WINNER - 2013 OPEN SHORT STORY COMPETITION 'OPEN CATEGORY'
Unfortunately, this Weebly website is unable to maintain original format
Helen's blog is blogaboutwriting.wordpress.com
Heroes, Just For One Day by Helen Yendall
“You’re too early, mate. It’s only 9.28.” The bus has stopped outside the newsagent’s. Mo revs the engine.
The passenger-who’s-too-early, the Twirly, as Mo calls them - is an oldish guy in a tracksuit, with a small rucksack on his back. He has a bus pass in his hand and one trainer on the step.
Twirly glances at his Rolex. “Can’t you wait two minutes?”
Mo chews. “Nah. Running late. Next one’ll be along soon.”
“This is preposterous!”
Mo goes to close the doors but Twirly stretches his arms out. His face is red. “I’ll race you to the next stop. Then it’ll be past 9.30 and you’ll have to let me on.”
Mo shakes his head. “You’ll never do it.”
“Just watch me.”
Mo nods, collapses the doors and flicks the indicator. So, Twirly wants a race, does he? OK, he’ll give him a race.
What the hell did I say that for? Ken thinks.
It’s only the third time he’s caught the bus and he forgot his pass is only valid for off-peak journeys.
He takes a deep breath and starts to run along the pavement in the direction of Mulberry Avenue. He leaps a puddle.
The bus has to wait before it can pull out so Ken has a few seconds’ lead. But then he hears the roar of the engine behind him as it picks up speed and sails past.
The driver grins and gives Ken a double ‘thumbs up’. A woman sitting at the front turns and pulls a sympathetic face through the window. As the bus trundles down the road, belching diesel fumes, a ginger youth waves at him from the back.
“Mad. I. Am. Mad.” Ken pants the words as he runs. How on earth is he going to beat a bus?
He wishes for the hundredth time that he’d never started this stupid keep-fit malarkey.
“Jog to the end of the road and catch the bus to the swimming pool,” his personal trainer had suggested. But what’s the point? Does he really want to live for another twenty years? On his own, like this?
‘Peasant-carriers’, that’s what Sheila called buses. Oh, it was meant tongue-in-cheek because, after all, she used to catch buses herself, before they were married, when she worked in the typing pool at Allen’s.
But not for years, not for decades. And now, of course, never again.
“What d’you mean by getting on a bus, you daft beggar?” she’d have said. But he has his pass now; he might as well use it. ‘Do something different every day’. That’s Ken’s new motto. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps him going.
Mo laughs as his bus overtakes Twirly.
The woman at the front leans forward. He can barely hear her over the engine. “Did he say he’s going to race you to the next stop?”
Mo bangs the steering wheel. “Yeah!”
He hears the news relayed to the man behind her and then, all the way down the bus to the ginger kid.
He feels a thrill in his chest. He wasn’t expecting this when he got up this morning in the dark.
But then, seconds later, his bubble is burst. Mo had forgotten about the road works.
He passes a red and white sign on the road. WHEN RED LIGHT SHOWS, WAIT HERE.
Reluctantly, he brakes.
But still, that posh bloke is miles behind them. No probs. The engine thuds, the floor vibrates. Mo glances in his rear-view mirror. The old git’s probably given up.
“There he is!” the ginger kid shouts. “He’s coming!”
The woman shakes her head. “He’ll give himself a seizure.”
“Yeah!” Mo laughs but she just glares at him.
The lights are still red. There are no workmen in sight. Just a load of cones and a couple of portakabins.
Twirly’s getting bigger in his mirror but he’s still a long way off. Come on, Come on. Mo wills the lights to change.
“Can’t you just go?” the kid yells. “There’s nuffink coming, is there?”
This is like war, Mo thinks. It’s a duel. It’s Blues versus Villa. At least the ginger kid is on his side.
Most days, Mo can go for hours without anyone talking to him. ‘Single to Poplar Street’ doesn’t count. They’ve all got passes now, so they don’t even look at him. They flash their card, or toss coins in the slot and he has to guess what they want.
