Projecting

After the walk to the next village, I get the bus back home.  Flopping down onto the seat to look out the window for dolphins as the bus birds-eyes up the hill.

There was a man at the bus stop, in his early eighties. We nodded ‘Hello’.

I said, “Whitehills is a sun trap…but you should see the dark clouds over Fraserburgh”.

He said, “Aye, they’ve no’ been sayin’ their prayers right”, and I laughed.

The heat baked.

“Could ye tell me whit these numbers means?”, he pointed to the timetable, 18:18 18:58. 

And I saw him.

Alone.

Needing company.

“Well, there’s a bus at eighteen minutes past six and another one at two minutes to seven.  I’d get here five minutes earlier, sometimes they don’t wait”. 

“That’s fine.  I’m going to the dance on Friday.  At Turrif”.

He was nodding the universal nod for ‘You interested?’. 

“It’s at the Royal British Legion.  Seven o’clock”.

I asked, “What kind of music is it?”

“Country dancing. We can’t get up for all the dances now, but ye jist sit oot whit ye canna manage”.

The bus came. 

I said, “Enjoy your dance tomorrow”. 

And felt I’d let him down.

He sat front right; I sat second left, for dolphin watching. 

But I watched him.  Dapper.  Out and about, joining in, standards being maintained, not surrendering.  And on his feet, black leather lace-up shoes, buffed and polished. 

I don’t know why it moved me so. 

The dignity of a well-buffed shoe.  

There is always something to break your heart.

He got up to get off the bus before me, not hearing when I called ‘Bye’.  So, I chapped the window as he walked past and waved to him.  He came back the few steps and waved, a big smile on his face.