Bus Stop

Ive been critiqued in my writing for creating interesting characters, settings and plots, but for sometimes making the stories so bizarre that some readers could lose the plot. It's one of those cases I think where you the writer know what you are saying but the words, or rather the editing don't.

I was thinking about this just before bed last night and as an exercise, I thought I'd write an ordinary story of the everyday life of people standing in a queue for the bus. It didn't quite stay on ground level but I quite liked it. 

The story contains moderate foul language, and adult sexual themes but is not graphic. It is also, definitely not auto biographical.

                                                                   Bus Stop

                                                            By William Baker

Frank Kendrick had no need to be standing at the bus stop, at the rear of a small queue that waited in silence for the 8:15. In fact, when they arrived at the bus station in town, Frank would - as he always did - exit the bus, walk to the return stop, and wait for an hour to be taken back home. Only once had he ever diverted from his routine, when he tried a coffee in the station cafe, but the coffee was poor, and he never bothered again.

This bus used to be Frank's commute, until he was made 'voluntarily redundant' by the bank. Then, when his wife died unexpectedly, just as they were beginning to  enjoy his forced retirement, Frank took to taking the bus again, thinking it would ground him in some sense of normality, and maybe help to stop the constant rocking motion that he'd begun to suffer from, but that no-one else seemed to notice. That interminable rocking motion; forwards, backwards, just like he had felt after their 'retirement ' cruise was over, when he couldn't find his landlubber's legs for days. The motion sickness had lasted the whole two years following Jenny's death.

The make up of the queue rarely changed, except that some members might disappear for a short while, and return carrying a few more pounds in weight, and with darker complexions. From time to time, a stranger might join the queue, and be scrutinised though rarely spoken to, except perhaps by a nod of the head, in answer to the question 'Is this the bus into town?'

In the absence of any knowledge of who his fellow travellers really were, Frank had invented an imaginary game, for him and them to play. He devised names for them.  He gave each player a life. Who would  he pick today to play with, on their journey into town?

Would it be Patrick? Patrick, the University Lecturer, who Frank had named because of the man's obvious obsession with a strange TV serial from the Sixties called 'The Prisoner' that very few, Frank included, had ever properly understood. Patrick only ever wore one jacket It was a tight fitting, white trimmed black blazer, complete with an Official Replica Number 6 badge. Frank had checked it out. £149 it cost, and it was an officially recognised exact replica of that worn by Patrick McGoohan. The original jacket could still be found displayed in the Prisoner Shop in the Italianate Welsh village of Portmeirion, the barkcloth to the serial. 

        Frank had made him University Professor of Literature, as Patrick always carried with him a dog-eared copy of Dostoyevsky's Demons. Now, Patrick would be a good choice today, because Frank had left him yesterday on the horns of something of a dilemma, and Frank had yet to decide which horn he would have him wrangle. A definite possibility, but there was no great imperative to rush at a decision, as it seemed the bus was running late again.

Would it be Mercury? Mercury, the White Witch. Mercury was named, originally, because she was constantly either texting or phoning, and Frank knew that Mercury, the Planet, was, astrologically speaking, the Planet of Communications. Further weight was given to Frank's choice for Mercury, because of the capricious and often volatile way she spoke, to men especially, on her telephone. Then one day, she came to the bus stop with a lightning grey streak through her electrified black hair, and the picture was fully complete. 

      Frank had enjoyed many adventures with Mercury, and though he did not let on to the others, Mercury was a favourite. He could return to Mercury, and claim the prize she had offered up to him, when he rescued her from the Dragon Fire Pit,  after he had bested the Black Wizard of Firis Wolds. Images of heaving bosons, ripped bodices, fulfilled lusts, and heavy seas crashing onto a deserted shore occupied him for a while. What has happened to the bus?

Would it be Dotty Dee? Dotty Dee, the Librarian. Nominated librarian because she was Frank's epitome of what a Librarian should be. Petite. Demure. Thin pointed face, with very little make-up. Hair in a bun, with two chopsticks holding it up. Horn-rimmed spectacles at the end of her pretty button nose, with silver chain keeping them safe. Sober beige dress. Sensible shoes. Leather briefcase.

        .Named Dotty Dee simply for the light green sparkle of mischief in her eyes. Frank wished that Dotty Dee would transfer to his library and replace the bearded, chunky-cardigan wearing, curry smelling, stale-beer smelling oaf who worked there. 

