The Taxi Driver Who Was Silent
You never listen!
I hurled the plate into the sink so hard that water sprayed halfway up the tiles. Eleven years. The same words bouncing off the same walls. And every time, he would start itlike I was the only one to blame, like it was always me responsible for everything.
James stood in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across his chest. Nearly forty, and still fighting like a stubborn schoolboypetulant, insistent, relentless to the last word. His jaw clenched. His eyes looked somewhere over my shoulder. He turned his back to the window, as though the discussion was settled.
But for me, it had only just begun.
You forgot to call Mum, I said, my voice already trembling. My mum. Shes sixty-three. She waited all day. Not for a presentjust for a phone call. Three minutes. You couldnt manage it.
I forgot. These things happen. Why are you making a mountain out of a molehill?
Do they? But its every time. You forget birthdays, our anniversary, my birthday last yearyou forgot that too?
Weve been over this a thousand times. I apologised then.
Yes, and then you forgot again! Is it my job to remind you every time? What am I, your alarm clock?
He turned to me, his eyes tired and fierce.
You never listen, he repeated, quietly this time. I say one thing, you hear another. Im tired of explaining myself.
I grabbed my coat off the hook and fumbled my phone from the pocket.
Where are you going?
To Mums.
To your mums. Every time, its to your mum.
I didnt hear the rest. The door slammed shut behind me, and the crisp March chill of the stairwell rushed round me. My fingers danced nervously over the phonebony and sharp-edged from years of clenching my fists when I was upset. Order a taxi. Bromley. Card payment. Three minutes wait.
I stood outside, coat collar up, staring up at our window on the second floor. I was cold. Angry. Ashamed of myselffor shouting again, once more. The kitchen light was still on. He was standing there, arms folded, waiting to see if Id come back.
But I wouldnt. Not tonight.
A dark car pulled up, almost soundlessly, by the kerb. I got into the back seat, not bothering to look at the driver. The interior smelled of fresh pinenot the artificial air freshener kind, but as if someone had tucked real sprigs beneath the mats. And it was quiet. Utterly quiet. No radio, no satnav voice, no music. Just the route glowing on the dashboard screen, pale blue and calm.
The driver nodded at the satnav, and we set off.
I leaned against the glass and closed my eyes. I just needed a minutes silence. But silence didnt come. My thoughts were bubbling and words wanted out. Id just slammed the door. Id left my husband mid-argument and was rushing to Mums, again, as I had at least ten times in the past three years. Each time I swore: never again, this is the last. And each time I broke it.
Is this how well always be? Right to the end?
Sorry, I said to the emptiness of the cab. Im about to start talking. Do you mind? I really need to say it all out loud. To anyone, really.
Silence. No reply. But he didnt object. I took that as a yes.
Weve been married eleven years, I started, barely steady. I married him at twenty-five, thinking Id finally found someone who understood. Someone who would hear me. Who wouldnt turn his back when things were hard.
Streetlights flashed past outside New Addingtons familiar avenues. I knew every lamppost, and each seemed just as indifferent as the evening itself. The car drifted around a gentle bend, and I swayed lightly with it.
And then it all became samey. Do you know what I mean? Every rowsame pattern. He says I dont listen. I say he doesnt hear me. And somehow, were both right and both wrong. Weve tried everythingspeaking calmly, staying silent. We tried couples counsellingJames refused after the third session. Said, Im not paying someone to tell me how to live my life.
I caught the drivers gaze in the rear-view mirror. His eyesdark gold, kindly, with lines from constant squinting. He watched the road, but for an instant, his gaze flicked to mine in the mirror. Not judgmental. Justit registered that I was there.
So I went on. I needed to. It was that, or break.
***
You know whats most upsetting? I said to the darkness outside, to the racing headlights of Beckenham whizzing by. The real hurt ishes actually a decent man. James is decent. He doesnt drink, doesnt stray, brings his pay home. When I caught bronchitis three years back and it became pneumonia, he sat by the bed for a fortnight, made me souphorrible, too salty, but he made it.
The car took a smooth detour. The satnav rerouted us, probably dodging traffic. Still no voicejust silent directions. Maybe the driver just liked the hush. I understood.
But he doesnt hear me, I said, softer now. Not in a mean way, really. He just cant. I tell him Im struggling, Im lonely, I need him to just nod, to register something. He says, What more do you want? Youve got a flat, a car, Im working.
The silence in that cab felt different. Not tense, not indifferent. Like the walls of an empty roomwhere you could scream, and not be judged. Odd what your mind comes up with. Comparing a taxi to a quiet room. I must have been truly worn down.
