The Silent Cabbie
You never listen to me!
I hurled the plate into the sink; soapy water arced up, catching the lamp and spattering the ceiling. Eleven years. The same words echoing off the same four walls. He always started ithe made it sound as if everything was my fault, as if I alone was to blame.
Edward was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded across his chest. Nearly forty but still argued like a boystubborn, angry, right to the bitter end. I could draw his expression by heart: clenched jaw, far-off gaze, turning to the window, announcement that the conversation was over.
But for me, it had only just begun.
You forgot to ring Mum, I said, and my voice shook already. My mum. Shes sixty-three. She waited all day. Wasnt after a present, just a call. Three minutes out of your life. You couldnt manage it.
I forgot. It happens, doesnt it? Dont make such a big deal.
Does it? You always forget. Her birthday, our anniversary, my birthday last yearforgot those too, did you?
Here we go again. I apologised, didnt I?
You apologised, and then you did it again! Am I supposed to set reminders for you? What am I, your alarm clock?
He turned to me, his eyes clouded with anger and exhaustion.
You never listen, he muttered. I say one thing, you hear something else. Im sick of explaining.
I snatched my coat from the stand, found my phone in the pocket.
Where are you going?
To Mums.
Always to your mum. Every time.
I didnt answer. The door banged shut behind me, and the biting chill of the March dusk caught me in the stairwell. My fingers jittered on the screenthin, knuckly from years of clenching fists whenever I was angry. Book a taxi. Heading to Woking. Card payment. Three minutes until pickup.
I waited by the communal door, collar up, eyes locked on the living room windows upstairs. I felt cold. Hurt. Angry at him, angry at myselffor shouting again. The kitchen light was still on. He was still standing there, arms folded, waiting for me to come back.
But I wouldnt. Not tonight.
A dark car slipped almost silently against the kerb. I climbed into the rear seat without so much as a glance at the driver. The scent was peculiar: not the synthetic pine dangle off a mirror, but a deep resin as if someone had placed a fresh branch under the mat. It was utterly silent. No radio. No satnav voice. No music. Only the pale-blue glimmer of the dashboard map, searching through the streets.
The cabbie nodded at the route on the satnav, and we set off.
I pressed my forehead to the glass and closed my eyes, savouring even half a minutes calm. But it wouldnt come. Words raged in my chest, ready to spill out. Id just slammed the door and stormed out, left my husband in the middle of another shouting match, like Id done a dozen times in as many years. Every time, Id promised myself: this is the last. But then thered be a next time.
Is this all were ever going to be? Forever?
Sorry, I said into the silent car, Im about to talk a lot. May I? I really need to say these things out loud. To someone. Anyone.
Silence. No reply, but no protest either. I took it for a yes.
Weve been married eleven years, I started, my voice faltering on the second word. I married him at twenty-five. I honestly thoughtthis is it. Finally. Someone who understands. Who listens to what I say, who doesnt look away when Im hurting.
Streetlights along Surbiton flitted by outside. I knew every one. Cold, distant, indifferent, like the hush inside this car. We glided through a corner, and I rolled with the motion.
Then everything became the same, do you understand? Every row, a copy of the last. He says I dont listen, I say he doesnt hear me. Both of us right, both of us wrong. Weve tried it allreasoning, silence, even counselling. Edward gave up after three sessions. He said, Not paying a random bloke to tell me how to live. That was that.
I caught the cabbies eyes in the rear-view. They were wide-set, brown, with a hint of gold, laughter lines fanning out despite the blank face. He was looking at the road, but for an instant, he glanced into the mirror. Not judgingjust seeing me.
So I kept going. I needed to.
***
You know the worst bit? My voice had become distant, not even for him now but for the passing streetlights of Egham, blurring in the window. Hes a decent bloke, really. Edward. He doesnt drink, hes faithful, brings his salary home. When I was ill, bronchitis turned to pneumoniahe didnt leave my side for two weeks. He made soup. Hideous, salty, but he made it.
We slipped gently into another lane. The satnav quietly altered the routeclearly a jam ahead. The navigators calm persisted: no instructions, no bleeping distances. Odd. Most satnavs chirp, In three hundred yards, turn right. But this one kept its peace. The cabbie must relish his quiet, I thought. I understood.
But he doesnt hear me, I said more softly. Its not deliberate. He just doesnt know how. I tell him: its hard, Im lonely, I need you to at least nod. And he replies: what more do you want, youve got a flat, a car, I work, dont I.
The hush in the cab was a special kind. Not tense, not removed. It was like a vacant room you could scream inwalls refusing to judge. I caught myself: what a mad idea, comparing a taxi to an empty room. I must really be exhausted, I thought.
