Empathy on the Bus

The child continued to scream even after the mother had paid the fare and settled down gratefully into a seat.  The child remained in its pushchair, but the brake had to be applied, so rocking was not possible.  A gentle push to and fro is what usually sends them off.  Instead, the mother hoped that the burr of the engine would soothe her child to sleep.  One or two older people tutted as the precise pitch of the screaming was delivered straight into their eardrums by their hearing aids.  One woman ostentatiously turned hers off.  Another offered a solution under her breath – “take the damn thing out of its pram.”

But the mother was determined to remain firm.  Sleep time means no cuddles, no matter how loud you scream.  I’m all out of cuddles just now.  She leaned forward and in a compromise to appease other passengers, took her child’s fist in her hand and began to stroke it with her worn out, steriliser-raw thumb.

A woman in the adjacent seat looked over at the mother; too distracted from her book to read anymore.  She wasn’t annoyed, like those whose child rearing days were long past.  She simply felt relief that the child wasn’t hers.  That her children were safely in school and that she would be able to walk away from that heartbreaking sound.  Those days were not so long ago, when she felt just like this mother looked.  Exhausted not even strong enough a word.  She remembered the nights sat on the landing, sobbing because her child wouldn’t sleep and her office desk awaited her in 4 hours time.  That determination that normal life must continue, even in the face of a tyrant who communicates only through nuances of top volume.  She wanted to tell her that it would end one day.  Sooner than she knew.  But the bus stop loomed. And the child began to mew dozily.  Instead, she gave a conspiratorial smile and walked on.

In a Waiting Room, 8th October 1952

It’s busy in here.  This fog’s a proper pea-souper.  It’s coming under the doors and down the chimney.  Usually with a fog like this I struggle to breathe but I don’t feel so bad today.  I haven’t coughed since the train either.  The train.  I was on the train.  So what am I doing in a waiting room again?  Where has George gone, I wonder.  Oh, I feel a bit sleepy.

Here’s some more people.  I’d better shuffle up and make room.  At least these seats are comfortable.  Must be first class.  Hang on, here’s some people with uniforms on.  He’s a driver, surely.  That’s not done, letting engine staff into a first class waiting room.  I’ll have to write a letter to the Stationmaster when I get home.  If I ever get home.  What on earth is going on?  Yet more people?  This really is a disgrace, and no-one here to give us any information.

Ah! Now here’s someone who looks like they’re going to take charge of the situation.  Those buttons on his waistcoat are awfully shiny.  That’s very reassuring.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention?  We are so sorry to keep you waiting, we weren’t expecting so many of you at once.  Please be assured that we will deal with each of you in order of your time of arrival.’

How does he know which one of us was here first?  Extraordinary.

‘Mrs Barnes?  This way please.’

Mrs Barnes and the man with shiny buttons disappeared into the fog.