But it helped. Really, it did.
We row about nothing. Todayabout Mums birthday. Last weekit was about a wet towel left on the bed. A wet towel! I yelled as if hed sold the house. He yelled back that I was nitpicking. Both of us right. Both wrong.
I rubbed my eyes with my knucklesno doubt mascara smudged, but what did it matter? I was seeing Mum. Mum had seen me smeared, bare, swollen from tears. She didnt care about faces. She just wanted me there.
Cant phone friends. Sarahs at her allotment, phone barely works. Claireher husbands in hospital, shes got enough on. And ringing Mum in tears will just scare her. Shell stay up all night, checking her phone at every ping. So I always show up in person, so she can seesee that Im okay, alive, in one piece. Mum opens the door, reads my face, and never says a word. Just puts the kettle on.
I glanced at the mirror again. The drivers hands, broad and square, rested steadily on the wheel. He was a strong man, probably over fifty. He dipped his head slightly, as if agreeing with something in his own thoughts. Or maybe the road just sloped.
I took it as go on. So I did. I forgot I was pouring things out to a stranger and just let it all out, as if I was talking to myself.
Im no angel, either. I get that. I scream too. Say things I can never take back. Yesterday I told him: maybe we should never have married. I saw his face twist. Still, I couldnt stop. You know that feeling? When youre being carried away, listening to yourself from the outside, knowing its awful, but unable to stop?
We passed a petrol station. Neon lights flickered over the seats, quickly fading. I thoughtJames and I used to drive here for late-night coffee from the machine. For no real reason, just because we loved being together.
He told me last night, You never listen. And I realisedhes right. I really dont. I just wait for him to finish so I can say my bit. That isnt listening. Thats biding your turn. Worlds apart.
I wasnt crying any more. The tears had dried up somewhere at the roundabout outside Beckenham. My voice was calm, almost flat. Each spoken word lightened something inside me. I felt myself slowly growing lighter.
I wonder if were both scared of the same thingof the other leaving. So we scream, to try and keep each other there, to avoid being the one left first. This odd way to hold on. Scream till youre spent, then go silent till it aches, and then do it all again. Ive no idea how to break the cycle.
He drifted to the left-hand lane. I caught his eye in the mirrorwarm and gold. He looked at me for a moment, and then back to the road. No pity, no boredom, no annoyance. Justbeing there.
And it was enough. It really, really wasjust having someone present, gently, without pressure.
***
Do you know what I dreamed about, at twenty-five? I almost smiled, lopsided. To come home, have him ask, How was your day? and mean it. Not out of politeness, not because hes supposed to, but because he truly wants to know what Im thinking, how I feel, what frightens me. Is it really too much?
The car turned off the main road onto a narrow lane. Trees loomed closer, pressing darkness against the windows. I could just about see his silhouette at the wheelbroad shoulders, close-cropped hair. The silent satnav still glowing, still not uttering a word, just glowing.
Hed come in and say, Whats for dinner? And Id thinknever mind, thats just what men are like. Itll get better. But it got colder, not better. Gradually, like a tap running cool, then chilly, then icy. And before you know it, youre standing under freezing water and cant remember when it was warm.
I fell quiet. Ten seconds, maybe fifteen. In that hush, I noticed how hard my heart poundednot from fear, but relief. Id just poured out everything to a stranger, things Id never said to anyonenot even to Mum, or to Sarah. I didnt feel ashamed. I felt lighter.
Maybe because he truly said nothing. Not the fake hush that comes with Well, you know what you should do or What did you expect? No advice, no eye rolls, no judgment. Justquiet companionship.
Ive thought about divorce, I confessed, nearly a whisper. Three times, these last two years. I counted. First time was after James forgot our anniversary. Id set the breakfast table, put on my dress, bought wine. He came home from work and just said, What are we celebrating? I locked myself in the bathroom for half an hour. Just sat on the floor, silent.
He nodded again, barely. Or maybe I imagined it.
Second time was after I was ill. He made soup for two weeks, then reminded me for six months what a hero hed been. Every time I asked for something, You do remember, I nursed you and made soup, right? You never thanked me properly. I did. Several times. He didnt listen. Or didnt remember.
And the third timetonight. When he said, You never listen, for the hundredth time. I realised, those words mean nothing to me now. Like banging your head on a wall. It hurts, but you get used to it.
But I understood something else, too: Im not going to divorce him. Not because of the flat, not because its familiar. Because I remember who he can be. When hes not angry, when hes not tired, not at workhes still the man I married. His eyes smile. He brings me tea in bed on Sundays. He straightens my coat collar secretly, thinking I dont know.