But already, I felt lighter.
We row over nothing. Today, Mums birthday. Last week, because he chucked a wet towel on the bed. Wet towel! I yelled like hed sold the house. He yelled back that I nagged him over every silly thing. Both of us right. Both wrong.
I rubbed my eyes. Mascara was surely a ruin, but it didnt matter. I was going to Mums. Shed seen me plain and puffy-faced, from tears and from nothing at all. She only needed me to arrive, that was all.
I cant even call a friend. Alice is at her cottage, patchy signal. Harriet? Her husbands just out of hospital, shes got enough to worry about. To call Mum in tears is to worry her half to death. So I come in person, so she can see Im alright. Mum opens the door, reads my whole story in my face. She says nothing, just puts the kettle on.
I glanced at the mirror. The cabbies solid, blocky hands rested on the wheeleach finger thick, strong. Stocky, at least in his fifties. He nodded, the motion slight, as if agreeing with some interior thought. Or maybe the road was simply sloping now.
I took it to mean, Go on. So I did. I forgot I was confiding in a strangerit was beginning to feel like talking to myself.
Im to blame too, I know that. I lose my rag, say things I cant unsay. Yesterday I told him, Maybe we shouldnt have married. I saw how it hit him, but I couldnt stop. Do you know that feeling? Like youre watching yourself from a distance, horrified at whats coming out of your own mouth, but unable to stop?
We passed a garish petrol station, its blue and red glow flickering across the car. I remembered: Edward and I used to go there at one in the morning, just for coffee from the vending machine. For the joy of going somewhere, together, in the night.
He said to me yesterday, You never listen. Andhes right. All I do is wait for my turn to talk. Not listening. Just biding my time. Theres such a difference.
I had stopped crying. The tears had dried up somewhere near the dual carriageway. I was talking evenly, almost serenely now. Every word out loud seemed to take a little weight with it. It made it easier to breathe.
Maybe were both scared of the same thingthat the other will eventually leave. So we shout, to avoid being the one left behind. Strange way to hold onshouting until we wear ourselves out, then silent until it hurts, then shouting again. And I have no idea how to break the loop.
The cabbie changed lanes. I caught his eyes again in the mirrordeep brown, gold-flecked, warm. He held the glance a beat before turning back to the road. There was no judgement there, no boredom, no irritation. Just presence. As if saying: Im here.
And somehow, that was all I needed. I hadnt realised how much I missed simple, non-intrusive company.
***
You know what I dreamed of when I was twenty-five? My smile quivered crookedly. Coming home, and hed ask, How was your day? And hed mean it. Not just to have said it. But because he really wanted to know what I thought, what I felt, what Im scared of. Is that so much to ask?
The car turned off the dual-carriageway down a close-hedged lane. The trees pressed nearer, the cab darkened. Only the cabbies outline was visiblebroad shoulders, bristly nape. And the satnav, still a dim blue path, leading the way, voiceless as ever.
But hed walk in and ask, Whats for dinner? And Id think: well, men are like that. Itll get better. But it didnt. Got worseslowly, not all at once. Like when the hot tap runs cooler, not cold at first, just barely warm, then suddenly icy. You dont even remember what hot felt like.
I fell silent. For ten, maybe fifteen seconds. And in that silence I became aware of my heart thuddingnot from fear, but relief. Id told a stranger things Id never told anyone, not even Mum, not even Alice. I didnt feel ashamed. I felt lighter.
Probably because he stayed silentreal silence. No ‘you know how it is’ or why not just talk calmly? No advice or eye-rolling or interruption. Just there, letting me be.
Ive thought about divorce, I whispered. Three times in the last two years. First, when Edward forgot our anniversary. I made a special breakfast, put on a dress, bought a bottle of wine. He got in, asked, What are we celebrating? I locked myself in the bathroom for half an hour. Just sat and said nothing.
The cabbie nodded again. Barely noticeable. Or so it seemed to me.
Second timewhen I was ill and he made soup for a fortnight, then spent six months reminding me what a sacrifice it was. Every time I needed something: Dont forget, I nursed you! And I had said thank you, many times. But he didnt hear, or didnt remember.
And the third timetonight. When he said, once again, You never listen. And I realisedit means nothing to me any more. Like pounding on a brick wall, it hurts but you get used to it.
But then I realised something else: I wouldnt leave him. Not for the sake of our flat, not just out of habit. But because I remembered what he could be. When he wasnt tired or stressed or angryhe could be the man Id fallen for. The way his eyes smiled, the way he brought me tea in bed on Sundays, the way hed straighten my collar when he thought I wasnt looking.
