A ray of light in a black cab
By John Hill
There’s nothing quite so surprising and quite so rewarding as a good taxi driver.
It can really crown an evening, or make an afternoon of work seem an entertaining, unexpected pleasure.
Bad taxi drivers, of course, are sadly commonplace.
There are those who can’t find their way and seem to blame you for living somewhere funny.
There are ones who refuse to take you, and others who take you reluctantly and tell you how out of their way you are dragging them.
There are those who simply drive badly: heavy on the brakes or too fast down narrow lanes.
Then there’s the opinions. Minicabs? How black cabbies hate minicabs. And Ken, they couldn’t stand Ken.
The worst ones, though, talk amiably enough for a while then dip their toe into the dark waters of racism by casually mentioning “the Nigerians”. A neighbourhood or a business has been taken over by that nationality, they calmly claim, then slant an eye in the rear-view, gauging the fare’s reaction.
It’s like a secret code-word for bigots. He is, isn’t he, just waiting for you to say “Nigerians? It's not just them, is it – it’s all blacks. And immigrants. And gypsies. And Muslims. And Jews. Let’s go and buy guns.”
I’ve come to expect small-mindedness from cabbies. And that of course has made me small-minded in turn.
Last week I took a minicab (ha!) driven by a Ghanaian. He was listening to CabbieFM – ie. a Five Live phone-in – and a Scotsman had called in to be miserable about something.
And I, patronisingly, tried to explain the temperament of our friends from the north, and why they are That Way.
The driver, in a kind voice, replied: “I’m sure not all Scots are the same like that.”
No. Of course. I was being racist. Sorry.
He was a good cabbie, and we had a long chat about the Tamil Tigers.
But he wasn’t the best so far this year. That was a charming man in a black cab, who’d taken the job in the 60s. He’d thought it would be steady work and would keep him out of an office, and he was still happy with those conclusions now.
He was the sort of person who revives your love of life, if only just a bit. He was very sensibly opposed to the Way We Live Today, but in a mild, forgiving and humorous way.
He'd had literary ambitions, but these had receded with his hairline, which now supported proud long, greying strands over his body warmer.
He had a lot to do with the birthplace museum of a 19th century social reformer called Octavia Hill (he gave me a leaflet, and if I’m ever in Wisbech, Cambs, I'll go for sure).
We sat in the dark outside my flat for 15 minutes, conversing.
If he picks you up, say hello.
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