The Last Bus(Annie Frame) The Last Bus.

Beryl waited for the last bus. It was a cold, damp evening with a wind that whipped occasionally. She had finished her shift at the local spar and was relieved to have left in time to catch the number 8 that dropped her opposite her house. Thankfully it was punctual, another bonus. Once on, she paid and headed to the back for a seat on the almost empty bus. The bus moved forward and onto the next stop, as it did she stared miserably out of the window, nursing heartache that would not heal. The driver pulled up sharp, when a little old lady waved her hand merrily to let him know she wanted to alight. Beryl shook her head in disbelief, the woman had appeared out of nowhere. In no time at all the old dear was parked comfortably next to her. The need to scream, “Go away. I want to be alone!” haunted Beryl, yet she remained silent wondering why the old woman had not sat in one of the other empty seats. The wheels on the bus turned, yet time did not. All remained in quiet limbo as the old lady introduced a pair of knitting needles, a big ball of bright yellow wool and delivered her name, “Sheila Jacob,” patting Beryl’s leg with affection. The knitting began in earnest. Click-click-clickity-click. Beryl’s mood thawed a little and made her ask, “For the grandchildren?” The word stung, but she could not let it show. Pretense was not on the old ladies agenda as she looked up and over horn rimmed spectacles and replied. “Yes of course my dear. Every child is grand.” Vibrant eyes that appeared much too lively for such an aging soul made Beryl look away. And so the journey continued as did the clink of knitting needles. Beryl discreetly observed the ladies outfit and noticed that she was not wearing a coat and looked completely at home, “On a bus!” shrieked Beryl inwardly. Alarm bells rang. Perhaps she was missing from a retirement home and people were looking for her. Beryl immediately started to question the lady with, “Are you cold?” to which the reply was a plain and simple, “no.” Then, “where have you been tonight?” Sheila Jacobs held the concerned gaze and whispered softly, “Where I need to be.” Discomfort began to swell and Beryl felt out of her depth. The knitting needles clashed together as concern grew roots. Just as Beryl was about to probe further, the old ladies voice trilled, “Here they come!” Beryl’s eyes widened as the wheels on the bus stopped and time grew wings. Happy chatter filled the air as excited faces appeared one after the other. Children of all ages climbed on the bus and gathered around the old lady who carried on knitting contentedly. Age was irrelevant as Beryl noticed children carrying smiling babies in young arms. Laughter shrunk physical pain, staring into unhealed wounds. So many voices, yet all heard as one. Beryl tried to make sense of it all, an old lady and lots of children on the last bus home. She decided that the best course of action was to call the police. She took out her mobile and noticed that it was dead to the world. Disturbed she tried again to appeal to the kind old lady, “Why are you all out in the cold so late?” The same vibrant eyes met hers, “it is not late to us my dear. It is never too late.” After a short pause she chirped, “I think that this is your stop Beryl.” The next thing Beryl knew, she was being ushered off the bus after being given the small yellow jumper that had slipped off clanking knitting needles. “How could she have finished this. How did she know my name?” fretted Beryl as the cold hit hard. She stood alone and watched as the bus pulled out of the lay-by. Clutching the gift she wept as children sang happily around the old lady knitting. Her eyes widened at the sight of huge angelic wings filling up the back window before all was lost to her. Beryl turned sadly, wishing that she could reclaim what had left. She had never felt like this since she had lost her child a year ago, yet now she felt a glimmer of hope fill the void. Perhaps Sheila Jacobs had come to comfort her in the loss, help her understand something she could not. Days passed and the jumper stayed. Beryl wondered why she had been given it, after all, she was not a mother. That had been taken from her. Days formed months and delivered a familiar stirring. Mother Nature came and called and Beryl’s husband crumbled at the news. It was more than he had ever hoped for. Beryl held the small jumper next to her growing stomach and thanked the heavens that it really was never too late.....
By Annie Frame. Copyright April 2014.

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