Mo’s brother wants him to give up the buses and join the family firm. He’ll make good money, he’s promised him. After what happened last year, he’s amazed that Mo can carry on. Next time, he says, they’ll kill him.
The bus has gone round the corner and disappeared. Ken contemplates giving up. But then he remembers the water company’s road works. He was held up there yesterday for a good five minutes.
Spurred on by that thought, he runs past Morrisons, where an Alsatian tied to a lamppost rears up and barks at him. He swerves around it and then, as he rounds the bend, he sees the dirty green form of the back of the bus. Hallelujah. It is stationary. Ken gets a hit of energy and carries on running.
You’re supposed to envisage your moment of triumph, Ken thinks. That’s what all the sports and management books say. Ken imagines boarding the bus - triumphant - and hearing a ripple of applause start from the back and move forward until everyone is clapping.
In his vision, he modestly waves his hand at everyone. That blonde woman at the front is looking particularly impressed.
But now, just as Ken gets nearer, the lights change to green. The red brake lights disappear. The bus is on the move again.
Mo never wanted to be a bus driver. He wanted to be a marine biologist. He’d seen it on the tele’. But there wasn’t much call for marine biologists in Sparkbrook. This bus – the size of a baby blue whale - is as close as he’s ever going to get.
They sail past the Community Centre, over the mini roundabout and then - Mo swears - they have to stop again. There’s traffic backing right up to the island; the cars are lined up as far as he can see.
“He’s gonna catch us up!” the ginger kid yells from the back.
Ken has almost caught the bus up. It’s not moving. It’s sandwiched rather nicely between a silver 4 x 4 and a white van.
He gives a cheery wave to the ginger lad, who’s flicking the V s at him now through the back window.
He’s done it! He’s barely moving at more than walking pace now but he’s finally overtaken the bus. He’s just got to turn left at this roundabout, into Mulberry Avenue and the stop is a few hundred yards along the road.
He gives the driver - and the woman who’s smiling at him - a small wave, as he shuffles past. The driver’s gazing straight ahead. No eye contact. Not so cocky now, is he?
Just another few yards and he’ll be there. Ken is wheezing. His chest feels fit to burst. He takes deep breaths. He doesn’t want to appear on the verge of a heart attack when the bus finally stops.
They’ve reached the island. Mo turns left. He can see Twirly in the distance, at the bottom of the road, not far from the stop.
The traffic’s cleared. He puts his foot down. There’s no way he’s going to let that posh bloke win.
“Wheeeeeee!” the ginger lad calls as they gather speed.
Mo hears bags shooting across the floor. The woman grabs the silver bar and gives a yelp. It’s time, Mo thinks, to see what this baby blue whale can do.
But then, he hears it. A siren behind him and a flash of blue in his side mirror.
“It’s the pigs!” his ginger commentator yells. “You gotta stop!”
Mo’s heard that when the police pull you over, they like to have a little joke. “Think we’re Jensen Button, do we, sir?” that kind of thing.
But these two don’t look like comedians.
“Would you step out of the cab?” the fat one mutters. No ‘sir’.
Mo hesitates before releasing the catch on the door. He got out once before, when there was trouble on the upper deck. And look what happened.
If he closes his eyes, he relives it. They’re grabbing his jacket, yanking him out, his legs are wheeling like he’s pedalling a bike. There’s a face – angry, sneering – an inch from his. Then he’s koshed and everything goes black.
The surgeon said he nearly died. Bleeding on the brain. And when he came back to work, he was a hero. Just for one day. But he didn’t feel like a hero because, after all, what did he do? He just didn’t die, that’s all.
The copper puts his hand on the top of Mo’s head as he gets into the back of the police car and Mo cries out and pulls back.
“I hardly touched you!” the copper says but then he sees Mo’s bare scalp and the scar. “Sorry, sir.” He steps back. Mo nods and gets in.
“Go easy on him, officer. I did rather provoke him,” someone says and Mo recognises the voice: clipped and breathless. It’s Twirly. He must have retraced his steps. He didn’t make it to the stop, after all.