We stopped at the lights. Red filled the cab, showing the drivers face in profile. Calm. Attentive. Not the slightest sign of impatience, the focused serenity of someone who long ago gave up on fuss.
We never learned to talk, did we? Or weve just forgotten. Maybe we both shout because nobody ever taught us to speak gently. My parents shouted too. Dad left when I was fourteen. Mum raised me alone. I vowed Id be different. That Id keep my family together. That Id be patient. Wiser.
The green came, we moved forward. I caught myself getting teary again.
But patience isnt silence, is it? Patience is hearing, and not exploding. Im not patientI keep it bottled up until it blows the windows out. So really, these all these years, I wasnt patient. I was just storing it up.
Seven minutes to Bromley, the satnav blinked. Nearly there.
Suddenly, I didnt want to get out. Not because I didnt want to see Mum, but because in this silence, for the first time in an age, I felt calm. No one argued. No one cut in. No one said, Well its your fault too.
Just silence. Healing. I could feel the tightness in my body, held for hours, finally relax.
I think Ive told you more than Ive told anyone in years, I found myself admitting. And you didnt interrupt once. Not one bit of advice. Not even the classic, Have you tried talking to him calmly? Everyone says that as if I never thought to try.
Just hush.
It felt good. My shoulders droppedthe ones that had been up round my ears all evening, bracing for a blow. Now, at last, I could relax.
Thank you, I said. You must get tired of passengers like me, spilling their hearts out. But stillthank you.
***
We turned into Mums road. I recognised the wooden gate, painted green last September. The lamp over the porch. Light in the kitchen window. Mum never went to bed early these daysshe said she liked evening books, but I knew she was always waiting. Every Friday, just in case.
Here, please, I said gently.
He stopped smoothly at the gate, switched off the engine.
I checked my phonepayment processed. Looked at him.
Thank you, I said, putting as much into the words as I could. Thank you for listening. I know you didnt have to. You dont get paid for that bit. But you just did more for me than James has these past three years. Honestly.
He turned to me for the first time, facing me full on. I saw him properly thenbroad face, calm, dark gold eyes. He smiled, a warm, easy smile. Then he raised a hand and made a sign, fingers to lips, then forward.
Thank you, in sign language.
I froze. Then he handed me a cardplain white, bold print. I took it automatically, read:
Driver Thomas. Deaf-mute. If you ever need to get it all out againcall. Ill never tell a soul. Literally.
I looked up.
He hadnt heard. Not a word, all that time. For an hour Id poured out my soul to someone who couldnt catch a sound. Nothing about James, nothing about eleven years or too-salty soup or divorce. Nothing.
Hed just driven. Silent, because he could not speak. He nodded because hed seen my eyes in his mirror and understood: this woman just needed someone there.
Satnavno voice. Of course. He didnt use sound. He followed the route by sight.
I laughed. For the first time all dayproperly. Not hysterically, or through tears. A real laugh. The sort that comes when life surprises you so muchridiculous and lovely all at oncethat crying just wont do.
Thomas smiled back, thumb raised, hand to chestI didnt know that sign, but I felt the warmth.
I stepped out. Paused at the gate, gripping the card. Turnedhe hadnt left yet, waited til hed seen me inside. I waved. He flashed his headlights. A prickle of gratitude coursed over mereal and fierce, the kind that stings your nose.
Mum opened the door before I reached it. Susan Walker, sixty-three years old, retired librarian, the one person who always knows when to put the kettle on and when to stay quiet.
Come in, darling, she said. Teas ready.
I kicked off my shoes, hung my coat, and sat down at the kitchen tablethe flowery plastic cloth one, where Id done homework at eight, and later wept after my first heartbreak at eighteen.
Again? Mum asked. Not criticising. Just checking.
Again, I replied.
She set a mug in front of me, pushed over the dish of last years blackcurrant jam. I cradled the mug in both hands, the heat a balm I desperately needed.
Mum, I said, I have to tell you something mad. You wont believe it.
Try me, she said, settling opposite.
So I told her. About the taxi. The silence. How Id spoken for an hour, and he hadnt heard. About the card.
Mum listened. No interruptions, no nods, no exclamations. Just listened. Then she poured herself tea.
Do you know, she began, after your father left, I talked to the fridge every night for six months. Honestly. Id get home, open the door and tell it everythingabout pay, about my boss, about the leaky roof. It hummed; I talked. Helped a bit.
Mum, its a fridge.
