THE BUS STOP

The Bus Stop

 

Not the ideal place for a bus stop, you’d think.  I mean, it’s alright during the daytime but on dark winter nights it can be seriously creepy with all those yew trees rustling away and the wind sending its dreary sighs into every corner of the cemetery.

Tomorrow night I shall have my little car back from the garage and I can settle down into its welcoming warmth before it takes me home.  I won’t ever have to come anywhere near this dreadful place again.

I glance at my watch.

 “Oh it’s no good doing that, love.”

The voice is friendly, but I hadn’t realised there was someone sitting just a yard or so away from me.  I turn towards her but it’s difficult to see.  There’s little moonlight and, this being a rural road, only the occasional rather reluctant street light.

“No. the bus should have been here at ten past but it never is.  It’ll come eventually though.”

“Oh, you live round here, do you?  You know this place?”

There’s a pause while she considers, then, chuckling, says, “Well not live, exactly.  But I spend a lot of time here.  After all, this is where all my friends are.”

She has a gentle voice and I instinctively begin to warm to her, to think how good it might be actually to be counted among her friends.

And so we chat and I learn about her late husband, her children and other relatives.  We reminisce about places where we’ve both spent time and find ourselves swapping recipes and ideas from our favourite books.  And I’m gratified when she says,  “Oh that’s a good idea” or “I must remember that.”

And we have a few laughs of course.

There must have been sad moments in her life, surely, but she doesn’t seem to remember those.  So I try to recall some of the fun things that have happened to me, mostly when the children were small, and proud moments like Sophie’s graduation and Luke’s promotion to head prefect.  I know there are things I should be getting on with this evening but it’s strange how these seem to be less and less important as we reminisce.

I’ve actually forgotten all about the bus, but suddenly there’s its steady growl as it climbs the hill, getting louder and louder.  I’m glad, of course that I’ll be able to see my new friend at last in the headlights but, strangely, when the bus responds to my insistent wave and stops, I have a strange premonition, a feeling of dread.

I turn and, as expected, she isn’t there.

I wave tentatively at the gradually fading forest and think how strange it is that the night somehow seems a little colder, a little less friendly.  And then I  know  for certain I’m alone.

Will I come back?  I don’t think so.

But I’m so sad that I didn’t think to ask her name.

Anne Hill