Mo sits in the back of the police car, while they radio through to the bus company. He puts the window down to get some air.
All the passengers have to get off. The ginger kid shouts to Mo, “That was fun, mate. Shame you didn’t win, like.”
Ah, but maybe I did, Mo thinks, giving him the thumbs up through the open window.
He’s finished with the buses, now. He’ll take that job with his brother. He’ll make good money; he’ll have someone to talk to. Ken reaches inside the window and offers the driver his hand. “No hard feelings, eh?”
He feels guilty and yet, the driver doesn’t look too concerned. He seems to hesitate, then he takes Ken’s hand and shakes it.
“Sorry it had to end, you know, like this,” Ken says.
The driver shakes his head. “No probs, mate.”
The policeman in the passenger seat coughs. “Thank you, sir, if you could just clear the area, now – “
Ken steps away and starts to walk back up the road. He pats his forehead with his hankie. The thought of a cooling swim is rather inviting but he’s not sure he has the energy. What he really needs is a sit-down.
The blonde woman who smiled at Ken through the window during his run, catches him up and taps him on the arm. “You’re a hero.”
She’s pretty and smiley. Ken laughs and shakes his head. “Hardly.”
“You beat a bus.”
“Yes, well I had a bit of help from the traffic lights.” Ken nods at the panda car. “And the boys in blue.”
The woman peers back at the driver, sitting in the car. “What’ll happen to him, do you think?”
“Caution, I’d imagine. He’ll lose his job though.”
“How come you know all this?”
“I used to be a magistrate. I used to be – a lot of things - ”
She nods. “Didn’t we all.”
They walk a few more steps, then she says, “Where were you going to, anyway? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I was supposed to be going swimming,” Ken says and then he remembers his motto: ‘Do something different every day’.
“But I’m going to Morrisons for a coffee instead,” he says. “A heart-attack inducing latte with two sugars. And a doughnut. Would you care to join me?”
And in that second before she speaks but her smile tells him what she’s going to say, Ken knows his luck’s just about to change.
Unfortunately, this Weebly website is unable to maintain original format
Helen's blog is blogaboutwriting.wordpress.com
Heroes, Just For One Day by Helen Yendall
“You’re too early, mate. It’s only 9.28.” The bus has stopped outside the newsagent’s. Mo revs the engine.
The passenger-who’s-too-early, the Twirly, as Mo calls them - is an oldish guy in a tracksuit, with a small rucksack on his back. He has a bus pass in his hand and one trainer on the step.
Twirly glances at his Rolex. “Can’t you wait two minutes?”
Mo chews. “Nah. Running late. Next one’ll be along soon.”
“This is preposterous!”
Mo goes to close the doors but Twirly stretches his arms out. His face is red. “I’ll race you to the next stop. Then it’ll be past 9.30 and you’ll have to let me on.”
Mo shakes his head. “You’ll never do it.”
“Just watch me.”
Mo nods, collapses the doors and flicks the indicator. So, Twirly wants a race, does he? OK, he’ll give him a race.
What the hell did I say that for? Ken thinks.
It’s only the third time he’s caught the bus and he forgot his pass is only valid for off-peak journeys.
He takes a deep breath and starts to run along the pavement in the direction of Mulberry Avenue. He leaps a puddle.
The bus has to wait before it can pull out so Ken has a few seconds’ lead. But then he hears the roar of the engine behind him as it picks up speed and sails past.
The driver grins and gives Ken a double ‘thumbs up’. A woman sitting at the front turns and pulls a sympathetic face through the window. As the bus trundles down the road, belching diesel fumes, a ginger youth waves at him from the back.
“Mad. I. Am. Mad.” Ken pants the words as he runs. How on earth is he going to beat a bus?
He wishes for the hundredth time that he’d never started this stupid keep-fit malarkey.
“Jog to the end of the road and catch the bus to the swimming pool,” his personal trainer had suggested. But what’s the point? Does he really want to live for another twenty years? On his own, like this?
