The Queen
Mum, dont be alarmed, please, but come New Year, we might run into, well, lets say material issues. But honestly, I don’t think we’ll starve.
Darling, don’t drag it out. You know I don’t like long preambles.
I know, Mum. Long story short, I handed in my notice. That’s it.
What? Off your own bat or were you nudged out?
Myself. I like to make my own choices.
Just like your father. I can imagine what hed say if he were still here.
Mum, look! Those beautiful robins in the tree outside our window And Dad wouldve simply said, Its not the job that makes you.
I was so proud of you, my girl, proud of your career, your salary, your status. You headed up culture for the whole city. You were on telly all the time. The city looked up to you, respected you, treated you like royalty. You’re my beautiful, slender, stylish daughter.
Mum, dont get teary. My beautys going nowhere, itll stay with me whatever happens.
But at least tell me, what happened? Why such a sudden decision? Step away from the window, youll catch a chill. Sit next to me.
You see, Mum, my views on life are a bit different from the managements. For them, as long as the paperworks in order, people are just a talking point for public speeches. I dont want that. Like they say in court, irreconcilable differences.
Whatever the job, managements always after reports and numbers. Does that mean, come Christmas, you wont even attend your own winter events anymore?
I will, Mum. We all worked on them. Ill be there as a regular guest. Bit of a laugh, really.
Oh yes, terribly funny! The queen of city culture loitering by the Christmas tree. Well, take me along. For morale.
I thought youd had enough of all those nursery Christmas parties, Mum: a tree for each group, for the staffs children, for the staff themselves, for the nurserys satellite school
You forgot about the orphanage. Yes, Lottie, weve our own tallies too, even counting how many children we get to at events. Take note, Lottie, cultural! Still, Id go to your family Christmas do in the Big City Park, see what youve dreamed up this year. Organising family trees, and you without a family. Now without a job, too. Lottie! Youre nearly forty! Still mooning over your Paul? Paul the First also the Last! He never left town. Always on about Vienna, playing at the Vienna Opera! As if a *sexophonist*!
*Saxophonist*, Mum. Adolphe Sax, Belgian chap, made that wonderful instrument nearly two centuries back.
Fancy you reminding me, a music teacher! Honestly, Lottie, your saxophonist did your head in good and proper youve not let another soul near you all these years. Youre getting older, dear Queen. Mum wiped away a tear. A queen without a throne, now! An ageing, unmarried queen! What would your father say now?
Dad would say, Mum, that a womans like a fine wine the older, the nobler. Please, dont cry. All will be well.
Yes, your father loved women.
But he always loved you, Mum, more than life. Remember, in the hospital, he never let go of your hand, stroked your fingers, right up to the end.
I know, Lotts, I beat myself up that I never said it enough. It just felt so obvious.
Mum, Dad always felt your love and when you sang to him, he couldnt take his eyes off you.
Mum began to sing softly, brushing away tears:
And the snow falls down, and the snow falls down,
And all the world awaits
Beneath this snow, so soft and slow,
Id like to say to all:
My most important person
Look at this snow with me,
Its clean as what I cannot say,
What Id like to say
Mum, that song always undoes me. I always dream itll snow on my birthday in the end of April, and that someone would sing to me like that
Daughter, what about work?! Youve such potential! Where will you go?
Become a bus conductor, Mum.
Now dont be silly! Talk to Jane from number thirty-six shes got connections everywhere, tax, council, you name it.
Im serious, Mum. Ive decided: Im going to be a conductor. You ever take the bus?
Not often, but yes, I do.
And, what do you think of the conductors?
What can I say? Neither nowt nor something. No style, no manners! They wrap up in a hundred odd layers, woolly socks and sandals, and shout: Fares, please! Move along! Over and over. Terribly artistic job.
Sounds just like you: Fares, please! Spot on inflection. Remember when Dad once came home tipsy and told us a joke about bus fares? He could never hold his drink and theyd all gone out to toast a new council estate. Came home jolly as could be. You said you never knew Dad was such a funny drunk. Remember, Mum? He told the one about the bus! I never forgot it.
Can’t quite place it, Lotts, what was the joke?
A tipsy chap boards a red double-decker, swaying at the back, clinging to the pole. The conductor barks, Fare, please! The bloke mimes raising a glass and says, Cheers! To the fare!
Oh, Lottie, Id pour your father a drink right now, have him tell any daft story he liked, just for him to be alive, stubborn thing.
Mum, he’s always with us. I hear his voice in everything I do: Its all in your head, girls. Change the tune in your mind, and life will play you not a requiem but a serenade, a rock ballad, or a jolly ditty whatever you fancy!
