by Hayley Long
But there I was.
Just sitting on a bench.
Like this.
And while I was sitting there, the inside of my head was whizzing round and round with stuff like this:
And it’s perfectly possible that I might have sat in a dizzy trance on that stupid public bench forever – if Elvis Presley hadn’t decided to join me. He had his traffic cone with him. It was pointed straight at my ear.
Believe me, it’s hard to remain in a dizzy trance when someone is sitting right next to you and singing straight down a traffic cone and into your ear.
I don’t know whether he was using the cone as an amplifier by touching it with his lips and causing it to vibrate or if the sound energy was just being used more efficiently because it was all concentrated in one specific direction – but I do know that it was extremely loud. And suddenly, something in my brain popped back into gear and all the random stuff was swept out of my head until I was left with one single very clear thought:
What the blinking heck am I doing here?
And this was a very refreshing thought to have because it proved without any shadow of doubt that I existed.
When Elvis had finished his song, he said, ‘That one’s called All Shook Up. I chose it especially for you, little lady, because, if you don’t mind me saying, you’re looking a bit shook up yourself.’
‘I am all shook up,’ I said.
‘Anything I can help you with?’ asked Elvis.
‘I doubt it,’ I said.
‘Why don’t you try telling your Uncle Elvis all about it?’ said Elvis.
I thought about this for a second and then shook my head and said, ‘It’s just everything about my life . . . It’s way too complicated.’
Elvis laughed. ‘It’s a common enough problem. You ask most people and they’ll tell you their lives are complicated. It’s all part of life’s rich tapestry.’
I felt a tear escape. Frustrated, I wiped it away with the palm of my hand. ‘My life isn’t a rich tapestry though,’ I said. ‘It’s just one great big massive mountain of nutty knots.’
Elvis frowned and drummed his fingers thoughtfully against his traffic cone. Then he said, ‘What you got to do is examine the knots. Then choose one that looks like it might be a bit looser than the rest and try sorting that one out first. If you keep doing that, bit by bit, it should all straighten out and fall into place.’
‘But I don’t want to examine the stupid knots,’ I said.
Elvis shrugged. ‘You ever heard of Socrates?’21
‘Socra-who?’ I said. I was starting to get a bit irritated for some reason.
‘Socrates,’ said Elvis. ‘Greek bloke. Did a lot of thinking. Well, he reckoned that the unexamined life is not worth living.’
I stood up. I don’t know why but I was now well and truly agitated. Every single atom of my existence felt like it was a highly stressed-out component part of some great big squirming lump of agitated agitation. Even my grey hair felt agitated. I glared at Elvis and, before I could stop myself, I snapped, ‘So now you’re a flipping counsellor as well as a philosopher and an Elvis impersonator, are you?’
Elvis looked a bit startled for a moment but then he laughed. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I apologize. I ain’t a counsellor, am I? I’m a brown-eyed handsome man and my mission is to ensure that there’s a whole lotta shakin’ goin’ on in the centre of Whitchurch. And, to be honest, it’s high time I had a little less conversation and got on with it.’ And then he picked up his traffic cone and started singing another scatty song to me and whoever else happened to be passing. But mostly he sang it to himself.
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ I said and started walking very quickly up the main street in the direction of the bus stop. As I walked, my breath froze in the air around me, making me look like some kind of weird walking volcano which was about to erupt. To be honest, that’s pretty much how I felt too – except that I was extremely cold and volcanoes are usually extremely hot. I crossed my arms around me and jammed my hands under my armpits to try to get some feeling back into my fingers, which had gone almost completely numb. Behind me, Elvis continued to sing. Even though I was still incredibly agitated, I was already wishing I hadn’t been so arsey with him. I don’t know why I’d been so arsey with him because he didn’t in the least bit deserve it. I suppose the truth is that I just couldn’t help myself. I was in an extremely arsey mood.
When I reached the bus stop, I stopped and leaned against the side of the brand new shelter, which had only been placed there a couple of weeks earlier. My fingers, still jammed into my pits, weren’t feeling the least bit warmer. In fact, they felt far more like the frozen fish variety of finger than they did the human type. I wiggled them to check they could still move and once I was satisfied that they actually could, I thumped my head back against the glass and stared into space. And then I rubbed my eyes and did a double take. Because I had seen The Truth. It was written in marker pen right across the new glass.
I stood and thought about this for quite some time. I couldn’t decide whether it made me feel better or worse to know that everybody else was just as hopeless and as miserable as I was. In the end, I decided that it definitely made me feel worse so I turned to face another direction in order to look at something else.
On another of the brand new glass panels, the same person had written:
It was a very existential thing to write. It wasn’t absurd. But it was very depressing. And all of a sudden, right there, by myself at the bus stop, I began to cry. And I mean really cry. I’m not talking about the odd leaky tear that I could quickly brush away with the back of my hand – I’m talking about the full force of the Niagara Falls streaming down my face and creating puddles on the ground. I think I might actually have even been making a boo-hoo sound.
A bus pulled up. Quickly, I stared down at my feet so that nobody on it would spot that I was boo-hooing. After a moment or two, a voice shouted, ‘Are you getting on this bus then?’
