THE BLACK CAB

The young, hatchet-faced taxi driver waxed eloquent on his troubles. 'I used to make seven hundred and fifty a day. Lucky to make one-fifty now. It’s all because of these so-and-so’s coming down from Berwick to trade in Newcastle because some bye-law allows them to.”
'Is that the same bye-law that says that Berwick is still at war with Russia?' I asked. He looked nonplussed. He’d never heard of it. 'Probably,' he went on, having picked up the baton. 'Most of them are Poles, you know, and those that aren’t are black.'
'Don’t you like Poles?' I enquired.
'Nothing against them personally,' he shrugged his shoulders. 'What are they doing here though, when there’s no-one left to build anything in their country?'
'Do they need taxi-drivers to build things in Poland?' I asked, but he failed to pick up the irony.
'They just need able-bodied people – I don’t care if they’re taxi-drivers or not – they shouldn’t be here,' he retorted.
'It’s called freedom of movement', I said. 'They’ve a right to ply their trade in any EU Member State. You could go and compete with them in Poland.' He looked at me with something akin to pity. 'As if I would go there for three zlotys an hour', he sneered.
'Euros,' I corrected him - they use euros now.'
'I couldn't give a toss what they use - they oughtn't to be coming here, stealing our work.'
I thought it was apposite to change the subject, as the hatchet face seemed to be turning a bright shade of purple.
'You mentioned black people,' I said.
'Too right, I did. They’re even worse than the Poles. They don’t know anything about Newcastle. They come down from Berwick and they haven’t a clue where any of the streets are. “Postcode!” they yell as they gesture at their satellite navigation systems. “Postcode!” It’s all they can say. The little old ladies in my cab don’t like them. They’re racialists, the little old ladies. “Get back to Timbuktu” they say, in unison.'
He pulled into the porte-cochere at Newcastle Central Station. “How much?” I asked.
'Seven pounds twenty, squire,' he replied.
“Tell you what”, I suggested “Make out the tax receipt for eight pounds fifty and you can keep the change. It’ll go towards today’s missing six hundred.'
'Cheers, squire,' he said. 'Here's my card. You can ask for me again.'
I stood at the entrance to the station, and watched as he picked up his next fare, who happened to be a black gentleman in an Astrakhan coat and a rather natty homburg hat. He was carrying a rather expensive leather briefcase. The hatchet face lit up. 'Where can I take you, squire? Just sit in the back there and I'll put your case in the boot. Nothing's too much trouble.'
I smiled at his hypocrisy, but the black gentleman looked a really good payer, and who knows? He may well have been on his way to Timbuktu.