The bus ride

The little community bus that runs between Ringwood and Poulner had swallowed most of its passengers by the time we arrived at the stop in Meeting House Lane.  Ahead of us was a lady with her hands very full.  In her left hand was a shopping trolley trying its hardest to drift off down the camber of the pavement.  In her hand was a teenager who was determined to get on the bus regardless of the difficulties the errant shopping trolley was causing the lady.

Sadly, as I still had some stitches from an operation I could not help but my wife stepped in to help. She got the shopping on the bus while the lady sorted out the bus fares and got the young man seated in the seats near the driver that face into the aisle of the bus.

All aboard. The doors whooshed shut, the front of the bus elevated and we were on our way.

Across the aisle from me was Gladys.  I didn’t know her as ‘Gladys’ when the journey started.  It was only after a few minutes into the journey when one of the other passengers called her ‘Gladys’ that I got to know her name.  So for convenience I have given her her proper name at this early stage rather than refer to her as ‘loud coarse lady across the aisle from me’.  Gladys made her presence felt within a couple of minutes of the journey starting.

‘It’s not right.  It’s not right.  It’s not right that they don’t have special buses for the likes of him and her’.

The tone of her voice was didn’t soften the jagged edges of the words.  They were loud, coarse and quite obviously directed towards the lady and the young man seated ahead of her and intended for the whole bus to hear. 

‘What’s not right Gladys?’ sounded from right behind me.

It was followed by a waft of alcohol and then a rearrangement of the guests in bronchial hotel.

‘It’s not right.  They should have their own buses.  You know? Buses for the disabled.  I swear it would be better if they could travel on their own special buses.’ Gladys answered.

‘This bus is alright.  Plenty of room.’

Another waft of alcohol went by and then some more rearrangements in bronchial hotel.

‘What time’s the last bus?’ Gladys asked.

‘Free firty.’

This came from another voice behind me.

‘Bloody useless, bloody useless service……..what happens if you wanna stay late in Ringwood…I mean three thirty, that’s not late is it?’ Gladys answered.

‘You’re lucky to have any service Gladys, whot with us still being in Europe and all that money going to Brussels instead of getting spent here.  You’re lucky Gladys.’

More alcohol fumes and sounds from bronchial hotel.

The bus turned right into Northfield Road.  The lady looking after the young man braced her feet on the floor.  She put her left arm across the front of the young man to stop him sliding off his seat and reached down with gymnastic dexterity to hold on to the shopping bags. 

‘That was a bit sharp’ Gladys said.

As the bus straightened up the lady at the front un-contorted herself.

‘We’re nearly home Matthew….you can press the bell for our stop’ she said.

Matthew summoned all of his concentration, beamed a smile and reached across to the nearest red button.

‘Well done Matthew.  No Matthew, you only have to press it once. The driver knows we want to get off.  See, up there, the sign says ‘Stopping’.  No Matthew please don’t press it again?’ she said.

The bus stopped.  The front dropped down to curb level and the doors whooshed open.  Gladys started drumming her fingers impatiently on the headrest of the seat in front.

‘Should have special buses’ she muttered under her breath ‘It’s not right this, should have special buses.’

The lady thanked my wife.  The doors shut.  Matthew was outside our window.  He beamed a smile at us and waved us on our way while his carer mouthed a silent ‘Bless you and thank you’ through the window at my wife. The front of the bus lifted and we were on our way. 

I wondered what sort of home Matthew was going back to.  I expect it was warm and welcoming as he seemed keen to be on his way.  Perhaps he had friends there or he was thinking about something special to do for the rest of the day like watching TV or listening to music?  Whatever was there he wanted to get there as soon as possible.

‘Well done luv…..we need more saints like you’ Gladys directed at my wife.

My wife looked at me and whispered ‘Bigot’.

‘He’s useless Fred, Useless driver.’

Another waft of alcohol went past.  No noises from bronchial hotel.  Whoops, spoke to soon.

‘Why?’ Fred asked.

No, please do not answer that question. Please, but it was too late.

‘Watch Fred. Watch.  Every time there’s a car coming towards us like, like now he puts the brakes on….see, he’s doin’ it now.  Useless.  I could get along here without slowing down. Blood hell.’

Then the inevitable fumes and sound effects.

Northfield Road is only just wide enough for two cars to pass let alone a bus, and a small one at that, and a car so if I was driving the bus I would be slowing down a bit like the driver of the bus.

‘You’re right, bloody useless’ Gladys chipped in.

The bell sounded, the red stopping sign came on and the bus came to a halt.  The front dropped and the door whooshed open.  My seat was strained backwards as a great weight heaved on it to stand up.  All natural daylight was excluded from my right shoulder.

‘Get off you fat lump’ Gladys shouted.

‘Sorry Gladys.  It’s me knees.  They aint’ too good these days………..’

More alcohol fumes and sound effects from bronchial hotel.

‘Not since I had em replaced. Hurt like buggery they do.  Next it’ll be me ips.’

The lumbering bulk made it to next to the driver and the front end of the bus dipped a bit further.

‘Thanks mate, not easy drivin these things is it?  Bye Gladys. Bye Fred.’

I wondered what sort of home he was going to.  He had no shopping, no energy or enthusiasm to get there wherever it was. Probably lived by himself and when he got there it would be cold with only loneliness to look forward to.