Lotts, why couldnt you change Pauls tune? He never liked that you were a queen and he a court musician. Just like Gosha in London Tears Dont Fool. But at least that film had a happy ending. Not that it matters, now. Daughter, lets be serious! Where will you actually work?
Bus conductor, Mum. Starting after the holiday.
No, Lottie, youre not doing that. You were always a bit eccentric, a dreamer, but this is going too far! Conductor! The whole city knows your face, after all those years on telly, now youre going to ride buses? Lord, what would your father say?!
Im only following Dads advice. Remember what he wrote in my eighteenth birthday card? Ive got it almost memorised: Remember nobody else can decide for you. Take life into your own hands, or itll keep knocking, and youll never be there youll always be off somewhere else.
Off where, in a city bus? Some challenge to society that is!
Yes, in a city bus. Its a challenge to myself, Mum. My ex-boss told me I needed to take off my crown, that Id gotten too fanciful, too disconnected from real life, havent ridden public transport in ages, out of touch with the people! He forgot I had to take the bus and trolley everywhere when my driver broke his leg near Christmas; I had a good look at the public!
Lord above, after such a career in culture and now this!
Off to bring some culture to the buses, Mum.
Mum stood from the table, rubbing her temples, and slumped onto the sofa.
Well, darling, that news floored me. Knock-out punch. My ears are still ringing.
Someone wise said, if God didnt lay us on the mat now and then, wed never get the chance to look up at the sky. Look, Mum, out the window rare winter sun, isnt it lovely? Kids have hung a bird-feeder feeding robins and blue tits. And look, its snowing
Lottie began humming: And the snow falls down, and the snow falls down, and everything waits…
Madcap Lottie of ours! A conductor earns about a fifth what you did before. Makes me half-consider Vladimir Smith upstairs as a sponsor.
Mum, hes not a bad fellow retired colonel, widower, respectable, responsible, very generous. I know Dad can never be replaced. Dont compare. Hes always in our hearts, but hes been gone nearly ten years
Olivia! This isnt about me, its about you. Youll be frightfully bored as a conductor! No room for a creative spark! Though your father always said youd find a way, even as a street-sweeper. Why not hop off to Dubai for a week? Bound to get a great payout for unused holiday. Clear your head, find some meaning.
Why dont we pop off to Brighton together on my payout, Mum?
Lotties phone rang. Mum sat up, eavesdropping.
The daughter replied calmly, All right, Ill start on the Fourth of January. Yes, my paperworks already in with the bus company. Thank you.
Sorry, Mum no Brighton or Dubai for us!
********
Bus number 7 had just finished its first run of the day, stretching from the city centre to the eastern edge. Its a popular route, always a packed bus. Final stop.
Mr. Dawson, may I use your microphone? Like a proper guide.
Dreaming up something new, are we? The bus is already decked with tinsel and baubles, messages all over. Your Quote of the Day nailed up up front. Whatve you gone with today?
Aphorism, Mr. Dawson.
Thats the one.
The best roads are those you choose for yourself!
Its different with you, Mrs. Green. Lucky to have a conductor like you at my age. Though my sub, Mr. Saville, still isnt used to you. Says hes half-afraid to look your way. When you gave him that new folder with the Union Jack, and asked for our papers in it, he chucked his old one out and said a new era was dawning. Now hes made his wife buy him T-shirts with the national flag. Says, We might ride old British buses, but we carry real Britons! Honestly, Mrs. Green, youre something else. You look like youre in uniform, plus the shoes, the glasses and Saville swears hes seen you somewhere before I just tell him: Looks like an actress! But nothing topped it when you put up the drivers quotes beside our names never saw the like. We felt like philosophers, honestly.
***
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***
Mr. Dawson, you and Saville really are the citys own Aristotles, only with a bit more flair.
She leaned back, flicking on her Drivers Quotes board in the bus:
If youre on the phone, either whisper or be interesting! Mr. Dawson, Route 1 driver.
If you dont give up your seat for an old lady, I certainly will Mr. Saville, Route 1 driver.
Philosophy for the ages, she pronounced.
We quote you, too! May I say you? Your favourite Its all in your head. Change your tune and your life will be a jingle, your choice.
My fathers words, Mr. Dawson, not mine.
Why past tense? Is he gone?
Died he was a master builder; houses, bridges, schools. Accident at work. He died in hospital, holding Mums hand.
Sorry, love. Fates a curious thing. Is your mum still with us?
She is. Teaching music at the local nursery. Anyway, what I really wanted, Mr. Dawson: Id love some music in the bus. Id say a few words, then put something nice on. Liven it up.
Well, you know, passengers differ. Some like it loud, some soft, some not at all.
