Becoming a Cab Driver

By now decided little other remained other than 'cab driving' for me to do, able to do.

No heavy discipline of time and place, not too much "yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir "..a relative freedom.

As I began to get my 'reductions' ... from fifty six days ... to twenty eight ... to fourteen. perhaps, mistakenly sold my interest in the cleaning business, although it had picked up.

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The Carriage Office moved 'up market' to Islington, to Penton Street. The atmosphere,however, in no way improved.

Found myself in front of Mr. Finley, the 'wynd up' man.

He would growl in a very thick Scottish accent, quite deliberate.

"Now" (pause) ... he would look at the ceiling, at his nails ... (an agony of anticipation) ... "Do you think you could take me, laddie, from Addington Square (another pause, longer this time you would sweat) ... to ... er ... St. James's Court?"

Assuming first, that you understood him, and assuming that you were capable of opening your mouth, once you had started to do so, he would knock a chair over, or slam the window shut. Many men had come unstuck on this rather coarse piece of psychology. On occasion it coming to blows. All part of the game ... I guess.

Heard it said up the Carriage Office by one of the hierarchy, only two types of men wanted to become 'cab drivers' ... The greedy and the needy. Rather thought I was the latter. I needed a place to hide, and if it had to be a black box ...
There was a financial inducement. on a Saturday night, possible, then, to take the average weekly wage.

After two and a half years, I made a very brief 'appearance'. My hand shaken ... all over. Not quite, the business of the 'suburbs'. These did not have to be known in minute detail. Demolished them in a week. Still not through. Had to take the 'Drive'. Glimpsing in the rear view mirror, as we flew around the Aldwych, saw the man hanging on to both interior handles of the cab.
"Well", he said, "I shall have to pass you", as if he had tried to think of everything to fail me.
Went down to 'York Way Motors'. They were very big in the trade. A lot of men paying in money through the grilled windows. Money paid related to the 'units' registered on the meter. Each man having a ready reckoner ... the harder the man worked ... the more units clocked ... the more money for himself.

I was only able to get a cab on 'the night shift', as the older men had all the available day cabs. A guarantee had to be signed by myself, stating that I would persevere with the company for not less than six months.

After the comparative long struggle to achieve my 'Badge', I found myself sitting in the most archaic monstrosity of a vehicle possible to imagine ... the so called F.X.4. Really little other than a tin box on four wheels. Not only this, filthy, everything covered in black grease. When I tried to engage the clutch, thought it jammed. Called the 'fitter', for want of a better word. He looked at me ... thinking ... another 'Butter Boy' wants to drive a bleeding Rolls Royce. 'Nuffing wrong wiv that", he snorted, holding his hand out at the same time, for the obligatory sixpence. Giving him the money he became more expansive ... "Guvnor only does that to stop you silly bastards riding the clutch. Fits double return springs ..."
Began to think what damage would be done to the human body ... driving one of these heaps of rubbish over a period of time. Evidently no one considered that aspect. Money, the only consideration. Once I achieved momentum, found it equally hard to stop. The gear change, far worse than my father's heavy scammel. The wind blew around my head and feet, the noise, catastrophic... No alternative. Mann & Overton, who supply these 'vehicles', have a complete monopoly ... no other type of transportation is allowed.

The first night I 'drove', if that is the word, probably 'struggled' is nearer the mark, for five hours. Grossed five pounds. Head ached, back ached, both legs stiff. Looked like a coal miner...felt like one

Arriving back at the flat, found Ruth had gone to play 'Kaluki'. She rang in the early hours of the morning for me to pick her up, immediately asking how much I had 'taken' and how long I had worked ... disappointed with both answers.

So far as Ruth was concerned, the fact of my being in the position to earn, what she termed 'real money', changed the emphasis on our relationship... not cut and dried, simply, our lives not the same. It quickly became established I would go to work each evening. She would drift about, stay in occasionally and watch the box. Odd week-ends, we would, maybe, go round to Fred's.

The change, imperceptible, our intense togetherness being eroded slowly, by forces beyond our flat overlooking the Common. Became aware that Ruth was untidy, sloppy in some respects, no longer wanted to do the washing, cooking, ironing, cleaning, not any more. Driving a taxi had knocked the gloss off our lives. Felt incapable of drifting off to the woods on the bright days or creeping down to 'Southend' if it were really hot.

Perhaps already being poisoned by the petrol and diesel fumes, the noise, the almost overwhelming, volumes of traffic. Had been unprepared for the work being so hard on the nervous system. A few drivers I had met in passing, looked relatively unscathed by their experience, quite a few looked ill, in the more extreme cases, a trapped, hunted expression on their faces.

Saw what was meant by a ‘dead end job’. Taxi driving must be the epitome of this. I was to be told years later, by a young, wealthy woman, that I was ‘doomed’. Must have developed that ‘trapped’ look.

No - Ruth and I were being driven apart by forces that we had no knowledge of.

On the surface, more, maybe less, than it had always been. But it was the underneath, the night time prowling around the endless streets, looking, always looking, trying to be that one jump ahead of everyone else. Stop - start - here - there - and everywhere - everyone wanting to go somewhere.