The car drew to a stop at traffic lights. The interior glowed red. I saw the cabbies face in profilesteady, focused, patient, as calm as a man whod been done with rushing and fuss long ago.
Weve forgotten how to talk to each other. Or perhaps we never learned. Maybe we both shout because no one taught us to speak quietly. My parents shouted. Dad left when I was fourteen, Mum raised me herself. I swore itd be different for me. Id keep my family together. Id be patient, wiser.
The light turned, the car edged forward. I thought, There you go, off again with the tears.
But patience isnt silence, I said. Patience is listening without snapping. I hold it in, hold it, and then explode like an earthquake. Turns out, all these years I havent been patientIve been bottling it up.
I checked the route. Seven minutes to Woking. Almost there.
Suddenly I was reluctant to leave the cab. Not because I didnt want to see Mum, but because for the first time in so long, it was truly peaceful. No one argued. No interruptions. No well, maybe youre to blame.
Just quiet. And it was healing. I felt it in my body; the tension of the day starting to fade.
I think Ive told you more in the last hour than Ive told anyone in years, I said, half-aloud. And youve not given me a single hint of advice, nor interrupted once. Not even the have you tried talking to him nicely? line. Youre the first.
The silence continued. And, for the first time, it felt good. I felt my shouldersthose bunched, tight shouldersdrop back down from where theyd been all evening. I relaxed.
Thank you, I said, I imagine you get plenty of passengers like me. Pouring their hearts out. Stillthank you.
***
The car turned into Mums street. I recognised the neat little hedge, still green from last summers paint, the lamp post beside her gate, the light glowing in the kitchen window. Mum stopped going to bed earlyshe claimed she liked her evening books, but I knew she was waiting. Friday evenings, just in case.
Here, please, I said.
The car rolled to a gentle halt outside the gate. Engine ticked to silence.
I checked my phonethe payment ticked through on my card. I looked at him.
Thank you, I said, packing all the gratitude into those words I could muster. For listening. I know you didnt have to. They dont pay you extra for it. But youve done more for me tonight than my husband has in three years. Thats the truth.
For the first time, the cabbie really turned to face me. I saw his face: broad, calm, eyes like honey. He smiledkind, simple. Then he raised his hand, touched his lips, and moved his palm outwards.
Thank you. In British Sign Language.
I froze. He handed me a little cardwhite, bold text. I took it, blinking.
“DAVID STOKES. Deaf Taxi Driver. Want to talk again? Text anytime. No one else will ever know. Seriously.”
I looked at him over the card.
He hadnt heard a word of my story. Id spent an hour pouring my heart out to someone who couldnt hear a soundabout Edward, about eleven years and bitter soup and divorce three times over. Nothing.
Hed just driven. Stayed silent because he had no choice. And nodded, because he read my eyes in the mirror and could seeI just needed someone to be there.
The silent satnavit made sense. He didnt need sound cues. He read his routes in silence.
I laughed. For the first time that day, I truly laughednot hysterical, not through tears. Because sometimes life pitches something so bizarre and perfect at onceyour only answer is to laugh.
David smiled, gave me a thumbs up. Then laid his hand on his chestthe meaning unclear, but it felt warm and good to me.
I stepped out. I lingered a second at the gate, clutching the card. Glanced back. He hadnt driven off yet. He waited until I went in. I waved. He flashed the lights in reply. I felt a sting of real, tender gratitude.
Mum opened the door before I could even knock. Anne Graham, sixty-three, retired librarian, the kind of woman who knows exactly when to put the kettle on and just as exactly when to say nothing at all.
“Get your shoes off,” she said. “Teas made.”
I de-shoed, hung my coat. Sat at the old kitchen table, worn floral cloth, the same one from when I was a child and where Id sobbed over my first heartbreak at eighteen.
Again? Mum asked. Not scolding, just confirming.
Again, I said.
She put a mug in front of me and nudged over a jar of homemade gooseberry jam. I wrapped my hands around the mug. Hot. Just what I needed.
Mum, I said, I have to tell you something, and youll never believe it.
Try me, she replied, sitting down opposite.
So I told her. About the cab, the hush, the hour I spent talking non-stop to a man who hadnt heard one word, about the card.
Mum listened. No interruptions, no knowing little noises, no “well, really.” Just listened. Then poured herself tea.
You know, she said, after your dad left, I spent six months having conversations with the fridge. Honest. Id come home, open the door, and tell it everything. My paycheque, my boss being a nuisance, the leak in the roof. It hummed, I spoke. It helped.
Mum, its a fridge.
Your cabbies deaf. Whats the difference? Doesnt matter whos listening. It matters that you finally say it out loud. When everything stays in your head its like bees in a jarbuzzing, bumping around, making living impossible. Release them, things go quiet.
