Did not develop any ideas towards moving to the 'Green Badge Paradise' ... Ilford.
From there, each morning, as if a starting gun had been fired, there is a crescendo of the simultaneous starting of diesel engines, accompanied by huge clouds of blue-black smoke. This, the signal to the whole of North London that the 'cowboys are coming', that their convoy is about to move majestically along the Eastern Avenue, wives, left, waving from windows, children, dropped off at school.
For these men the day has begun. The more ambitious, immediately putting on their little 'Hire' lights, this more in hope than anything else ... thoughts ... of how much has to be taken ... 8.00am ... 8.00 p.m. twelve hours at the average speed of ten miles per hour, not much more than a trot. Why these men bothered with a family and a home, I never understood. The work did not allow for that type of living. Their 'home' the hard, uncomfortable seat of the cab ... endless dirty cafes ... endless cups of tea ... endless cigarettes. Some would have a clean shirt in the boot or on a coat hanger in the driving compartment. At 8.00 p.m. they will 'change over' with themselves. Have another cup of tea, have another pee, wash their hands and faces ... change the shirt, and start all over again.
These are the real 'long day men'. Those who really did want the Au Pair, the big house, the car for the wife, a horse for the daughter, the new fitted kitchen ... the new extension ... a bottomless pit.
I had known one or two men who had achieved this, at a price. Mostly, the end was quite different from the beginning ... the hazy dream. Invariably, the wives first starting to feel the strain. Tired of waiting for all the promises to be fulfilled, the loneliness creeping insidiously into their lives. Some went slowly crazy, some found other interests ... discreet at first, or waited until unable to wait any longer, usually the children were about eleven ... twelve. One night the man would arrive home, even later than usual, the house in darkness, a note on the bare kitchen table.
Phase two started from that precise moment. The initial reaching for the reconciliation, the explosion of all the unsaid things. Blows, bitterness, recrimination, the savage in-fighting over who could get most from the remaining carcass of what had been. The few sticks of furniture, the car, the sudden interest in children, who would 'get custody' ... the realisation of the trap that they had fallen into, the wasted years ... a solicitors joy.
Yet nothing could dissuade these men, being completely convinced that they would achieve all that they had set out to do.
They shouted very loudly at each other over the cups of tea, and eggs and chips. Each attempting to assert himself above the rest, the commonest phrase being 'my wife' or 'my old woman' ... depending ... This would either be said loudly with great emphasis, or softly and confidentially, however the mood went.
The greatest shouter and the greatest user of 'my wife' was undoubtedly Bernie. Ex barge hand, but according to him, ex everything. Tried to draw him into 'brain surgery' but he had baulked at that, leaving it to his 'winger' Albert, who baulked at nothing. Whatever, he knew all about it or had actually done it. Flying 747's ... drilling for oil ... brain surgery ... anything you want to know. Albert will tell you quite convincingly, from his end anyway. No reason for these fantasies other than the crushing impact of the body moving business.
These men always managed to keep one foot firmly on the ground. Deep down, acutely aware of the reality, knowing that whichever way, they had to get a certain amount of money every day, that in their lonely, black tin box, no one to shout at. Those good at the job, never bothered to talk to the passenger, unless spoken to first....a waste of time. Only the young, good looking drivers were able to get a response, their enthusiasm irrepressible, not knowing that one day, the girls would stop climbing in the cab and start chatting them up, one day they would simply get in, slam the door, shout their destination and lapse into complete, unassailable, silence.
Those drivers that had suffered and gone through the complete cycle, would come out of the experience with a deep cynicism and a completely misplaced attitude towards women. The lesser ones faded away, committed suicide, had a heart attack, went mad. Have always had a fear of falling into the last category, never really having quite what it takes to do the suicide bit, as someone once remarked, quite lucidly, I thought, "Why should you?" I did not have an answer.
My life resolved itself into hanging on the finger tips or going under………. quite simple.
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