I stared more intently at my shoes and hoped nobody would notice me.
‘Oi . . . Lady with the prematurely grey hair . . . Do you want this bus or not?’
With a jolt, I realized the bus driver was shouting at me. I unfolded my arms, wiped my eyes quickly with a couple of frozen fish fingers and shouted back, ‘Not.’ And then I added, ‘I can stand here if I want to, can’t I?’
The driver looked annoyed and muttered something. Then the doors closed with a hiss, and he and the bus pulled away and disappeared in the direction of town. And this made me feel even sadder than I’d actually felt before because I knew then that – more than anything else in the entire world – I wanted to be on that bus. And I wanted to be going somewhere much further than the city centre. I wanted to be going far, far away from Cardiff. And from my mum. And Stevie Wonder. And Lois. Especially from Lois.
Who doesn’t have a mum.
‘Lottie! Are you OK?’
Another voice made me look up. This time, with a huge rush of relief, I saw it was Goose. She was on her way to her shift at the Ponty-Carlo Sunday Morning Cinema Club. I could see a little of her atrocious electric blue and yellow uniform peeping out from beneath the bottom of her coat. With big worried eyes, she said, ‘Are you OK?’ And then she said, ‘Cool hair!’
It’s a really weird thing but sometimes when I’m feeling utterly miserable, the sound of a kind and concerned voice saying kind and concerned things to me just pushes me totally and truly over the edge and makes me go all wobbly like a jelly baby. On other occasions, though, I’m just downright rude and arsey – like I was with Elvis. I’ll admit that this makes me a very difficult and unpredictable human person to be around.
Instead of giving Goose a proper answer, I wobbled like a jelly baby and started boo-hooing even louder.
Goose looked alarmed. ‘Lottie, what the heck is the matter?’
I shut my eyes and tried to think of a way to explain. But I was so cold that it was hard to concentrate. And it was w
ay too difficult to explain anyway. So many things were the matter that I didn’t even know where to begin. I opened my eyes and made a big frustrated sound that went something like this:
Oooooooffffff
. . . and then I jerked my head at the two stupid pieces of graffiti on the brand new panels of glass and said, rather lamely, ‘Well, they aren’t helping much for a start!’
Goose turned and looked. And then she frowned and said, ‘I see what you mean. That’s well depressing, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Yeah, it is. Well depressing and well sad. I mean . . . I used to think our English teacher, Mr Wood, was a total tragic weirdo for getting so wound up about missing apostrophes and rubbish grammar and everything . . . but when I look at that stupid graffiti written there, I can absolutely understand where he’s coming from. I mean, honestly, Goose, it makes me sick. It really does. Why go to the lengths of ruining a perfectly good bus shelter if you can’t even be bothered to learn the difference between are and our?’ And then I thumped my head as hard as I could against the glass. It must have been that special reinforced stuff because it didn’t budge an inch. The pain that shot through my brain made me almost scream though. ‘Shit,’ I whispered, and clutched hold of my forehead.
Goose put her hands to her head and said, ‘STOP IT,’ and gave me a blatantly odd look.
After a moment of total silence, she added, ‘Oh my God! Is that honestly why you’re so upset?’
‘Well . . .’ I said, still clutching my throbbing forehead and choking back a sob, ‘. . . that’s not the whole reason.’
‘Oh,’ said Goose and nodded. She looked a bit relieved.
And then, before I even knew that I was going to say it, I grabbed hold of her arm and said, ‘Goose, can you lend me some money?’
Goose frowned down at my hand on her arm and then slowly she took her bag off her shoulder. It wasn’t her usual kind of bag – it was one I’m pretty sure I’d never seen before. It appeared to be some kind of scruffy old briefcase with a long leather shoulder strap. Most people wouldn’t be able to get away with a bag like that but Goose can because she’s a Type A, Master of Fashion.
She must also be a bit of a mind-reader because her face reddened and she said, ‘Yeah, yeah, I know it’s a bit last season to be bothering with a bag but my coat pockets just aren’t big enough. Whereas this old thing’s got helluva storage. Tim at work – did I mention that he’s doing A levels in Film Studies, Psychology and Media? – well, he reckons that stylish and efficient baggage is the pathway to organizational harmony.’ Then she frowned at me again and said, ‘Where’s your coat?’
And suddenly I realized why I was so completely cold. ‘I forgot it,’ I said. ‘And I forgot my purse; that’s why I’m asking to borrow some money.’
Goose narrowed her eyes and looked at me suspiciously. For a moment, I thought she was actually morphing into my mum or something. But then, in her reassuringly familiar Goosey voice, she said, ‘What d’you need it for?’
‘To get away from here,’ I said.
Goose began to chew her thumbnail and looked at me for a long time. Eventually she said, ‘Yeah, but . . . like . . . when you say away from here . . . what does that mean in terms of where specifically?’