         He could return her to the battle she was having with her bosses who wanted to extend her library portfolio to include the likes of 'Fifty Shades of Grey,'  'Leave me Breathless,' 'The Proof of the Honey,' 'Over the Knee,' 'The Apprentice,' 'Shoe Leather,' and many other titles in the same vein that Dotty Dee had been trying hard to resist. Would she win? Frank was certainly rooting for her, so she might. But, in the face of rising costs and budget cuts . .  Not today, though. Frank was not looking for a fight today.

Would it be DJ? DJ, the DJ. Frank was still unsure that this one was going to prove a runner. DJ had been the most recent to join the queue, and Frank wondered if he had perhaps rushed to judge a little too quickly. He should have realised that, to make these characters work hard, required hard work itself, and DJ had been, in retrospect, far too easy. The gangly youth, the hoody, and always the music. The godawful tinny buzzing from his ears. He would not pick DJ today. Instead, he marked him down for a re-write, which he'd do as soon as DJ did something new to trigger Frank's imagination.

Choices. Choices. Choices.

                                                                      #

There he goes again, the dirty bugger, the Prisoner thought. Look at the way he's ogling her all the time. And she doesn't seem to mind, the cow. Completely blanked me when I tried to chat her up. Altered her hair just after that. What was she thinking of? That I wouldn't recognise her, or something? Christ, where's that bus? 

        The Prisoner knew he must get to his mate's gaff soon, pick up his guitar, amp, bedding and dog and claim the best spot before the other bastards beat him to it. He clenched  his book close to his chest and thought the coppers would never think to look inside it for his stash. Not much chance of being caught he thought. Half of the bleedin' coppers had never heard of a book, and the other half that had,  couldn't read. It had taken him hours to dig out the hole with a Stanley knife.

                                                                      #

Dotty Dee wondered who was up first today. It would probably be Mr Tomkinson, the manager who had replaced the Thinker, when he was sacked from the bank. Mr Tomlinson had told him a little about what had happened but she suspected he'd left out the really juicy bits. Hush, Hush, and All That he'd told her. Had she put his special cream in her briefcase? Didn't matter, she had spares at the 'studio.' 

While she waited for the bus, Dotty Dee reflected on how her life had changed so dramatically in the last two years. She reflected on those pivotal  moments that had wrought the changes. 

Like when Li first came into the chip shop in town where she worked part time. 

        Like when they had scraped enough money together for that incredible first, and only, boyfriend/girlfriend holiday in Bangkok. 

Like when Li suggested what a laugh it would be to go visit a brothel in  the Ratchadaphisek entertainment district in Bangkok. 

Like when Li forced her to watch as this beautiful, wordless, tiny Thai woman undressed  him and bathed him in fragrant oils and soaps, and then climbed, gracefully, on top of him and used her own tightly towelled body to brush his skin until he was dry. 

Like when Li did not have to force her to watch as the woman then loosened the towelling from her body, letting it fall from the table to the floor, leaving Dotty Dee mesmerised, needing no compulsion to watch this expert perform her duties, with the finest of delicate dedication. 

Like when she would  stay in Bangkok, alone,  until she became as learned, as dedicated, as skilled as her teachers, and she would take that teaching back home with her and change her life.

                                                                    #

The White Witch watched the Thinker, from the hooded corner of an eye. When is he going to find the courage to talk to me? He's had enough time now, surely,  to have mourned his wife's passing? But, she quickly forgave him, because it was his adoration, a legend in the village, that had made her move flats in the first place, so that she could be nearer to him, and for once a day, at least, be close to,him, in the queue for the 8:15 into town. She had followed him a few times from the station, but apart from one occasion he seemed to be taking the ride into town simply for the sake of the journey alone. 

How she longed to help heal him. Yearned to end his loneliness. What would it take for him to notice her? Even the crazy streaks in her hair hadn't generated the interest and the contact she craved. And the ridicule, behind closed doors, that she  knew she had suffered for it. And would suffer again to get what she wanted. 

