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NOTES:
OPEN SHORT STORY COMPETITION 2008/2009
SECOND PLACE
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This story text appears exactly as sent in by the writer. No changes or corrections have been made; however, all stories to be included in the published Anthology will be edited for grammar and punctuation before printing.
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"The Wheels On The Bus"
by David Aldus - High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
David Aldus: "I write every day for at least two hours - it is a compulsion of mine. Won What's On In London magazine short story competition; Ottaker's prize for poetry at High Wycombe; Global short story competition; shortlisted for Frome Festival short story competition. I have written five novels - none published as yet. As with my short story, The Wheels on the Bus, they deal with events taking place in and around Brecon where I was born. One literary agent very interested, so I am encouraged!
COMMENTS FROM JUDGES:
1. Imaginatively written, great atmosphere, wonderful characters.
2. I really loved the strong characterisation, the voices, the very "typical-ness" of the thing. The portrayals of the Welsh grandmother and the young driver who wishes he could be more indifferent to her plight are excellent. Great wry humour, something I could really get my teeth into. Punchline could be improved perhaps?
THE STORY:
Cwmraig village isn’t much cop on a Monday afternoon. Well, it isn’t any better most days, but Monday has the edge. Stuck half way up Cwmraig mountain, it’s bullied by any passing weather, and the tiny population must feel like weathervanes. Most don‘t flinch. Others know how to manipulate the climate to their own ends.
Sitting in double decker number 49 grumbling up an Everest steep road to Cwmraig Village, is Granny Clink, clothes undertaker black, face greyer than Welsh slate.
Number 49’s depressed - it‘s been demoted from the Brecon/Merthyr run. No wonder - even first gearing, it can’t reach ten miles an hour up this hill - guts not what it used to be. Terrible shame. Not only that, the cheeky driver has his elbows on the steering wheel, chewing gum.
Bomber Griffiths means no disrespect. A long hill and a slow climb bore him fence-pole rigid. Not much use, steering wheels, when there’s no bends. Blame the stupid Romans. It was their generals who showed the locals a straight line’s the quickest way to any place. Suits Cwmraig villagers. Their road might be steep as a solicitor’s bill, but it can be negotiated quickly by putting your head down and keep tramping.
Here comes the half-way mark - four empty sailor-hatted milk churns, squatting by the bank. Thieves they are, in the big, sad eyes of Mr. Jenkins’ Friesians. Tomorrow’s dawn’ll see Pwll-y-calch dairy collect the full churns and later return them empty of milk, ready for the cows to suffer more grand larceny.
Back to the business in hand. ‘I bet when I get up by the village pump, no twerp’ll be there for the trip back. And if it wasn’t for Granny Clink, I needn’t’ve driven up yuh at all.’
“Not long now, bach.” That’s her, sitting right behind him on the seat reserved for pushchair users.
“Aye, too right, Mrs. Clink. Weather closing in a bit.”
Cwmraig Village can sulk in mist for days, come winter. Clouds like nesting on it, and today they’re hovering, looking broody, less than a quarter of a mile up from the roofs.
“How’s your Megan? She do look poorly to me.”
‘Then doan look at her’. “Aw. You know. Down one minute, up the next.”
“Like a yo-yo, sort of. Take me up home, now won‘t you, lovely boy?”
Oh no! Mist has infiltrated the hedgerows on either side, fuzzing outlines, and stealing light. “Mrs. Clink?”
“Aye?”
“I can’t make a detour, Love. The village’ll be fogged up, see, an’ going off up your lane in this jalopy’ll be too dangerous.”
Granny Clink lives in a whitewashed three-room farm house called Pendre, not much bigger than an igloo. Been in her family since the dawn of time. Her forebears were labourers for the landowner, an English called de Courtney - but that’s never mentioned. These days, only mad city slickers find Pendre charming. Farmer Jenkins means to keep pigs in it after Granny Clink’s death which she’s delaying out of sheer spite. Pendre’s situated half mile above Cwmraig Village.