I checked the regulations, Mr. Dawson. Nothing banning music, or even the volume. If its not distressing anyone, it should improve the mood. Aristotle himself proved music can set the tone, from calm to lively. Ill find the tunes everyone likes, youll see. And Ill only do my announcements when its not rush hour. Ready? May I?
The bus lurched forward. Passengers boarded at the far end, paid their fares, grabbed the free seats, and off they went toward the city centre. Olivia took up the battered microphone and began, voice warm and sure:
Good day, passengers! Youre riding the citys longest and busiest route, starting on Greenway Road. They say the freshest air is out there, so families come all the way on Bus 7 for a fresh walk in the woods. Fifteen stops later is our citys heart: Bright Street, aglow in winter, white with snow, fairy lights wrapped round every building. Weve a lovely Christmas market in the square, and the puppet theatre is putting on a winters tale for the kids just one stop before the centre. If youre new round here, dont miss the unique Timber Museum on Village Lane just two thirds along our route. Best of all: the family Christmas party in the Main City Park on Garden Road. Give it a try! Enjoy your ride and happy holidays!
She was about to hand the mic back to the driver when, from the crowd, a cheeky youth called out, So, whats on at the Odeon then? Olivia didnt flinch: Ah, the Odeons not on this route. At the Centre, change for the Number 1, ride about ten stops. Today at the Odeon: ‘Christmas Trees 15.’ Though personally, Id suggest the Star Cinema, right on our way three screens: ‘Christmas Trees 15,’ an adult fairy-tale about Ilya the Knight, and the romantic ‘New Years Parcel.’
Handing back the mic, she grinned at Dawson, who murmured, Me and the missus, well come to the City Park for your party. Is it true therell be a prize draw and proper mulled wine? Olivia winked: True as can be. Dawson chuckled, Reckon youll think up something new next, wont you, Mrs. Green? Dream is, Mr. Dawson, that well have live music right here, at least on the holidays. For Christmas, could we get the Brightfolk Trio to perform? They do wonderful folk songs. For the anniversary of John Lennon, Ill ask my friend Ivan he does amazing Beatles covers. I even know a cracking accordionist well invite him for Pancake Day. Lottie phoned her mother, Mum, sorry, I wont make the family do Im covering double shifts. Staff shortage. But the City Park tree will happen, just without me. Go with Mr. Smith. Hed love it! So would you! Love you, Mum. Were rolling out now.
Throughout another circuit, Olivia used the mic, as the stops were automated. Passing landmarks, shed invite people to exhibitions or shows. She was faultlessly polite never pushy, always convincing. After a month, regulars on Route 7 took it as normal, others gossiped about the singing guide of the bus all over town.
***
By three months, tales of the unusual conductor reached every cornerand, inevitably, the management.
Mrs. Green Mr. Anderson from the depot spoke with sternness I asked you here for a reason. Seems to me you landed in the wrong job. Youre supposed to be issuing tickets, but youre out here having chats, entertaining folks with song and banter. Complaints will be coming, mark me.
Mr. Anderson, Im glad to speak, as a lowly conductor, with you about our public service. I must thank you for the professionalism of the drivers, Mr. Dawson and Mr. Saville. They are top class and deserve a bonus. Thank you for letting me not just ticket but, as you say, cultivate our citizens. Please consider my tours and concerts as a pilot project for the company.
Anderson, lumbering and soft round the edges, was first unsettled, then embarrassed, dabbing his brow, fiddling with his water, got up, sat down, and at last declaimed:
Certainly, Mrs. Green, fares on Bus 7 havent dropped, only risen point in your favour! But weve got all sorts some hate noise, some hate song, and here you are with live performances! Its not procedure!
But not forbidden either, Mr. Anderson! In your own documents, it says conductors must ensure ticketing, but also the comfort and safety of passengers.
Comfort, right. But the other conductors are already complaining.
They dont even know me I havent had a chance to meet them. I work doubles.
Because you dont make friends you dont acknowledge anyone on board. Our two longest-serving conductors took a ride with you. Theyre shocked! Went running to HR. You dont go to passengers for money, just announce it on the mic. They say you just sit there, all royal, next to the driver, flaunting yourself, giving guided tours. You signed on as a conductor, not a guide.
Under her breath, Olivia sang, Its not too late, we can make a stop, Conductor, please hit the brakes… She gazed at the head of the company a man with a thousand cares but she didnt apologise, nor did she stay silent.
