The Bus to Nowhere

Mrs. Margaret Coolidge glanced around nervously, shifting ever so slightly in her seat. She stole a glimpse of the girl sitting beside her just as the bus jerked to a halt. The driver’s booming voice announced on the overhead speaker: “Whiterose Hill”. That unremarkable name had an unexpected effect on Mrs. Coolidge’s demeanour. She raised an uncertain eyebrow while her mind rattled at a furious velocity. She was gripped with an unimaginable sense of woe and overwhelming fear, almost like a delirious frenzy. At sixty-two years of age, few things succeeded in disrupting her steady composure, or so she believed. Presently, something unspoken was plaguing her mind. Quite simply, it was the prospect of being lost; being stranded hopelessly in a new town with no one to turn to for help terrified her. Mrs. Coolidge rubbed her gloved hands over and over as the thought pervaded her mind. Her wrinkled eyes tried to peer through the dewy window on her right as the bus engine revved like a giant awakening from deep slumber.

As the bus trundled along through snowed landscape, Mrs. Coolidge began to wonder if she’d truly missed her stop. The idea caused her much distress - for goodness sake, why hadn’t she written it down? Her grandson had implored her to note down the name of stop near his house. This had been during their telephone conversation a week ago, and now here she was - stuck in a dilemma without a phone or directions. Reliance on her eroding memory was akin to taking a chance with new restaurants, unpredictable. Mostly, all would be fine and the food, like her memory, would consent to cooperate. Occasionally, however, one would be left feeling cheated for over-priced, unpalatable food in a popular restaurant, like her mind that too would fail to deliver on demand in crucial moments. Surely, today was to be a case of expecting gourmet quality from the burger and chips shop. The gastric analogy brought a queer smile to Mrs. Coolidge’s thin, sinuous lips.

Well, she needed to do something before it was too late. Moving her arm, heavily layered inside a warm, turquoise coat, she wiped the condensed wetness of the windows in swiping motion. Outside, the scenery was changing rapidly; they were moving from a densely occupied residential area into countryside. Miles of snow covering the hills and farmlands, like blankets placed gently to cover their smooth dunes. A few barns littered the slopes, winking back as brown beacons in the sea of frost. Mrs. Coolidge felt the urgency to act soon. She turned, once more, to attempt a breach of the frigid silence separating her from her fellow passengers. The girl next to her didn’t look friendly; rather she looked positively arrogant and unfeeling. Mrs. Coolidge, observing through the corner of her eye without turning her head, noticed long black hair, a black blouse, even her nails were painted black. The girl’s pallid face was only highlighted by a dark, jet-black outline around her eyelids. Something about the stoic, perhaps, even condescending expression on the girl’s face made Mrs. Coolidge feel further intimidated.

Mrs. Coolidge coughed demurely to draw the attention the girl, who seemed to be absorbed in her act of staring blankly into the vast nothingness. No reaction elicited, Mrs. Coolidge uttered a muffled, “excuse me”. Nothing. Determined now, Mrs. Coolidge lifted her frail hand and tapped gently on her neighbour’s shoulder: “Sorry dear, but would you know where exactly I ought to get off for St. Andrew’s Crescent?”

Mrs. Coolidge had adopted a solicitous tone and her face exuded concern. Her mind jostled with the dismay of hearing that she’d indeed already gone too far; worse, that she was on the wrong bus altogether. Presumably, she’d read the bus information correctly in Arlington, that small village where her bus from London had terminated. She’d found herself alone at that isolated bus stop, with nobody to turn to for help until finally she’d followed her discretion and hopped onto this bus to St. Andrew’s Crescent. One part of her own mind piped in her ears like a squeaky teenager : Come on Margaret, you refuse to admit that even if there had been another soul at that forsaken stop in Arlington, your tacit and timid self would denounce any hope for conversation.

Her mind-talk was brushed away abruptly when the girl next to her cocked her head, then yanked out black earphones (which Mrs. Coolidge had failed to notice, bless her eyesight) and spoke with an icy, indifferent voice .

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you over the music”, she said. The loud metallic jarring noise continued to blare softly through the earphones in her hand. The girl asked Mrs. Coolidge to repeat what she’d said. “Oh, um. St Andrew’s Crescent? No idea whatsoever, sorry. Best you ask the driver. Don’t want to be lost now, do you? It’s beginning to get dark outside”. She ended with a feeble attempt at feigned courtesy, and a cursory smile. With no further interest, she resumed her musical preoccupation.