“Too dangerous? Nonsense! You can do it.” A wide-mouthed wicker basket slams down by Bomber’s left foot. “See. Basket’s up to its ears with my week’s food. Heavy is what it is. Now, your Megan’d stretch your guts for banjo strings if she found out you’d let me carry it up home.”
“Fair do‘s, Mrs. Clink. Bus company’s not too happy running this route as it is. They only need an excuse.”
“Sleep in yuh, is what I’ll do, mun. Catch my death out in that mist.”
Floating in candy floss vapour, stark and staring black, stands the pump. Not a body in sight.
The old crow pecks at his eyes. “There now! Nobody do want to go back down. You got half hour to spare.”
The huge bus rumbles round the pump, and Bomber Griffiths guides it up the narrow lane leading to Pendre.
Mrs. Clink leans into the cab and pats spider fingers on Bomber’s shoulder. “Aw, diolch yn fawr, bach. {Thank you very much, man} You’re a saint.”
“Sit down, Mrs. Clink. We’re in for a bumpy ride.”
“Aye, but things’re better since I got ole Jenkins to cut away the trees an’ hedges. Las’ time, like going through a cheese grater, mun“.
Tortoise slow, and just as careful, the half-dead bus whinges over centuries of foot eroded soil - no tarmac up here. Stunted mountain trees scratch the windscreen with branches more crooked than forked lightning.
But on Bomber drives, blackmailed by Mrs. Clink’s old age, and a conscience.
The lane is in a strop. Nothing but cheek, this red monster coming here again, belching fumes, stinking up its ancient banks.
Well, the lane’s got a nasty surprise - nearby Llanfechloed stream’s suddenly dancing a different tune, due to Mr. Jenkins’ evil little trick, perpetrated only a few minutes ago. He’s used the mist to hide what he’s up to, spading turf from the stream’s left-hand bank. Water flumes through, free at last to tumble off on a new course, silvering across the sloping meadow, straight at the lane‘s bank, overwhelming it as easy as a dog swallowing sausages. That warms Mr. Jenkins’ evil heart.
“In future, Clink’ll have to swim up her precious lane.”
There’s terrible.
Steep hills make running water go at an eye-blurring rate. Mouth full of the first bank, Llanfechloed stream crashes across into the opposite bank, gets repelled, turns, and sweeps downwards along the lane‘s gully, malicious as a mangy fox, gouging loose earth, growing monstrous, spewing before it stuff which looks just like hot chocolate. It’s on its way to Double Decker 49.
“I’ll put the kettle on the Aga when we get there, Lovely. Have a cup of tea. What about that then?”
“No ta, Mrs. Clink. These eyes of mine out on stalks now. Fog’s so thick you could chew it. Can’t see more’n a few feet.”
“Oh, this is nothing. Times I’ve been walking home and you carn hear yor own footsteps, honest. Fog do muffle sound, see, and when I was small, it was like someone smothering you with a grey blanket. Still, it didn’t do me no harm, like.”
‘Oh, yes it did.’ “Sure thing, Mrs. Clink. Sure thing.”
Bomber has his neck ostriched over the steering wheel, peering out at a moving golden glow in front - all that’s offered by his headlights.
“Wass that sound?”
A great wall of chocolate mousse fists into the nebulous light, juddering the double decker, roaring along its sides.
“Darro! {Never} Wass happening?” Bomber wrenches up the hand brake, and jumps out of his cab. “Upstairs! Mrs. Clink. Now!”
The old lady bends over her basket.
“Leave that! Look, the bus is flooding. Come on!” Bomber picks up Mrs. Clink and gets stuck climbing the narrow steps to the upper deck, her rear jammed against one side, her head the other.
Tiny fists flail him, knocking off his peaked hat. “Gerroff! You stupid idiot. I’ll reach there on my own, mun.”
The two gorilla up the winding stairs, hands padding on the steps in front, feet pummelling.
Number 49 moves a few feet down the lane.
“Aw no!” Bomber peers from the front upstairs’ window at the bus’s squat-nosed bonnet, taking a hammering from the boiling stream. “If the bus tips, we’re in for it, no doubt.”