I sipped tea, scalded my lip a bit. Blew on the top.
I admitted I thought about divorce, I said.
To Edward?
No. To the cabbie.
Well, hes the safest possible option, Mum smiled faintly. He wont tell a soulliterally.
And I laughed again. So did she. We sat at that old kitchen table, in the house I grew up in, giggling at how ridiculous life can behow the best listener of my life hadnt caught a sound, and how much lighter I felt for it. Sometimes the universe gives you what you need, just never in the way you expect.
Be honest with me, Mum grew serious, are you truly thinking about divorce?
I hesitated, turning the mug in my hands.
I dont know, Mum. Some days, yes. Then I remember how he straightens my collar when he thinks Im not looking andI dont want to lose that.
Then try listening, instead of shouting, Mum said, quietly. I never learnt how, and I lost your dadnot because he was bad, but because we were both deaf. Not the way your cabbie isby birth, but by choice. Thats worse.
I looked at her. She turned away to the window, hiding her feelings, just as I always did.
Ive thought about it for twenty years, she went on. Twenty years later and I wish Id said to him, Lets just talk. Not argue. Not blame. Just tell me what hurts. Maybe hed have stayed, maybe not. But at least Id have tried.
I said nothing. I wanted to say something wise, but no words came.
Go to your room, love, Mum said, in a different, lighter voice. Ive made up the bed. I knew youd come.
How?
Friday night, full moon. You two always row at full moons.
I wanted to disagree, but then I remembered the last three arguments and bit my tongue. Maybe she was right.
I lay that night on my old childs bed, sagging, springy. In the dark, I could just see Davids card on my bedside tablea white rectangle glowing faintly.
The best listener Id ever met hadnt heard a word. And yet, Id told him everythingbecause he was silent. In that silence, there was no judgement, advice or blame. Just spacequiet, healing space, and I filled it.
Maybe I didnt need an answer. Maybe what I truly needed was to hear myself.
I liked that thought. I turned over and drifted to sleep.
***
In the morning, the phone vibrated on the bedside table. Edwards name glowed on the screen.
I stared at it. Usually, Id answer at the first ringsnatching the lead, making sure I got in first, so hed never be able to make the first excuse or apology.
But this time I picked up and said nothing.
Millie, he said. His voice was low and rough. I havent slept. Millie, Im sorry.
I was silent. And waited.
I shouldve rung your mum. I meant to. I remembered all day. Then work got mad, and I forgot. Not because I dont care. I just forgot because Im an idiot. And what I saidabout you never listeningreally, I meant me. I dont listen. I wait for you to finish, just so I can start. That isnt listening.
He paused. Waiting for me to list my grievances, or forgive, or make some sharp retort. The usual roles.
But I just sat, knees drawn up, and listened. Not planning my comeback, not looking for a gap to launch in with my reply. I simply listened.
And I heard him. Maybe for the first time in years.
Are you still there? he asked, anxious now.
Yes, I said. Im listening.
He hesitated. Then said,
This is probably the first time youve ever answered that way. Usually you jump straight in. But nowyoure listening. Its strange. But good.
I smiled. He couldnt see it, but I did.
Come home, please, he said. Come back.
I will. But not just now. Need to finish my tea.
He laugheda short, quiet laugh.
Alright. Ill call your mum in the mean time. Better late than never, right?
I hung up gently. Sat for a long minute, watching the garden beyond the windowMums bare trees, buds swelling. Spring around the corner.
I found Davids card in my pocket, reread it.
“DAVID STOKES. Deaf Taxi Driver. Want to talk again? Text anytime. No one else will ever know. Seriously.”
I opened my messages and typed to the number: David, I was your passenger yesterdaythe one who talked non-stop for an hour. Just wanted to say: youre the best listener I know, even if you didnt hear a thing. Thank you.
In less than a minute he replied. Three emojis: a smile, a little car, a raised hand. Then: Glad to help. Come again. Silence is free.
I laughed againfor the third time in less than a day. Imagine that. Years of shouting to be heard, and in one strange cab ride, saying everything to someone who couldnt hear a thing was what finally set me free.
Because sometimes its not about being heard. Its about finally saying it out loud.
Mum appeared at the doorway.
Ready for breakfast?
I am, I said.
And went to the kitchen. Slipped Davids card into my coat pocketnot as a contact, but as a token.
That the best conversation of my life was with someone who never heard a word. That the voice that mattered was my own. And sometimes, the best thing is to be silentand let someone else speak. Like David did. Like Id finally managed with Edward that morning.
You never listen, hed said last night.
And today, for the first time, I did.