And your taxi driver was deaf. What difference does it make whos on the other end? Its not about who hears. Its about finally saying it out loud. Thoughts in your head are like bees in a jarall buzzing, bumping around, stopping you from living. Say them out loud, they fly away.
I sipped my tea, burnt my lip. Blew gently.
I told him Id thought about divorce.
James?
No. The taxi driver.
Well, hes the one you can definitely trust, Mum wryly smiled. Quite literally, he wont repeat it.
And I laughed again. Mum joined in. There we were, at the same old kitchen table, laughing at how life works out. Best listener Ive had in ages didnt catch a word. And it made things lighter. Maybe the universe gives you what you needjust not how you expect.
Tell me honestly, Mum said, growing more serious. Are you really thinking of a divorce?
I paused, turned the mug in my hands.
I dont know, Mum. Sometimes I think I should. And then I remember how he straightens my coat collar, secretly. And I realiseI dont want to be without him.
Then stop shouting and start listening, Mum murmured. I never learned that. And I lost your dad. Not because he was bad, but because we were both deafnot like your taxi man. Just by choice. Thats worse.
I glanced at her. She looked out the window, hiding her feelings as always.
Ive thought about it twenty years, she went on. And I still regret not saying to him: lets just talk. No shouting, no blaming. Justtell me what hurts. Maybe hed have stayed. Maybe not. But Id have tried.
I said nothing. I wanted to be wise, but the words wouldnt come.
Go get some sleep, Mum said lightly. Your beds all made up. I knew youd come.
How?
Its Friday, evening, full moon. You and James, always on full moons.
I almost protested, then remembered the last three arguments and fell quiet. Maybe she was right.
I lay in my old bed, on the springy mattress, staring at the ceiling for ages. Thomass card lay on my bedside table, white and clear in the darkness.
The best listener in my life hadnt heard a word. Id said more to him than anyone, because he just let me fill the silencewithout advice, judgment, or you brought this on yourself. It was just open, quiet space.
Maybe I didnt need an answer after all. I just needed to hear myself.
I liked that thought. I turned on my side and finally slept.
***
In the morning, I woke to my mobile buzzing. James on the screen. I stared at it for three seconds. Usually, Id pick up on the first ringjump in, try to take control, say my bit before he could start.
But this morning I picked up, and I said nothing.
Rebecca, he said, voice low and rough. I couldnt sleep. Rebecca, Im sorry.
I was quiet. And waited.
I shouldve rung Susan. I knew. I remembered all day, and then work justwell, I forgot. Not because I dont care, because Im a fool. What I said about you never listeningits me, isnt it? I dont listen. You talk, and I just wait for you to finish, so I can respond. That isnt the same.
He went quiet. Waiting for my reaction. For me to list my grievances, or forgive, or get in a jab. Waiting for the usual routine.
But I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, and for the first time, I just listened. Not preparing my answer. Not waiting for my turn. Not summing up resentments. Just listened.
And at last, I truly heard him. Maybe for the first time in years.
Are you still there? he asked quietly.
Yes, I said. Im listening.
He paused. Then said,
Feels like the first time you replied like that. Usually you just start talking straight off. Nowyoure listening. Its odd. But its good.
I smiled. He couldnt see, but I smiled.
Come home, he said. Please.
I will. Just not straight away. Give me a couple of hours, I need to finish my tea.
He chuckled. Soft, short.
Fair enough. Ill wait. Ill ring Susan and wish her happy birthday. Better late than never.
I hung up. Sat for a moment, watching the gardenbare branches, but the buds beginning to swell. March. Theres still time.
I fished Thomass card from my coat pocket. Read it again.
Driver Thomas. Deaf-mute. If you ever need to get it all out againcall. Ill never tell a soul. Literally.
I opened my messages and texted the number: Thomas, its your chatty passenger from last night. Just wanted to say youre the best listener Ive met. Doesnt matter you didnt hear. Thank you.
Reply in a minute: three emojissmile, car, hand wave. And a message: Glad to help. Come anytime. Silence is free.
I laughed again. Third time in a day. Funny how life works. Years spent shouting to be heardthen you spill everything to a driver who cant hear a thing, and thats what helps.
Sometimes it doesnt matter if anyone hears. It just matters that you said it.
Mum called from downstairs.
Breakfast?
Yes, please, I answered.
And off I went to the kitchen. Put the card in my pocketnot as a contact, but a reminder.
Of the best conversation in my life with someone who didnt hear a word. That the most important voice is your own. And that sometimes, you have to shut up and just let the other speaklike Thomas did for me, like I did for James this morning.
You never listen, he told me yesterday.
Today, I finally listened.