Mrs. Clink joins him, sitting on the front seat like she was on a jolly to Mumbles. “Don’t be daft, mun. It can’t tip. No room, see. The lane’s too narrow. Banks and hedges’ll keep it up.”
‘Not so stupid after all.’ “Corse, Mrs. Clink. Never struck me before, that didn’t”. Skeletons dance a jig as Bomber thinks what would have happened if the old girl had tried walking home. She’d have been a chocolate-drenched corpse in two bats of an eyelid.
“Listen.”
“What? I can’t hear nothing.”
Mrs. Clink’s grey eyes look at him in a bleak sort of way. “No. That means the water’s gone.”
“Must’ve been a surge, then.” says Bomber. “Like when a dam bursts.”
“There’s no dam round here, sonny Jim. And the Llanfechloed stream’s over on the far side of Jenkins’s field, right?”
Bomber flattens his palms on the upstairs’ front window, again pressing his nose against the glass. “Well, the water’s a bit less, alright. But it’s still flowing, so something’s feeding it. You stay yuh, Mrs. Clink. I‘ll have a recky, see what‘s happening.” Bomber clatters down the stairs, onto the slimy platform, and leans out. The water chuckles past, about a foot deep. It’s pushed Mrs. Clink’s wicker basket to the rear of the aisle, then dropped in volume to its present steady flow.
“Still gushing past, Mrs. Clink. I’ll get your groceries.”
“Plenty of room on top!”
‘She’s not taking this serious, silly mare.’ “Here we are, Mrs. Clink. Bit heavy. What you got in there?”
Mrs. Clink takes the basket, swinging it over to the far end of the seat, between her and the side window. “Those that ask, doan get told.”
“Suit yourself.” Bomber sits on the other front seat across the aisle from her, and stares out at the mist which has decided the fun’s over, time to evaporate.
Ferreting in her basket, Mrs. Clink takes out a ring of black sausage. “Meant it for my supper. All this excitement do make me hungry. Want some?”
Now there’s thoughtless, the silly old bat has chewed one end off, thin lips worming up and down, gums intimidating the pig’s dried blood.
Bomber studies the sausage’s ragged black skin hanging from her attack. He shakes his head.
“It’ll be too late to stoke up the Aga when we do get there. I gottoo light it all over again.”
“Doan blame me. I’m only the bus driver off my route, an’ probably up for the sack. Too many times’ve I’ve taken you up yuh, Mrs. Clink. It’s always Arctic in your place, any way. I seen more comfort in Dan yr Ogof caves.”
She’s rummaging again, ignoring the writhing skein of water flowing continuously down the lane. “Doan knock it, wus. My pension sees me with plenty of food. At my age, thass all you want, see. I doan go near all this gas and electrickery stuff costing more every year. Dear me, there’s enough wood round Pendre to keep my Aga burning until I leave this earth.”
“Aye, fair enough. But what about central heating? You ain’t even got cavity walls.”
A packet of biscuits is in her claw hands, rattling cellophane. “Get that Aga scorching, see, an’ it’ll heat all my rooms. Jus’ keep the doors open. Simple. Wanna biscuit? Custard creams.”
Bomber stretches, takes two, and puts them in his mouth, casual like.
“Chwarae Teg, mun {Fair play, mate }. They doan come on trees. One’s all you should’ve took.”
“How’d you get on without entertainment, T.V. an’ all that? You haven’t even got a radio.”
“Aye, I have. I got a battery one. Useless. Signal’s no good, see. Lots of hissing, and burps. Naw, I’ve seen inside Cwmraig’s windows. Stuck there like dummies they are, watching some awful square picture that ruins eyes it’s that bright. After I’ve had my meals and stoked up the Aga, done my tidying, washed up, an’ all, I do go to bed at dusk, and stay there until dawn.”
“No fun that, Mrs. Clink. Long time in bed, right.”
“Winter time, aye. Summer time nights’re shorter. Suits me. See more of the sun getting up at dawn. See less of the day in winter, but who wants to be looking at clouds an’ rain?”
“Sounds as if you got it sorted, Mrs. Clink. Now, where do we go from yuh?”