Today would at least go mercifully quickly for her, bringing tomorrow morning that much closer. The interviews for the Chief Inspector vacancy were scheduled to start at nine. It wouldn't do for the Deputy Chief Constable to be late. Just enough time to pick up her freshly laundered dress uniform, and change out of her civvies. And as for that stupid little beggar in the hoody was concerned, did he not think that coppers had any sense of smell? Skunk. Yes. He smelled just like one. She'd send a patrol round town to sort him out. 

The bus arrived.

                                                                     #

DJ thought 'Wish those two would get a room.'

Extract from novel I'm writing Too-Rye-ay

The King will take the Queen

But the Queen will take the Knave

And since we're in good company

More liquor let us have

The King Takes the Queen,  Unknown, c1838

Newbiggin Bridge Club met twice a week in a large upstairs room above the Sailing Club. Tuesday was taken up in tutorials, ideal for beginners, just starting out in Bridge; Thursday night things got serious - competition night. 

On Tuesday's, after the tutorial was over, players would form themselves into teams of two, and each team would be pitted against another team, usually in a game of Rubber Bridge, where the deck of cards, as is usual in most card games, would be shuffled and then dealt out to each player. That meant that each group of four players played different hands from the rest of the assembly, and also that lady luck played a very big part in the scoring potential, as a team might end up with 'rags,' low value cards that didn't give much opportunity of taking many, if any tricks at all,  or they might have cards that between the two partners might yield a 'small slam' or even a 'grand slam' and take all but one, or even all thirteen tricks. Very big score then.

Such vagaries were not for the experienced, the veteran or the ambitious so on Thursday night, it was usually de rigueur to play Contract Bridge, where for each game played, every table would be given a plastic tray, rather like a paper tray for a printer, but smaller, thinner and oblong in shape, from which each player would pull out their own designated hand, already pre-dealt by a computer, into the trays. In this way, during each session played, every team would play the same set of hands. 

They recorded  their score on  a piece of paper, kept in the tray, so that any other table who later used the same tray could compare their own results with those who had used the tray before them. Each team would also keep a running total of their team's and the opposing team's scores. These scoring systems allowed teams to rotate oppositions, with the losing pair usually moving to another table. For the club championship, there were three sessions played, and in the finals session, teams would be seeded, and would play all five games against the same opposition.

Several important results would emerge through the evening and be published. 

First, for each hand, and the computer would often generate hands that would be difficult and fiendish, - usually at the behest of the Hon. Sec. - the whole room would know which team had eked out the best possible score, or which had performed poorly, and as there would be as many as twenty hands or more in an evening, there was plenty of opportunity to be either placed on a pedestal, or put in the stocks. 

Lastly, the overall score for each pair would be totted  up, and a league table of scores pinned to the notice board, again for public acclaim, or ridicule.

John and Jenny, had been playing Bridge together for two years, after a casual remark was made, when they and Bob were dining at the George Inn, that revealed their common interest in taking up the game. They joined the Tuesday learners' night. They read tutorial books from the Library, John bought himself a bridge simulator for the computer, and at the end of their first year as regular Bridge partners, they felt confident enough to go 'big league' and join theThursday night comp.

For the first two months they had lingered, stubbornly, at the bottom of the league. At the end of six months, they lay in the doldrums of mid table, but for the the last three months, they had flip-flopped , place by place, into the steady state of second place. Now was their chance to claw their way to the top. But, standing resolutely in their way, were the Craddocks, Newbiggin Bridge Club Club Champions.

Liz Craddock was a quiet, timid woman, with razor sharp cunning and a merciless Bridge brain. Frank Craddock, was a rude, offensive bully, with razor sharp cunning and a merciless Bridge brain.

There were five final trays to be played in this, the last, session. John and Jenny had kept their chances high, scoring well up to the coffee break. But things had begun badly with those final, five hands. They lost the first hand when they bid two hearts and won the bid, but in playing the hand out had made only 7 tricks; one trick short of what they needed,  so no score for them, but the Craddocks picked up a bag full of bonus points. Jenny blamed herself for not keeping proper count of the number of 'trump' cards that had been played.  Luckily for them no team was 'vulnerable' in that hand, so there were no extra penalties or bonuses. 

Things did not improve with the second hand.  The Craddocks won the bid, with three spades, and just made their nine tricks. It was neck and neck with three cards to play, but at that point Frank Craddock spread his remaining three cards down on the green cloth,  face up, for all to see, and said "Last three tricks are mine, I believe. Trumps are all out, and I've got winning clubs." 

