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Taxi Driver
About a fortnight later, I was offered a job in Kilkenny, at an Indian restaurant. I took it. The Indians didn’t bother with work permits— they paid little, but they paid in cash, and they paid daily. The only catch was that I had to hitchhike to work every single time, which, in hindsight, was far from ideal. I never truly considered the risks; in my mind, all Irish people were harmless.
I liked the unpredictability of it—each ride brought me a new driver, a new story. Once, two teenage girls picked me up; the one behind the wheel had just earned her license, and it showed. Another time I found myself crammed into a car full of old men, all of them bewildered that I wasn’t afraid to travel alone this way.
There was also the man with a shrine to Elvis Presley in his car—photographs hanging from the rear-view mirror, an Elvis tattoo stretching across his shoulder.
“Elvis Presley’s alive, you know that, right?” he boomed, eyes fixed on the road.
“Of course,” I replied in a conspiratorial whisper. And then, to my horror, I noticed the taxi meter—dark, unlit.
“You’re a taxi driver? Why pick me up when you could be earning money?” I asked in surprise.
“I couldn’t just leave you standing in the rain,” he said, smiling faintly. He dropped me off on George Street in Kilkenny, gave me a wave, and drove off.
The restaurant itself was another matter entirely. We waitresses were trussed up in tight white blouses, skirts, and little aprons. Service was run in a peculiar way: a sort of choreographed ritual where one man—our maître d’—greeted guests at the door, while the rest of us stood in two stiff lines, staring ahead into nothing. Once guests were seated, the first of us would bring a jug of tap water, the second the menus, and the third the papadums—crisp, salty wafers accompanied by a portable caddy of chutneys: sweet onion, mint, and lime.
The Indians bustled about like hornets, intent on smothering the guests with hospitality—asking over and over if they had everything they could possibly need. The entire circus was commanded by Tony, a plump man who seemed to believe he’d been born to rule. In time I learned that “Tony” was practically a default name for Indian and Pakistani men abroad. He worked us like beasts, but none of us complained; we needed the money. The best part of the day was stepping out with my meagre, sweat-earned pounds clutched in my hand.
Tomáš had less luck. His English was non-existent, so I had to tag along everywhere to translate. Back home in the Czech Republic, he’d been an IT specialist; here, such a position was out of reach. Tonda found him a job on a building site. For a while, it seemed promising. Tomáš radiated self-assurance, always ready to proclaim his skill.
One evening, Věra turned to me.
“So… you and Tomáš, you’re just friends?” she asked, her gaze probing.
I laughed.
“Well, he thinks we’re dating, but there’s nothing between us. Just friends,” I said plainly.
“I thought so from day one,” she smiled. “You didn’t behave like a couple. I figured you were just friends.”
“Great,” I replied with dry sarcasm, “glad it’s that obvious.”
“I don’t blame you,” she confided. “If I had a braggart like that hanging around me, I’d do the same.”
I was grateful for the solidarity. Tomáš was kind enough, but his boundless self-confidence could be exhausting. Around the fire with a glass of wine, he always seized the floor, boasting without proof.
A few days later, Tonda came into the kitchen, visibly irritated.
“Věra, I can’t do this anymore,” he burst out, glancing at me. “Today we were lifting heavy pillars—everyone nearly killed themselves—and do you know what he did? Stood there with his arms crossed, theorising about what tool might make it easier. In the end, we did it without him. I’ll have to tell the boss—he’s completely useless.”
At night, I couldn’t sleep. I’d instinctively turn my back to Tomáš—not out of malice, but because something in me recoiled from him physically. I blamed my fatigue, hoping he’d take the hint. He didn’t.
When words finally came, they came on a rainy roadside, our hitchhiking signs for Kilkenny wilting in the damp.
“Tomáš?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been thinking for a while… I like you, but only as a friend. I don’t want this relationship anymore.”
He kicked at the gravel, silent for minutes, then looked up and smiled as if nothing had happened.
“It’ll pass,” he said simply.
That night, he reached for me in bed as though the conversation had never taken place. I brushed his hand away and fell asleep.
In the end, it was Dicky O’Hara—tall, skinny, horse-faced, with eyes that bulged like a startled puppet—who offered a way out. He’d just moved into the spare room. A harmless clown who baked warm scones with butter and strawberry jam, he made Věra and me cry with laughter.
“Move into my room,” he suggested, “let him think we’re together. He’ll stop bothering you.”
It was absurd, but I agreed. From that night on, Dicky and I shared a room like siblings.
Tomáš tried one last ambush, barging in to find me sitting on Dicky’s bed while he repaired my broken necklace. He froze, stammered an apology, and backed out.
I grew fond of Dicky’s company, though romance never crossed my mind. My thoughts were still with Jack—somewhere in the vast sprawl of Ireland, like a needle lost in hay.
Every morning, Dicky went to the local pub and I hitched to Kilkenny. Eventually, the daily travel wore me down. A Czech girl in a nearby village told me about Eddie Brennan—Enya’s brother, no less—who needed a babysitter. The hours were too few, though, so I stayed on at the restaurant… until whispers reached me of a new Indian place opening right in Thomastown.
I handed in my notice in Kilkenny that same day. My new job was five minutes’ walk from home. It couldn’t have been more perfect.
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