Mr. Anderson, Im sure youve bigger fish to fry, but let me remind you: by the rules, A conductor may not demand fare nor check for tickets thats outside their remit. They may sell tickets, but only on request. Its the passengers duty to pay promptly. They call me queen but did my colleagues mention everyone boards at the front, where Im reigning, and exits by the back? If its quiet, everyone pays up and finds a seat. If its packed, payments are passed up the line cash or cards. I reassure everyone that cards passed along are perfectly safe, because theres a camera in operation: if anyone tries a trick, theyll be caught red-handed!
There are NO cameras! Are you lying, Queen?
Im only dreaming, making it up! All for the sake of ticketing, as you say. Though, honestly, we should consider cameras its standard everywhere now.
Anderson, thoughtful for once, muttered:
So you truly never walk the bus?
Sometimes I roll off my royal pew to help a granny with her stick, or a mum with a buggy, give a tissue to a crying kid, first aid if its needed. But why wander up and down, when the passengers come to me? Even those skipping fares get nosy about the queen. With all the chatter and songs, they end up paying like anyone else. Mr. Anderson! May I ask do you love our city? Been here long? I couldnt find a whiff about you on social media.
Only just returned. Split with my wife, came back to where I grew up. Citys changed so much I barely know it.
Exactly! Why not let people in on the changes, the good ones? People dont make time to read up! Im no tour guide I just give them direction, a bit of culture. Id recommend you see Divorce for Men at the Playhouse a comedy, for a bit of cheer.
Mrs. Green, sorry, I must go a meeting calls. But should you ever ask me to the theatre, I might well say yes
********
The Queen Conductor project rolled merrily through February and March. Olivia was awarded a bonus for International Womens Day, gifted Anderson a pair of theatre tickets for Fathers Day, though she couldnt use one herself, working a double again. Her story was now legend throughout the company, though nobody followed her lead; most colleagues rolled their eyes, muttering that only a lunatic would give extras for such paltry pay. Rumours flew that ‘the queen’ had dozens of sponsors, hence her freedom to have fun never guessing the only supporter for Olivia and her family was Colonel Smith, the widower from upstairs, who cherished Lottie and loved her mother dearly.
********
April 28th. Saturday. Olivias birthday. Her mother suggested she take the day off, but Olivia chose to work her favourite route, where regulars awaited her. She left early, walking briskly through an unseasonal chill to the depot, thinking how much she loved the rhythms in her head since leaving that lofty, well-paid post. When she looked up, to her astonishment, white flakes drifted down, frosting the birthday girls hair. Lotties lifelong wish! Snow in April! Flakes fell and melted at once, but their slow dance from the sky felt full of magic and mystery. In high spirits, she boarded the bus, already adorned with paper snowflakes by the drivers. Saville, it being his shift, presented her with a box of chocolates and a shiny new microphone: Our queen deserves only the best! She returned the favour with health tonics and a copy of My England.
The bus was quiet that weekend, until the centre, when it filled suddenly. And then, stepping on board, instrument case high, was Paul Lotties one love. He couldnt reach for a ticket; she, forgetting all decorum, barked, Tickets this way! Theres a camera on board! Move to the centre! She leapt up, half desperate to flee her feelings, made her way towards the backand then, Lottie, Olivia the Queen, heard live music. Pauls saxophone sent a tender, romantic melody swirling across the busand through the queens very soul: And the snow falls down, and the snow falls downPauls saxophone flared bright and golden, the melody slicing through clatter and chatter, just as it had in their youth at smoky clubs and hopeful midnight rehearsals. Passengers hushed one by one, turned toward the musics source, eyes wide. Some smiled knowingly, others blinked in surprisethen, without cue, Olivia found herself singing softly, just as her mother had sung to her and her father.
And the snow falls down, and the snow falls down
Paul met her gaze, fingers sure on brass, nodding her on. Around them, the city shimmered past the windows, rows of budding trees crowned in impossible white, as if the universe had rehearsed this one performance just for them.
my most important person, she sang, her voice warm, quivering with memory and hope, look at this snow with me
Tears stung her eyes; laughter bubbled up too. For a few heartbeats, the world shrank to the busa rolling stage, crowded with strangers who felt suddenly like family, all sharing an unexpected magic.
When the song ended, applause rosesome shy, some raucous. Paul stepped forward, holding out his hand. Olivia took it, trembling, laughing, transported.
You owe me a birthday waltz, Your Majesty, he grinned, voice twinkling.
She curtsied, chin high, her crown invisiblebut gleaming.
As the bus rolled on through sparkling April snow, Olivia danced in the aisle beneath festooned paper snowflakes, passengers cheering, her mothers lullaby lingering in her heart.
Andqueen or conductor, muse or mortalit was clear to all onboard: happiness, like music and snow, finds its own way, its own hour, its own stage. Even on Route 7, on a day when spring forgot itself and dreams rode the bus.
The rest, as they say, was her own refrain.
