Writing for Fun
The Missed Bus - Vivian Burdon
May 2014
The last faint shout from the stragglers vanished into the dark. Not a child was left from the hundreds that had joyfully swarmed out of Carter Knowle Road Junior School. All were now chattering about their day in warm kitchens with their Mums, the tantalising smell of liver and onions perhaps playing with their senses. Or maybe a group had gone back to a friend's house and were playing in the front room while someone else's Mum kindly brought them milk and biscuits . . . Jammy Dodgers probably. Yes all the school children were where they should be at 4.30pm on a bitterly cold November evening. Warm and cared for, wrapped in the bosom of their family or with school friends. All are safe and sound . . . except one.
Me . . .
I'm still standing at the bloody bus stop. I hadn't been able to get on the 4.15pm bus home. Home, by the way, is miles away since we moved during the summer hols. The bus had sailed past full as usual, busting with grammar school girls gathered from bus stops further up the hill. My sister is one of them. She is supposed to watch out for me. She is why my parents decided in their infinite wisdom that I should stay on at Carter Knowle Road junior school. She, clever clogs, got into Abbydale Grammar school up the road, so they decided she can take me to school and bring me home. Oh yeah? She's 13, all new friends and hormones. She dumps me as soon as we are clear of the house.
That gets me too. What kind of horrible bus driver hurtles past a small bedraggled child on a dark night, laden with a leather satchel big enough for a small family to live in, leaving her exposed to god knows what dangers. I hope he rots in hell. I saw him. He drove through that puddle on purpose so I would get sprayed with dirty water. Boy will he be in big trouble . . . I can see him now, standing at my hospital bed where I am bravely recovering from pneumonia, wringing his hands and apologising for not stopping to let such a little child on his bus. He will lose his job of course when the papers get hold of it. I sulk back to the shelter of a stone garden wall and throw down my bag. There won't be another Number 3 for hours.
And that's another thing . . . the bloody bus doesn't even take me to my house. Oh no, this nine year old is expected to walk miles from the bus stop at the other end, to our brand spanking new maisonette on the Gleadless Valley estate. Not only that but the road from Gleadless Town End starts off with shops and houses on either side then tails off into a country lane with green fields on one side and the scary steep drop of the Valley on the other. And the road is lined with tall hedges that anyone could jump out of. What sort of parents let their young daughter do this sort of trip to school alone? I hate them. I can see them standing next to the bus driver at my hospital bedside contrite and promising to buy me anything if I could just see it in my heart to forgive them.
To be fair they don't know I am alone and that little miss spotty specky four eyes never stays with me on our epic journey to school. What isn't fair is the rest of Carter Knowle Road Junior School children don't have to catch a bus like me. They dawdle as they walk home together and play out on warmer nights until called in for their tea. It's too late by the time I get home to play out, even if I knew anyone round ours. Anyway, they all think I'm snobby, too grand to go to their school. I hate my mum for thinking that Carter Knowle is a better school for me. What does she know about anything? And why didn't Dad stick up for me and say no way was a young daughter of his going all that way to school. I hate him too.
I have been standing alone for ages now, freezing in the dark with the amber glow from the street lamp lighting up the bus stop sign and the depressing drizzle. The wet fog has descended like a shroud and my poor miserable little body is soaked to the core. I feel very, very sorry for myself. I am so angry at mum and dad that I jump in a puddle to get wetter. I'll show them.
It seems darker now too. There are less cars and it feels like it should be about midnight. Mr Wragg, the scary caretaker, has finished his tour of the school and all the reassuring lights in the classrooms have been extinguished leaving the school dark and threatening in the bleak evening. I bet he's managed to find a bit of sick to cover in sawdust from his trusty tin bucket. He is always there in the morning sweeping up these little dried patches. You never hear about anyone being sick though. Very strange.
My duffle coat is so sodden the excess water now; it is starting to drip down my legs for heaven's sake. If this was a film the camera would slowly move in on a poor little urchin, alone in a dark desolate street and come to rest on the tear splashed cheeks of a pretty young girl. The audience would sob at the sadness of her plight and gasp with anger at the wickedness of the parents that had allowed this to happen.
What was it dad always said when we went on family outings? 'Have you all got your pac-a-macs? Just in case.' We always refuse to take them with us. We hate the bloody things. I could do with it now though. I wish I'd thought about that this morning when I was dressing. To kill time I started pulling at the tree branches to get wetter. I hate my parents. I'll show them. They may even get sent to prison when the police find me abandoned, weak from hunger, and suffering from exposure. I am tired and cold and wet and fed up and . . . up the hill, through my soaking wet fringe that I have let fall over my eye for effect, I spy a bus. I can see the gloriously warm orange glow of the double-decker lights. Please let it stop . . . please.
Whoooosh! It sails past spraying me again, my eagerly outstretched arm, it's a request stop, suspended aloft in disbelief . . . what was that? Not in Service . . . Not in bloody Service! Why hadn't the driver turned the bloody lights out then? I bet he did that on purpose just to torment me. SH one T as my Dad would say.
It must be midnight now. I am so hungry and I regret getting so wet. I am a bit afraid and it's so cold. The drizzle has turned to snow flurries. I am stupid. Maybe this is all happening because I'm a horrible person. I promise I won't tell on spotty specky four eyes ever again. I promise I won't call her that again either. Well not to her face.
Oh please bus, please come now. On the bus maybe some kind stranger will give me a warm coat and dry shoes when they hear that I have a long walk home alone at the other end. But I need the bus to come. It must be at least 10 o'clock now. I should be in bed. I won't have time to do my homework. I will be in so much trouble at school tomorrow. My teacher will report my parents and I will be taken into care. I'm sorry Mum. I will walk up the hill tomorrow to my sister's bus stop, like you told me too, I promise.
My nose is running because I am crying for real now and my coat sleeve is too cold and wet to wipe it with. Through the sobs I can hear the whistle of a bird. My Dad can make that sound . . . He folds back the tip of his tongue, thins his lips and blows. It's very shrill but the sound carries. My mum hates it. She tells him 'His dog went that way' when he does it to her, for some reason. There it goes again. I turn round and see Dad emerging from behind a works minibus. He runs across the road unfurling his man size pac-a-mac. Kneeling down he undoes the toggles on my duffle coat. 'Your poor sister was worried sick when you didn't meet her at the other bus stop. What were you thinking you silly girl? Look at you, you're soaked,' he fusses. He gently takes my wet coat off and covers me in his donkey jacket wrapping himself up in the pac- a –mac and throwing my satchel over his shoulder.
'Do you know Chris went barmy at that bus driver when he didn't pick you up.' He was grinning at me now. 'I would have paid a shilling to see that wouldn't you? The driver threw her off the bus in the end at Bocking Lane!' Seeing my alarm he adds, 'No, it's all right she is safe at her friend's house.'
He gives me a wink. 'You any warmer?' I grin back. 'That's my girl. Here.' He hands me a small packet of Jammy Dodgers. 'Ok, Little One, its 5 o'clock now, the next bus is in about half an hour, how about we set off walking to the next bus stop to keep warm? It's not far.' I am amazed. Only 5 o'clock. 'We should be home by about half six. That will please your Mum. She said she would cook our favourite tonight. I hope she's done mashed potatoes with the liver and onions don't you?' Dad squeezes my hand like he always does, then puts his hand in his pocket. 'Come on, stick your leg in bed, and best foot forward.' I hook my arm through his and trot along happily at his side. I promise myself I will be a better person starting tomorrow and, if I can find it, I might put my pac-a-mac in my satchel . . . just in case.