usually, you start talking straight away. Nowjust listening. Its odd, but itsgood.

I smiled. He couldnt see it, but I did.

Come home, he said gently. Please.

I will. Not right now. Once Ive had tea with Mum.

He laughed, soft and grateful.

Alright. Ill wait. In the meantime, Ill ring Catherine, wish her happy birthdaylates better than never.

I put down the phone, sat a moment, looking out at mums bare garden. Buds on the branches. March. Spring on the way.

Pulled my jacket from the chair. Fished out Thomas business card. Read it again.

Driver Thomas. Deaf. If you ever need to get it off your chest againcall me. I literally wont tell a soul.

I opened my messenger and typed: Thomas, its your chatty passenger from last night. Just wanted to sayyoure the best listener Ive met. Doesnt matter if you didnt hear. Thank you.

Reply came in under a minute. Three emojis: smile, car, hand up. And the words: Glad to help. Do come again. My silence is free of charge.

I found myself laughingthird time in a day. I thought: Funny, really. You scream for years to be heard. Then you sit in a cab, talk for an hour, and nobody hears. And thats what finally saves you.

Because sometimes, whether anyone hears you or not doesnt matter. Sometimes, you just need to say it out loud.

Mum poked her head round the door.

Breakfast?

Yes, please.

And I went to the kitchen. I kept Thomas card in my pocketnot as a contact, but as a reminder.

That the best conversation in my life was with someone whod never heard a word. That the most important voice to listen to is your own. That, sometimes, its best just to be quiet and let the other person speak. Exactly as Thomas did. And exactly how I, for once, did with Ed.

You never listen, he said last night.

Today, for the first time in a long time, I truly did.