Goose is so wordy sometimes. It’s totally unnecessary. ‘Look,’ I said. ‘I know . . . yeah . . . that you’re just trying to look out for my interests . . . and I totally respect and appreciate you for that . . . but . . . the thing is . . . . I’m in quite a majorly intense situation right now . . . and the only thing that would make it feel fractionally less intense would be if . . . well . . . . I just really need to go and see my sister Ruthie . . . but she lives in Aberystwyth . . . and I haven’t currently got access to any money . . . so . . . well . . . I really need to lend some off you.’
For the billionth time, Goose frowned. I think I did too. To be honest, the news that I wanted to see my sister had caught me by surprise. I hadn’t even bothered to tell myself first. Goose scratched her head thoughtfully and then she said, ‘Borrow.’
‘Huh?’ I said.
‘You want to borrow money. You want me to lend it.’
I looked at Goose in amazement and then I said, ‘Lend . . . borrow . . . who flipping cares? They’re only poxy words. Oh my giddy grief! Since when have you been an English teacher?’ And then – because I really totally did want to borrow/lend some money from her – I got a grip of myself and said, ‘Look, I’m sorry, Goose, I didn’t mean to have a pop at you but I’m really uptight at the moment.’
Goose said, ‘Flipping Norah! You don’t say!’
‘I’m sorry,’ I muttered.
‘Why can’t you ask your mum?’ asked Goose.
‘I can’t,’ I said in a panic. ‘We are so totally not speaking at the moment.’
Goose began to chew her other thumbnail and continued to look worried. ‘Ruthie will be home for Christmas next week anyway, won’t she? Why d’you need to go and see her now?’
‘I just do,’ I said. I was starting to feel really desperate – like I could hardly breathe.
Goose’s eyes narrowed. For several seconds, she just stood there, staring at me, with her super-scary skinny-fit eyes.
To be honest, I’m surprised she could actually see anything. I must have looked like this:
After another massive tense silence, Goose said, ‘You’re running away, aren’t you?’
I turned away from her, leaned my forehead against the panel of glass, which was telling me that and thought about this question carefully. After a moment or two, I said, ‘I’m just removing myself from a difficult situation.’
‘No you’re not – you’re running away,’ said Goose.
‘Please, Goose . . .’ My voice was now little more than a croaky whisper. ‘I really, really need your help.’ And then I started to cry again. I couldn’t keep it inside any longer.
Goose just stood there looking uncomfortable. In the distance, further up the high street, I could see another bus making its way towards us. That thing about buses coming along in threes is totally true. ‘Please, Goose,’ I said again. I was really desperate. I’d have got down on my knees and begged if I thought it would have made any difference.
‘But what about your mum?’ said Goose.
‘She hates me anyway,’ I said. I shivered uncomfortably and looked away so that Goose couldn’t see my face. I think that, deep down, I knew this wasn’t technically true but my brain had stopped worrying about hard facts and was kind of making things up as it went along. And really, all I could properly focus on was the approaching bus, which was getting closer and closer. ‘I just want to see my sister,’ I said.
Goose looked up the street towards the oncoming bus. Then she frowned and chewed her lip. Then she looked up at the bus again. It was now only a few seconds away from reaching us. Goose’s frown deepened. She chewed her lip a little more. I waited, so anxious that I was actually holding my breath.
‘OK, I’ll lend you the money to get to Aberystwyth,’ she said. ‘But on two conditions. One, you phone your mum and let her know where you—’
‘I haven’t got my—’
‘And two,’ said Goose, cutting me off before I could finish, ‘I’m coming with you.’ And then she added, ‘Anyway, two’s company.’
I stared at her. My brain couldn’t believe what my ears had just heard.
‘You’re coming with me?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘Have you got a problem with that?’ asked Goose. She sounded quite annoyed.
‘No,’ I whispered. And then, not for the first time in my life, I threw my arms around my best friend in the whole world and gave her a really massive tight hug. But this time, I was boo-hooing like a baby all over her shoulder. Goose wrapped her arms around me and hugged me back.
Behind us, there was a hissing noise. Then a voice called, ‘Oi . . . Any chance of you two breaking up the lady love and getting on this bus or what?’
Goose gently p
ushed me away from her and turned round. I did too. Through the open door of the bus, the driver was leaning forward over his ticket dispensing machine and watching us with a big leery grin. He was wearing a cheap Santa hat, but it didn’t make him look Christmassy. It made him look like something out of that film And They Died Screaming.
‘Urrrggghhh . . . Yuck . . . Shut up!’ I said.
Goose put her hands on her hips. ‘Er . . . hello,’ she said to the bus driver with a definite hint of annoyance in her voice, ‘. . . that wasn’t lady love.’ And then she gave me a quick sideways grin and added, ‘That was actually a highly touching and emotional moment strictly between me and my sweet soul sister.’
I nodded in agreement and with a small jolt of amazement, I realized that I was smiling too.
The pervy Santa driver shrugged. ‘Call it what you like but I still calls it lady love. Now, are you getting on my flipping bus or what?’
. . . But three Is a MaGIC NumBer
That all happened on Sunday. It’s Tuesday now and I’m a helluva long way from that bus stop in Whitchurch and that dodgy driver with his pervy personal comments.
I’m also a long way away from Goose. And Gareth.