“How’d you mean?”
“Well, Megan’ll be getting worried about me, see, an’ no-one’ll think of looking for a double-decker in this wilderness. Can’t get out. It‘s a stream down there.”
“Stream? Naw. It’s some fluke rain burst, mun. Wait until it’s dried up, an’ then walk back.”
“Aye. Makes sense. Better still, if we give it another hour, the engine’ll have dried out. Could try starting it.”
“There we are. Brains is what you’ve got, Lovely.”
“Aye, an’ I’ll need them, Mrs.Clink. How’m I going to explain where I bin all this time?”
“Say you had to rush me home, ‘cos I left the gas on.”
“You haven’t got gas.”
“An’ who’s going to tell them?”
“Good point. Good point.”
They sit together, or nearly together, on either side of the aisle, front seats, spectating as the lane loses all definition, evening closing in.
Bomber folds his arms, lays his chin on his chest and doses.
Very, very carefully, Mrs. Clink unwraps a couple more biscuits, swallowing them a bit at a time in the silent manner of a Boa Constrictor. Possessive as a kid with secret sweets, there‘ll be no more sharing with him, that’s for sure,
The sky surrenders all light, and a wind shoos away pockets of mist.
Bomber does a flip with his one leg, and wakes. “Better see how’re we doing, Mrs. Clink.”
Mrs. Clink keeps her head turned away, half consumed biscuit sticking out of her mouth. “Mm,” and she watches her dark reflection nodding in the side window, the biscuit looking like an extra tongue..
Bomber sits in his driver’s seat, and twists the ignition key.
Not a phut.
Men have a way with motors. “Come on, you useless, red-sided bucket.. Start!”
Nothing. But for the water, it’s complete silence.
“Aw. Doan do this to me, mun. Start!”
“Poor dab. You’ll have to walk.”
The hands that grip the wheel wish earnestly to be around that old woman’s scrawny neck. “Aye, Mrs. Clink. Right you are.” Sitting down like a proper little Humphrey, he starts unlacing his boots, muttering horrible words.
“You not leaving me yuh, are you?” The voice from the depths, only it comes from above.
“Why not, Mrs. Clink?”
“Drat! I could get murdered, mun.”
Murder? How many murderers would be bothered to paddle all the way up this wretched lane, to murder Mrs. Clink? “Aw aye. Well, what do I do? I gottoo get help, right?”
“Take me with you, you daft tup.” {sheep}
“How?”
“Piggy back, of course.”
‘What?! Oh, please. Anything but that‘.’ “Come on down yuh, then. Sooner we get back to Cwmraig Village, the better.”
Wincing, he feels Mrs. Clink’s bony legs wrap round his waist, arms pincering his neck, choking him from behind. “Ease up a bit, there’s a love. Hey! Water’s like ice.”
Staggering in the gurgling darkness, they slosh along, silhouette shaped like Quasimodo - Bomber bent forward, head forced up by Mrs. Clink’s reptilian grasp.
“Well, this is fun, isn’t it, lovely boy?”
Words bluer than pornography bubble up, but he can’t say them - throat constricted.
She’s talking again. “How about a little song, Garibaldi? Keep you amused until we get there. I know just the thing -
“Oh, the wheels on the bus go round and round,
“Round and round; round and round.
“Oh, the wheels on the bus go round and round,
“All day long.
“Oh, the wheels . . ..
“Tell you what, lovely boy. I doan know it all. I’ll just sing the same verse again, an‘ again.”
Her cracked voice rattles in his ears, close and personal.
He pictures them: a skittish old lady, singing fit to bust, piggy-backed by a grumpy bus driver in uniform, trousers rolled up to his knees, paddling in the dark. Bizarre, or what?
A smile forces itself onto his reluctant face, broadening into a grin, which soon breaks into a giggle. He trips, nearly diving head first into the moving shadows of water. Sore feet feel as if they’re tight-roping on barbed wire.
At last, hysteria takes over, and he starts to laugh uncontrollably, on this, the worst day of his life.
Copyright (c) 2009 by David Aldus - do not reproduce
without the author's written permission!
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