Jenny saw red. "Do you mind, Frank!? You might have the winners, I won't argue with that, but I'd rather you played the cards out. How are people to learn when you rush things like that?" Jenny was quite right. What Frank did was perfectly legal, a useful ploy when time was  running out to finish a game, but was otherwise considered rude and intimidatory by most polite Bridge players. Frank apologised, barely, played the cards out, won the hand, and John and Jennie fell further behind in the scoring. 

Things finally picked up for John and Jenny in the next hand.

This hand had been designed to be a 'Two No Trumps' bid for them, and they achieved that bid, and won the bidding, despite what was obviously an attempt at a 'spoiling bid' by Liz, which to the benefit of John and Jenny, seemed to pass Frank by leaving Liz fuming. "Surely you've got spades?" Liz hissed at Frank," which she shouldn't have, really.

But in any case it was too late, as she was then forced to pass, leaving John and Jenny to play their hand as bid.  Frank harrumphed and put his forefinger to his lips, a warning to Liz to keep her mouth shut. John and Jenny made their tricks, with no extras. Not a big score as it was only a part-game bid, but John was pleased with himself, because he had thought of bidding up - to '3 No Trumps,' which is a game bid, with plenty of bonuses, but a bid he now knew he would not have made.

In the penultimate game, the Craddocks bid to the expected '4 Clubs' which they made, putting them a little further ahead. Everything rested on the final hand which needed to be a high scoring game if John and Jenny were to take the Craddock Crown.

John looked at his cards. They were the best he'd seen all night. A quick points count added to nineteen points. An opening bid. Poor in Diamonds, though, with just two lowly 'rags.' A good run of hearts, five in all, two honours, Ace and Queen. An ace of clubs, with  King and Jack, and three spades, a Queen and King. A balanced hand but too many points for a  '1 No Trump' bid. He could open '1 Heart', and then come back with a '2 No Trumps' depending on what Jenny might come up with. It was  John's bid first and he bid '1Heart.' Frank went beetroot in the face, slammed his cards down, and mumbled a no bid. Jennie looked long and hard at her cards. Liz sighed so loudly that the players on the tables nearest to them turned around to stare. Frank drummed his fingers on the green baize like he was beating the Retreat at the Edinburgh Royal Tattoo. More faces turned their way. Jenny bid '2 Diamonds.' She had upped her bid so John thought she had probably got an opening hand too, and at least 5 Diamonds, which made up for his shortage. He thought about letting her know he'd got some decent spades, and  maybe bid '3 Spades.' Then he thought about  a '2 No Trump' bid, which was a natural choice. A few more points and he'd have opened with that in the first bidding. Despite all his training, and all the games he had played John still found it a struggle sometimes, bidding at the higher levels. Bugger, he thought and went in deep and bold with a '3 No Trumps.' It would not score enough to win the competition,  but they'd at least go down fighting with one solid win. Frank passed. Immediately he did so Jennie said "4 No,Trumps." John thought Jenny must have a fistful because her call was code for 'How many aces have you got?' It could mean nothing else. His '3 No Trumps' was a game bid, no need to overbid that - unless she was fishing for for a slam bid, in which case she needed to know if they were any Aces missing between them, because the opposition could kill them with the first card played otherwise. Liz passed. John answered Jenny with '5 hearts' a reply code which meant he had  2 Aces. He was happy if the bidding stuck there as he was sure that between them they were looking good for it. Frank passed. Jenny paused for more thought, then after about a half a minute said "5 No Trumps." John could hardly breathe. Jenny was asking if he had Kings, and was pushing them further and further towards a slam. Liz slumped in her chair. No bid. John had two Kings, so he had to tell Jennie that. "5 hearts," John said.  Frank slumped down. No bid.

  The silence in the room became so great it could no longer be heard. Only one pair had bid that high for the same hand, and they had stopped there.  One pair had pushed it to '4 No Trumps' and then lost confidence and stuck to that. "7 Hearts," Jenny said, firmly. There could be no further bids. Jenny's bid meant they must take all thirteen tricks.

It was all down to playing the hand. Chairs scraped as people tried to draw close. John had called 'No Trumps' first so he would play his own hand and also Jenny's as the 'dummy' whilst all Jenny could do now was wait. 

