The Story at the Bus Stop

I was flicking through a notebook yesterday, and I came across notes I’d made over the summer, when we were in England. Notes for blog posts that never got written. On one page were the notes I made after an encounter with an elderly lady at a bus stop. She was waiting for a bus, I was enjoying a country walk. She stopped me, and started talking. She told me how the bus company has cut back their services, so she can’t go and visit her sister-in-law any more. She can’t get there and back in a day. Then she started telling me about her life, talking with great animation. I was hooked.

She was 15 when war was declared. She told her father “I hope it goes on long enough that I can join in”. He said “It probably will. They usually go on quite a long time once they get started”. She overheard her mum and dad discussing whether to let her join the WAAF. It was her dad who said to let her go: "we better had, seeing as she wants to so badly".

She met her husband when she was in the WAAF. His name was Johnny. They were on the wing of an aeroplane, in for repairs. She asked a mechanic on the ground to throw up a part she needed. He tossed it high in the air, she caught it in her upturned, cupped hand, and Johnny’s hand came down – slap - on top of it, on top of her hand. That was how they first got talking. Later on, he asked her what she was doing in the evening, and she agreed to meet him. When she turned up at the bar, there he was with another woman. “I didn’t think you’d show up”, he told her. So their first date didn’t exactly get off to a flying start, but things worked out, and they married.

They had one son, and no grandchildren. Their son was disabled (she used the word "handicapped") and died young, "but he was a super little boy, he really was”.

Johnny died in bed one night, with his arm round her. She phoned the police, and they came, and they got her to phone her friend Mabel. Mabel came and collected her, and took her to her house. She put her to bed in her son’s bedroom. Mabel’s son was keen on aeroplanes, and his room was full of airfix models. She lay there, her husband gone, surrounded by aeroplanes to look at. It seemed fitting.

As the woman talked, I could almost see the movie rolling. A young Kate Winslet would be good as the WAAF girl, I thought. Was it just because of the wartime theme that I could so easily imagine the woman’s life as a film? Was it the disabled son, who made her life a little different to that of most mothers? What was it? I think it was the details on which the stories hung. Yes. It was the details, intricate and intimate, that brought the scenes so vividly to life for me.

I wonder, do we all have lives that could be moments strung together on a cinema screen, if only we tell them in a spirited way, as if engaging a stranger at a village bus stop?