THE LADY AT THE BUS STOP
“The bus is late, love ,” the voice came from right beside me, startling me out of my dozy daydream. Glancing round I had my first glimpse of Lily, perched on the edge of the bus station bench, balancing on her zimmer frame, from which hung a multitude of shopping bags. How she manoeuvred the liberally laden vehicle was a mystery never to be solved.
I don’t think so,” I replied, glancing at the station clock, “It’s just turned six now.”
But Lily was precise and she persisted, “Should be leaving here at six, love. By the time the passengers get on, you know. Here, did you know Tesco are selling Schloer for one pound. You should get yourself some, quare good bargain, dear .I mean I priced it in Asda, two twenty nine, they’re asking. Well, begod, I know I’m fond of a wee drop, don’t drink you see love, but I won’t be putting my hand in me pocket for that price. What do you think, eh?”
This abrupt change in conversation content caused me some confusion and I curiously found myself replying: “Oh, I’ll have to get some. I’m partial to it myself .”
To my utter consternation I found myself deep in discussion with this delightful lady on the merits and demerits of Schloer and other fizzy, fruity flavoured beverages. Social recluse that I am, I prefer isolation when on bus and train journeys, perfect opportunities for relaxing, reading or resting my weary head. Cocooned in my own little corner , loving the loneliness. Do not Disturb!
But my uninvited interloper was intent on imparting as much information as possible on our journey together. My intention on boarding the bus was to be ridiculously rude and retreat to the rear, knowing my garrulous Granny couldn’t follow with her adult walker . But bad manners are abhorrent to me and I settled myself for the continued conservation. I was royally rewarded for my decision as I sat enthralled when story after story poured from my wrinkled raconteur. Of course, like a Doubting Thomas I sought verification of these verbal visons and I pledged to surf the internet seeking confirmation as soon as possible.
“Heading into Belfast town, are ya, love?” my companion queried, “doing some shopping?”
Lily was not nosy or inquisitive by nature I could instinctively tell, perhaps loneliness played a part in her loquacity or indeed she just had a friendly open personality for parleying with an interested listener.
“No,” I replied. “I’m going to Queen’s University. I’m taking a short story course.”
I revealed this fact with a great deal of pride and an insufferable shot of self-importance. Being known to attend Queen’s bestowed on me an air of superiority and I brazenly bathed in boastfulness .. Expecting an air of awe from my pensioner pal, my ego was drastically deflated as she simply stated:
“My son has written thirty seven books over the years, the latest is called Titanic. It’s sold out in Waterstones and everywhere else, I think. Would you believe that?”
She paused for a minute, then:
“It was cursed, you know. Did you know that? Oh,yeah! Cursed, it was!”
For a stupid split second, I thought she was referring to her son’s literary efforts and I stared unblinkingly at my animated narrator.
“Cursed,” I echoed.
“Yes, terrible, terrible tragedy!” Silence, but I had a sense there was more to come. “But inevitable, my dear, doomed from the start. Sacrilegious verses painted on the prow, vicious victimisation of the Virgin , they were. Desperate altogether.”
She paused, and as I searched for sufficient speech to show my disgust, she continued. “And that’s not all, oh no, not by a long chalk. There was a coffin on that boat – a sac – sarco – that Egyptian thing with bodies in it like King Tut!”
“Sarcophagus?” I offered.
“Yes, yes, that’s it! There was one on the Titanic. It had a princess in it. Being sold to a private buyer it was, and you know what happens when you desecrate a foreign tomb and steal a mummy. Curses, death and destruction!”Leaning forward she stared scarily at me for a second then:
“So there you are then. Isn’t that what happened? My son has it all down in his wee book and more, much more. Facts and figures about that sunken ship that would make your hair stand on end.”
Doubtful and disbelieving still, I nevertheless listened to my new friend’s daunting disclosures, all the way to Belfast. And she had many !
Samson and Goliath, two of Belfast’s oldest characters, hovering over Harland and Wolf shipyard, were given a topknot by her other half. Now these two giants of industry are not human in form but mechanical in nature, part of the Belfast skyline . Two colossal cranes creating cliches for tired, tramping tourists. On the nethermost regions of these yellow edifices perched roaring red residences, similar to an emerging acne spot on an amorous adolescent. Both a necessary addition for future growth .
“What size do you think that red bit is, dear?”
The dimensions of these towering pterodactyls have never really interested me but gazing upwards as I have from time to time, they appeared diminutive and doll like.