‘Peasant-carriers’, that’s what Sheila called buses. Oh, it was meant tongue-in-cheek because, after all, she used to catch buses herself, before they were married, when she worked in the typing pool at Allen’s.
But not for years, not for decades. And now, of course, never again.
“What d’you mean by getting on a bus, you daft beggar?” she’d have said. But he has his pass now; he might as well use it. ‘Do something different every day’. That’s Ken’s new motto. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps him going.
Mo laughs as his bus overtakes Twirly.
The woman at the front leans forward. He can barely hear her over the engine. “Did he say he’s going to race you to the next stop?”
Mo bangs the steering wheel. “Yeah!”
He hears the news relayed to the man behind her and then, all the way down the bus to the ginger kid.
He feels a thrill in his chest. He wasn’t expecting this when he got up this morning in the dark.
But then, seconds later, his bubble is burst. Mo had forgotten about the road works.
He passes a red and white sign on the road. WHEN RED LIGHT SHOWS, WAIT HERE.
Reluctantly, he brakes.
But still, that posh bloke is miles behind them. No probs. The engine thuds, the floor vibrates. Mo glances in his rear-view mirror. The old git’s probably given up.
“There he is!” the ginger kid shouts. “He’s coming!”
The woman shakes her head. “He’ll give himself a seizure.”
“Yeah!” Mo laughs but she just glares at him.
The lights are still red. There are no workmen in sight. Just a load of cones and a couple of portakabins.
Twirly’s getting bigger in his mirror but he’s still a long way off. Come on, Come on. Mo wills the lights to change.
“Can’t you just go?” the kid yells. “There’s nuffink coming, is there?”
This is like war, Mo thinks. It’s a duel. It’s Blues versus Villa. At least the ginger kid is on his side.
Most days, Mo can go for hours without anyone talking to him. ‘Single to Poplar Street’ doesn’t count. They’ve all got passes now, so they don’t even look at him. They flash their card, or toss coins in the slot and he has to guess what they want.
Mo’s brother wants him to give up the buses and join the family firm. He’ll make good money, he’s promised him. After what happened last year, he’s amazed that Mo can carry on. Next time, he says, they’ll kill him.
The bus has gone round the corner and disappeared. Ken contemplates giving up. But then he remembers the water company’s road works. He was held up there yesterday for a good five minutes.
Spurred on by that thought, he runs past Morrisons, where an Alsatian tied to a lamppost rears up and barks at him. He swerves around it and then, as he rounds the bend, he sees the dirty green form of the back of the bus. Hallelujah. It is stationary. Ken gets a hit of energy and carries on running.
You’re supposed to envisage your moment of triumph, Ken thinks. That’s what all the sports and management books say. Ken imagines boarding the bus - triumphant - and hearing a ripple of applause start from the back and move forward until everyone is clapping.
In his vision, he modestly waves his hand at everyone. That blonde woman at the front is looking particularly impressed.
But now, just as Ken gets nearer, the lights change to green. The red brake lights disappear. The bus is on the move again.
Mo never wanted to be a bus driver. He wanted to be a marine biologist. He’d seen it on the tele’. But there wasn’t much call for marine biologists in Sparkbrook. This bus – the size of a baby blue whale - is as close as he’s ever going to get.
They sail past the Community Centre, over the mini roundabout and then - Mo swears - they have to stop again. There’s traffic backing right up to the island; the cars are lined up as far as he can see.
“He’s gonna catch us up!” the ginger kid yells from the back.
Ken has almost caught the bus up. It’s not moving. It’s sandwiched rather nicely between a silver 4 x 4 and a white van.
He gives a cheery wave to the ginger lad, who’s flicking the V s at him now through the back window.
He’s done it! He’s barely moving at more than walking pace now but he’s finally overtaken the bus. He’s just got to turn left at this roundabout, into Mulberry Avenue and the stop is a few hundred yards along the road.
He gives the driver - and the woman who’s smiling at him - a small wave, as he shuffles past. The driver’s gazing straight ahead. No eye contact. Not so cocky now, is he?