Great, thought Mrs. Coolidge, that wasn’t much help. None at all. She grimaced ruefully, as an alternative thought began to emerge in her capricious mind. Could she really not just ask the driver? No. No, there would be none of that, she told herself. Mrs. Coolidge assuredly eliminated that option. She could not approach the driver, no, perhaps he even… No. That was unacceptable, she told herself.

Unfazed by the girl’s terseness, Mrs. Coolidge tried to draw the attention of the other passengers. She began to mutter loudly, convinced that some courteous individual in that crowded bus would help a distraught, old lady. “Oh dear, oh dear”, she said to no one in particular, “what am I to do now? I must get off immediately. This is so terrible,” Her plea betrayed no trace of pretence or exaggeration. It worked. Over the rumbling noise of the bus in motion, a man standing in the aisle turned around and asked loudly, “You alright, Ma’am?” He looked like a middle-aged, Asian man; a teacher perhaps judging by the suit her wore and the books he carried (‘A guide to teaching English: GCSE Levels’).

Mrs. Coolidge’s face must have lit up considerably. “Oh, I don’t know. I feel so silly. I think I’ve got on the wrong bus, dear. What am I to do now? I don’t know even have a map on me …” Her delivery of flustered words caught the attention of everyone on the bus. Everyone, that is, except the gothic ice-maiden sitting next to her who continued to look unaffected. Even before the Asian man could proffer help, it seemed like a cloud of heavy silence had descended in the bus. The lack of sound was broken intermittently by the screeching, halting and re-starting of the bus’s interiors. The man became acutely aware of standing on centre stage in this unfolding drama. Keen eyes searched him from around the bus, heads turning to observe the lead role. He felt an inner urge to speak and rid this burden of being the cynosure.

“Calm down, Ma’am, you mustn’t worry now,” the man said with a thick accent. “Where is it you need to go?” He allowed his last words to trail off, not wishing to be the sole orator in what felt like a bus full of judgmental, palpably discerning and inquisitive individuals. Mrs. Coolidge had, by this point, forsaken any remnant of self-assurance and placidity. She was lost, with only strangers to rely on.

“I, you see, the thing is my grandson lives in this village…well, I cannot recollect its name. That is the whole issue, dear. He’d said, “You must get off near St. Andrew’s Crescent gran!” in that sprightly young spirit of his. Oh, how I do love him, that boy. He always invites dear old gran for the weekends, even if no one cares about her. No one, except her sweetheart Castro, and little, Luska. My Siamese cats you know, I love them to death.” She was so pleased to reminisce about the comfort of her London home, her lovely pet cats, her flower pots in the back garden…

“But where do you need to get off then?” an irritated voice from the rear of the bus broke her reverie. Without turning, she continued to address the kind man, “I don’t remember. I feel so miserable, you see, I can’t think of the name of the stop. And I am not even certain it’s two or three villages away from Arlington, it may well be five. Oh dear, does anyone know?” She left the question suspended in the crowd’s minds, like a monologue delivered with aplomb, in a theatre packed with enthusiasts. Once more, it worked. Her plea had garnered the concealed attention of every person in the bus, barring the driver and the girl in black. Like true enthusiasts, people were now murmuring to each other about the contents of Mrs. Coolidge’s monologue - analysing it, appreciating it, some even attempting to solve it’s hidden mystery.

A fresh entrant at the next stop (Barnaby Lane) was welcomed by a cocktail of low, uncoordinated whispers: “poor senile lady”, “St. Andrew’s Crescent? Didn’t we just pass that?”, “Why doesn’t she just ask the driver? Creating a ruckus, these old ones!” and “St. Andrew’s? That’s in Sanderely village. No, wait - it isn’t, that’s the Church, not the Crescent. Oh well.” Within minutes, a veritable bedlam had replaced the hushed indifference of an intercity bus. Mrs. Coolidge was being swept by simultaneous tides of relief and dread. The Asian man walked closer to her seat. “Ma’am, I will alert the driver I think,” he said loudly and started to make his way up the busy aisle.