Frank was first to play. He played a Queen of Diamonds. Hell, thought John. Jenny has probably got the ace, but what if Liz trumped it when it came round to her turn? It would be game over straight away. Following Frank's lead,  Jenny showed her cards to everyone on the table laying them down in rows, in their suits, close to John where he could play the 'dummy' without stretching. Spades. Hearts. Clubs, Diamonds. John scanned the dummy quickly. The other two Aces were there, as well as a heck of a lot of other Higher Point Cards, and Hearts, FIVE Hearts.. He played the Ace, and held his breath. Everything depended on Liz being able to follow suit. She did, a Queen of Diamonds. Was that her one and only Diamond? Had they really come that close to losing? John played a Diamond 'rag' winning the trick from the table. He breathed a sigh of relief and saw that Jenny did the same. She looked straight at John and her eyebrows shot upwards, twice in succession. She was clearly excited about something. John had to play next, from the table as dummy had taken the trick. He looked at dummy. He looked at his own hand. A thought process began. There are 16 Higher Point Cards in a pack, ignoring tens.  Two had been played leaving 14.  John had six left in his hand. That left 8. The dummy Jenny had left him had the remaining  8. He could still drop a clanger, though. He knew Luz was probably out of Diamonds, which meant Frank must have loads of Diamond 'rags,'. So as long as he didn't lead a diamond from dummy, they should win. What to do next? The threat was Liz trumping with Hearts. John held the Ace and Queen of Hearts, and  three 'rags.'.Dummy held the King, Ten, and a 'rag'. Strip Heart Trumps from Liz. That's what he should do next. John played a 'rag' heart from dummy, which drew a Nine from Liz, which John covered with his Ace. Frank angrily slapped the Jack on the table, He must have known they were in trouble. The trick was John's. He  lead out the Heart 'rag,'  from his hand. Frank had no hearts and chucked any card down. John played the King from Dummy, Liz played an Eight. Another trick won. He lead the Ten from Dummy. Liz followed with  a 3. John won from his hand with Queen. Frank chucked in again. John went to lead  a 7, paused and then said: "You've only got one left Liz, and it's a 3. We've only got winners left. Do you want to play it out?" 

Liz smiled a toothless smile at Jenny, shook her hand once,  and said flatly  "Well played."  She did the same to John, who thought her dead fish handshake said more than her mouth. Frank muttered something about toilet and stormed off. Weak bladder? thought John.

No-one had ever beaten  the Craddocks quite like that before.  A great cheer went up in the room. Jennie hurriedly filled in the score slip, and their score card, and handed them over to the Hon. Sec. John and Jennie did not wait for the results to be posted as it was late, and Bob was picking Jennie up. They would leave that till the next Thursday when they would be officially crowned new club champions. They grabbed their coats and ducked under a gauntlet of back slaps from everyone except Liz and Frank Craddock. 

The temperature outside had plummeted, and John stayed with Jenny, while she waited for Bob. They were soon stomping their feet against the cold. They laughed and joked with the excitement of becoming number one, hugged their arms into their chests and blew warming air into reddening hands. Jennie pulled herself close to John's side, put her left arm around his back, and held on to his arm with her other hand shivering and shaking. John felt a thaw, and could easily have broken their resolution to end their affair. He could see in her face, that she was a whisper away from reaching up to him.

A shiver ran up his spine. His policeman's instinct suddenly told him he was being watched. Not for the first tine he'd felt like that in the last couple of days. He broke away from Jenny, and peered into the dark. There were plenty of places where someone might be lurking. The bandstand over to his left was a good vantage point. The sea promenade to his right another one. A motor scooter puttered down the High Street. Something was telling John he should run the couple of hundred yards and go check the bike out, but he didn't want to spook Jennie. A car horn sounded and he saw Bob's car pull up. He walked Jenny to Bob and they said goodnight after one final congratulations, hug, and peck on the cheek. Bob wound down his window.

"I gather you've won then?" he said, glumly. "I'm going to be hearing about this the whole night. Thanks, buddy!"

John laughed and said "Piss off, you miserable sod. Go and get your very clever lady wife a well-deserved pizza or kebab. See you, Jenny. Bob."

They drove away. John drove home, wondering , hoping, wether  Fee might call. He could really do with her company.