DURING the nineteen sixties and the first half of the seventies we lived outside Tasmania — overseas and in Canberra and Melbourne — and returned to the state in mid-1974. We returned because of family considerations, including schooling, and because Tasmania is quite simply a beautiful place to live.

For the first year or so after our return my employment situation was best described as ad hoc. I undertook some consulting work, principally in the tourism area; I did some tutoring and lecturing in political science at the university; picked apples on my brother-in-law’s orchard; did a bit of writing; and drove a taxi for a few months, mostly during the day but occasionally at night. None of this activity was especially remunerative but there was an entertainment bonus, especially in the taxi driving.

There were a few downsides, like babies or drunks puking in the cab or the occasional nasty type who tried to provoke a fight or the very occasional one who did a runner instead of paying or the maudlin men who wanted to tell you how and why it all went to pieces or the ex-wives of the maudlin types who told you why they reckoned it went to pieces or the dollied-up smarties who only gave you a tip if the change was under twenty cents. All these and more were the stars or bit players in the passing cavalcade of taxi clients.

A big amiable cargo boat of a man

A few decades ago I won a prize for a radio play based on taxi-driving but I don’t think it ever went to air. I don’t think it deserved to go to air. It was about this massive moon-faced bloke, a merchant mariner who had come home to see his “old mum” before she passed on. The trouble was that he had been working on merchant ships around the world for so long without getting home that he didn’t want to see his Old Mum without a couple of drinks, in case she looked old! And I was his “only friend in town”! So I drew stumps early that day and had a couple of drinks at The Maypole with him. I can still recall him plodding up Forster Street — a big, amiable cargo boat of a man, in a gentle swell, going home to his Old Mum.

Then there was the lady of the night. She was one of a number but I always remembered this one because I thought of her as Stella because she looked like Stella. You remember Stella? Surely you remember Stella Kowalski, the one that Brando yelled at in “A Streetcar Named Desire’. Kim Hunter was Stella — a blonde, or had been, and she looked a bit tired while Brando stood around in a T-shirt and tight jeans, looking surly and oozing testosterone from every pore. My Stella of the taxi had done it hard. You could see that in her eyes but she was a good woman. I’m sure she was a good woman just as I’m sure she would have got her daughter to university. She was set on that.

I used to get some fancy types but people like Stella and the sailor were the best. And the oldies, especially the older ladies. They mostly had plenty of fire in the eyes and fire in the belly and more than a bit of humour as well. Some of the older men were good value, too, but most were not nearly as lively as the old girls. Many of the older men just sat there gazing into space and dribbling a bit. It doesn’t auger well for we blokes, does it?

There were also some nasty types but thankfully they were few and far between. There was one surly bloke I took to somewhere near the old Newtown station late one night. He got out of the cab, ostensibly to get his wallet out of his back pocket, and did a runner. I was so annoyed that I jumped out and took off after him. The trouble was that, after about half a block, I was losing ground and I remembered that I had left the keys in the taxi. Ugh! Another victory for pragmatism — and perhaps a touch of cowardice — over righteous indignation.

I think the most prevalent human condition I found in taxi-driving was loneliness. There really are a lot of lonely people out there. They are not lonely because they are shy or have some disability or because they are anti-social. Overwhelmingly, they are the victims of circumstance.

That leaves a lot of time to stare at the television or the wall

From my crude survey I would guess that the two principal victims of loneliness are old single people and young mothers with no partner. The old ones had lost their partner of many decades and the longer they had been together the more interdependent they had become and the less they had seen of others. The car had been sold, the bowls club was too far away and the pub had gone all noisy and trendy. Two of the kids were interstate and the other two were working but dropped around at weekends. That leaves a lot of time to stare at the television or the wall.

The young mothers were mostly living in rented premises with a couple of children under four. The father of the children is somewhere north or west of Melbourne, a stallion on the loose – about to impregnate another starry-eyed victim — and his last maintenance cheque was, oh … that long ago she’s forgotten.

So tell these old, lonely people and these young, lonely mothers that all men were born equal, that we live in a land of milk, honey and opportunity. It doesn’t work like that and they know it and we do too but we let it slide into the pending tray. Five bucks to the Salvos buys a fleeting balm for the conscience.

You know who they are as soon as you pick them up — the old couple or the old man or the old woman or the girl-woman with the children. “Lovely day, driver” or “When will we get some rain, driver?” And then you’re away. But this was not some therapy session. This was mutual. I needed the dialogue because taxi-driving, like life itself, can also be a very lonely business — like the long hours waiting on a rank and the trips with po-faced stuffed shirts who stared ahead sniffing the plastic seat covers.

For all that,, my most vivid recollection of taxi driving is of that big gentle merchant mariner plodding half-steam ahead up Forster Street to see his Old Mum, probably for the last time.

There were occasions in taxi-driving when it was easy to get a bit wet-eyed.

But that doesn’t do us any harm at all, especially if it’s in a good cause or if we’ve become a bit too pleased with ourselves.