Two steps forward and the same irritated voice yelled at him, “Hol’ on mate! No need ta’ delay all o’ us now, izn’ it? I’ll tell yer wha’? Jus’ give da’ ol’ lady a map now”. Then he swore openly, and laughed festively at his own audacity. The irate speaker was a boisterous, burly man with a shiny, bald head. He was dressed in a tracksuit, his neck adorned by numerous fake gold chains. His drugged eyes belied a menacing look, easily the after-effect of prolonged intoxication. He rubbed his clenched hammer-fists in a grinding fashion, smiling threateningly.

“Now, now. There isn’t any need for arguments. I have a map right here,” said another woman. She was dressed in a grey business suit, sported blonde her tied neatly in a bun. Mrs. Coolidge leaned forward in her seat to see her new saviour, sitting across the aisle. A lawyer, thought Mrs. Coolidge. In any case, the blonde woman’s interjection was successful in diffusing the peaking tension. Mrs. Coolidge, now craning her neck from the edge of her seat, watched silently as the other woman dug into her oak-brown leather briefcase to reveal a neatly folded map. “I get off at the last stop, so don’t worry”, she mouthed back to Mrs. Coolidge with a benign smile.

Through the hazy glass Mrs. Coolidge saw that darkness had seeped into all those last pockets that daylight had tried to shield secretly. Traffic on the roads lumbered its way through settling snow. Mrs. Coolidge turned around briskly, to snatch a furtive glance of the giant who’d refused to be delayed on her account. Satisfied, she returned to her act of adjusting her turquoise coat. Before long, the bus halted once more (Sanderely Village) and a few people alighted, including the Asian man. He directed a valedictory smile at Mrs. Coolidge before walking out into a night of stinging cold.

Events inside the bus had resumed their normalcy of detached indifference, when the hulk at the rear of the bus screamed out, “Crazy immigrans! Bloody, brown dolt, I tell yer, tryin’ ta be courteous. Stinkin’ drain rat, I say mate!” The awkward pause after his rant was followed by an enraged uproar. “Mind your language!” a Chinese girl on the second from last seat said. Another angry man, wearing a suit like the blond woman, turned around and said calmly, “Why don’t you help the lady then?” Mrs. Coolidge was surprised when her tacit response only served to escalate the quarrelling. The bus was now replete with arguments debasing racism, but also questioning the need for local geographical knowledge. All along, the blond woman continued to frantically scour the map on her lap. If only somebody could help Mrs. Coolidge, none of this frenzy would’ve arisen.

Mrs. Coolidge began trembling, partly from the cold tickling her spine and partly from the aggressive repartees that were bouncing like unrestrained ping pong balls. Dear Lord, what had she done? She should never have spoken up, she thought. Now strangers were hurling abuses at each other in a public bus, a poor lady was consumed by her inefficiency to read maps and, undoubtedly, the driver was going to notice the furore that had erupted. “Burford”, the driver yelled in a stern, almost reproaching voice, as the bus pulled into a lonely street lined with quaint row houses and only two street lamps. Burford! Mrs. Coolidge felt her mind racing again. That’s what it was. Burford. Not Bicester, not Sanderely, not even Barnaby. Burford.

Quickly and stealthily, she huddled to the middle exit door. Just as she was stepping out, she turned to look into the bus: the blond woman was reaching the end of her patience, pushed by deep frustration; the Chinese girl and the man in the grey suit were still arguing loudly with the drunk man on the last seat; several others in the aisle (a woman carrying a child, two schoolboys and an old man with a brown Terrier dog) were alternately supporting the fighting parties. In short, Mrs. Coolidge had managed to engender pandemonium. Oh dear, she mused, thankfully no one had noticed her escape, once again barring the driver and the girl next to her (who’d shifted in her seat mutely to let Mrs. Coolidge exit).

As she walked in the chill of the haunting winter silence, her steps rustled over the snow layers on St. Andrew’s Crescent. She limped along the road until a bright light approached her from the distance. Finally, she thought, it was here. The door opened at her behest, as she dusted off flecks of white from her coat.

“Can I help you?” the man asked kindly.

“Yes, please. Could I get a single ticket to Martin’s Road please?” she said. Spotting a place, she closed in on the empty seat next to a young boy reading his book. A wicked grin pursed her thin, devious lips.

The X32 picked up speed and Mrs. Coolidge slowly began to rub her gloved hands, in practised terror, once again…