Miss, perch your child on your lap, came the booming command of a stout woman, who looked to be about fifty. It was a peculiar morning, and Id spent £65 to secure a separate seat for my son on the bus to his grandmothers house.
My son, George, is a towering fellow despite only being five. Everyone in our family regards him as if hes already started school. We always buy George his own seat on such journeyshes simply too tall and broad to be cradled on my lap, and besides, he behaves properly when given his own place. If he were perched on me, his shoes would graze the coats and trousers of our fellow passengers, and both he and I would be squirming and uncomfortable. It simply makes sense for him to have his own seat, setting everyone at ease.
That day, George sat by the window, gazing at passing green fields, while I took the seat beside him. Wed chosen seats at the front, foreseeing an easy escape when we reached Grandmas before anyone else would need to disembark. I had explained to the bus drivera wiry gent in a weathered flat capthat Id paid for Georges ticket, so that no stranger would be planted in his spot.
The bus left the stony streets of Oxford, heading for the countryside. Midway along a winding lane, the driver pulled up for a formidable lady waiting at a hedgerow. Though there were spare seats further back, she huffed and puffed her way onto the steps. The bus shuddered under her weight, and the other passengers watched silently as she squeezed herself through the low doorway. The driver released a deep, mournful sigh as she finally slammed the door behind her. With a judder, the bus rolled on as the lady nostled closer to the front seats.
Miss, put your lad on your lap, she barked, glaring at me. I informed her, as calmly as possible, that George had his own ticket and would not be forced onto my lap. The driver chimed in, suggesting she make her way to a seat nearer the back, where plenty were waiting. The woman grumbled loudly, insisting that someone must make room for her by the windowit was tradition, she said, as she rides this bus often, always sitting beside the glass.
I stood my ground. As the bus picked up speed, dreamlike currents pushed the woman in a slow circle about the cabin, although she stubbornly hovered near us, refusing to move further back. My nerves fizzed, but I was determined not to argue in front of George. To distract myself, I began chatting to him about the fluffy clouds and sheep bobbing in the fields. The woman, infuriated by my composure, started bellowing, Hurry up, move the boy and let me sit, dont you understand? I replied, serenely, No, madam, I shant. My son is grown and prefers his own seat. Besides, we boarded the bus first and chose these places ourselves. Youre welcome to find another.
The driver pressed on, clearly familiar with such trouble. Other passengerssome dozing, others lost in musicnow took notice. One whispered, Madam, there are empty places further back. Another muttered, Dont shout, this isnt your parlour. Still, she resisted, claiming her size prevented her from moving down the aisle, though it was obvious to all she was simply being difficult. Our seats, cosy and sunlit, had become her hearts desire.
The bus was alive with murmurs and shifting bodies. Then the surreal climax unfolded: the driver stopped, stepped from his seat, marched to the woman, collected her bags, and calmly placed them beside the road. He waited as she sputtered and flailed, and then guided her firmly out the door. She had barely time to catch her breath before he returned to his wheel, closed the door, and motored off, leaving her in a whirl of confusion.
The bus fell silentlike a hush after a storm. We passengers pooled our coins and notes to compensate the driver for the fare he lost with her departure. When we reached our stop, we pressed the money into his hand. Gratitude shone in his eyes, and he promised he would never allow her aboard againfor she had always been the thundercloud to everyones sunshine.