“Would you believe they house a canteen, offices, toilets, showers and a fully equipped gym? Hubby’s handiwork and not a prattle of praise did he get. Dear me, no. No thanks for his talents or payment for his plans. Not in them days, love. Bigwigs bagged everything, claimed credit for all creations, insisted they invented all ideas.” She sighed sadly and was silent for all of six seconds.
“Anyway, his family know they are his babies and we can all look skywards at anytime, be proud and think of my Joe. God rest him. Now, love, you keep up with your writing. My son’s not as famous as some of them high falutin’ people but his books sell. Tales of the Troubles, that’s one of his. Not tall tales, mind you, terrible things, fleeing families, serious shootings, heartbreaking stories that would numb your senses and wring tears from a stone. She launched into graphic descriptions of some of the atrocities committed in the name of religion throughout our sadistic society, acquaintances she knew who had suffered severely at the hands of torturing terrorists, and as I listened and watched the conflicting changes of emotion on her face, a single tear slid slowly down her cheek, causing my heart to constrict in empathy and my eyes to fill up with sympathy .
“Terrible times, love, terrible, terrible times.” She brushed beads of sweat from her forehead and gathering herself together, shook off all melancholy musings. Settling herself straighter in her seat, another tantalising thought turned her features once again into likeable laughter.
“Are you a footie, fan, Dearie?” she chuckled, eyes crinkling at the corners and body language hinting at soon to be shared secrets.
“No,” I replied, “but my sons support opposing teams, Man. United and Liverpool. That leads to some unmerciless banter in my home, I can tell you!”
“Well,” she grinned, “I can’t help the Liverpool lad but here’s a wee gem that’ll leave your other son green! Do you remember the testimonial the other week for your man, Harry Gregg.”
Not being a football freak, I had no notion who this person was but nodded anyway, knowing I was in for further entertainment.
“Well,” her shoulders rose and chest expanded with pride, “I shared a box with him and,” she paused and winked wickedly at me, “who else, eh? Who else? This’ll be something to tell your boy!”
I, unbeliever that I am, actually knew who”who else” was, having been subjected to many a heated harangue between offspring as to the merits and demerits of soccer management.
“You met Alec (or was it Alex) Ferguson!” I exclaimed, endeavouring to instill an iota of interest in this fabled footballer, oh, apologies, major, magic manager.
“Indeed I did, Dearie, indeed I did!”Pride swelled and propelled her impressive bosoms precariously forward , arms folded firmly underneath to imprison and impede their escape. “Shook hands and spoke to him! Shared a bevy with him too. Nice man. No airs and graces with thon fella. But, you know, I ever once asked for his autograph. Didn’t find it necessary. It would’ve spoiled our fleeting friendship that night. We were just two fans enjoying the game, having a beer and a belly laugh .”
My imagination invoked an image of my son Aaron’s face when I recounted this lady’s adventures.
First words : “She didn’t get his autograph! Typical woman! Missed the chance of a lifetime.”
But did she,really. Enjoying her exciting evening, conversing with a celebrity, no awkwardness or awe between them, seeking a signature would have broken the spell .
Lily, I know her name, because at the outset of this miraculous meeting, whilst discussing the merits and demerits of scintillating Schloer, we exchanged names and regions of residences. Lily looked pensive, perhaps immersed in images of long ago happenings, colourful collages conjured up by our conservation. Sometimes she would smile, nod or shake her head, other times I witnessed a sadness settle on her, a slump of her shoulders, a sigh, a yearning for long lost lovers or longing for return of youth.
Gazing out the bus window, giving her time, privacy for reminisces, I realized with not a little dismay, that we were nearing the parting of our ways. Her designated stop was in view and I silently wept at the loss of her company. I, the solitary traveller who turns from company, seeks her own space and shuns any attempt at stranger conversations, yearned for a little more time with Lily.
Suddenly startled, I found myself swamped by enfolding arms, hugged so hard I struggled to breathe and whispered words from my new friend withered my resolve, broke through my defences and I melted, moving to hold her .
“Keep writing, my dear, your words will wring tears from hard hearts, bring laughter to the lonely and make magic for children. Release your colourful, creative imagination, record your stories and help make this world a better place for future generations. Rest assured, I know, you will succeed.”
And with that, she was gone.
I stand now in front of a cheering crowd in the Crescent Arts Centre, here to promote my first, hopefully not my last, successful novel, and I think of Lily all those years ago at an Antrim bus stop. For one secondary, sweet moment, I think I see her, there, in the middle of the crowd, holding aloft a bottle of shining, sparkling Schloer, shaking her zimmer at me and softly saying: “I won’t ask for your autograph, girl. It would spoil the moment .”
They say you’re getting old
Phyllis McKenna 