Just another few yards and he’ll be there. Ken is wheezing. His chest feels fit to burst. He takes deep breaths. He doesn’t want to appear on the verge of a heart attack when the bus finally stops.
They’ve reached the island. Mo turns left. He can see Twirly in the distance, at the bottom of the road, not far from the stop.
The traffic’s cleared. He puts his foot down. There’s no way he’s going to let that posh bloke win.
“Wheeeeeee!” the ginger lad calls as they gather speed.
Mo hears bags shooting across the floor. The woman grabs the silver bar and gives a yelp. It’s time, Mo thinks, to see what this baby blue whale can do.
But then, he hears it. A siren behind him and a flash of blue in his side mirror.
“It’s the pigs!” his ginger commentator yells. “You gotta stop!”
Mo’s heard that when the police pull you over, they like to have a little joke. “Think we’re Jensen Button, do we, sir?” that kind of thing.
But these two don’t look like comedians.
“Would you step out of the cab?” the fat one mutters. No ‘sir’.
Mo hesitates before releasing the catch on the door. He got out once before, when there was trouble on the upper deck. And look what happened.
If he closes his eyes, he relives it. They’re grabbing his jacket, yanking him out, his legs are wheeling like he’s pedalling a bike. There’s a face – angry, sneering – an inch from his. Then he’s koshed and everything goes black.
The surgeon said he nearly died. Bleeding on the brain. And when he came back to work, he was a hero. Just for one day. But he didn’t feel like a hero because, after all, what did he do? He just didn’t die, that’s all.
The copper puts his hand on the top of Mo’s head as he gets into the back of the police car and Mo cries out and pulls back.
“I hardly touched you!” the copper says but then he sees Mo’s bare scalp and the scar. “Sorry, sir.” He steps back. Mo nods and gets in.
“Go easy on him, officer. I did rather provoke him,” someone says and Mo recognises the voice: clipped and breathless. It’s Twirly. He must have retraced his steps. He didn’t make it to the stop, after all.
Mo sits in the back of the police car, while they radio through to the bus company. He puts the window down to get some air.
All the passengers have to get off. The ginger kid shouts to Mo, “That was fun, mate. Shame you didn’t win, like.”
Ah, but maybe I did, Mo thinks, giving him the thumbs up through the open window.
He’s finished with the buses, now. He’ll take that job with his brother. He’ll make good money; he’ll have someone to talk to. Ken reaches inside the window and offers the driver his hand. “No hard feelings, eh?”
He feels guilty and yet, the driver doesn’t look too concerned. He seems to hesitate, then he takes Ken’s hand and shakes it.
“Sorry it had to end, you know, like this,” Ken says.
The driver shakes his head. “No probs, mate.”
The policeman in the passenger seat coughs. “Thank you, sir, if you could just clear the area, now – “
Ken steps away and starts to walk back up the road. He pats his forehead with his hankie. The thought of a cooling swim is rather inviting but he’s not sure he has the energy. What he really needs is a sit-down.
The blonde woman who smiled at Ken through the window during his run, catches him up and taps him on the arm. “You’re a hero.”
She’s pretty and smiley. Ken laughs and shakes his head. “Hardly.”
“You beat a bus.”
“Yes, well I had a bit of help from the traffic lights.” Ken nods at the panda car. “And the boys in blue.”
The woman peers back at the driver, sitting in the car. “What’ll happen to him, do you think?”
“Caution, I’d imagine. He’ll lose his job though.”
“How come you know all this?”
“I used to be a magistrate. I used to be – a lot of things - ”
She nods. “Didn’t we all.”
They walk a few more steps, then she says, “Where were you going to, anyway? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I was supposed to be going swimming,” Ken says and then he remembers his motto: ‘Do something different every day’.
“But I’m going to Morrisons for a coffee instead,” he says. “A heart-attack inducing latte with two sugars. And a doughnut. Would you care to join me?”
And in that second before she speaks but her smile tells him what she’s going to say, Ken knows his luck’s just about to change.
