8 May 2012
There's a woman who gets on my bus in the morning with two kids in tow. It's a long journey and the children are loud, young, argumentative and boisterous. I cringe when I see them get on; it's far too early in the morning and far too confined a space for over-chirpy voices and toddler squabbles and yet the children always pick a seat near me.
The mother tries her best with them. She is only young herself and every morning is the same, her tired voice attempts reasoning with her pre-school angels when they act-up, which they invariably do. How different it is to my own childhood, when 'children should be seen and not heard' was still very much in fashion. Newsflash: reasoning with children aged two and six doesn't actually work.
She still tries. Once she has them settled in their seats the mother pulls out a pre-school book from her bag and reads to them. Or rather, she reads to the whole bus.
A little later on a boy of about eleven gets on the bus alone. Through the strains of Incey Wincey and Simon The Slimy Snail, I find myself thinking about this boy each morning. You see, this tale isn't about the mother and her children after all.
The boy's school uniform is about two sizes too big for him but that's the least of this child's worries; the trousers and blazer are shiny from built-up grime and his shirt is more grey than white. His hair is a mess of unwashed brown curls and no-one can help but feel pity for him. When he first enters the bus his expression is vacant and his eyes look dead.
This changes when he sees the mother reading stories out loud. His eyes light up and I watch as he slowly sidles up the bus to stand close to her and the kids. The lad always seems to stand just behind her, enough so he can see the pictures in the book and listen to the mornings story with ease but without making it obvious (so he thinks) that he is enjoying morning story-time as well.
As harassed as the mother is, I don't think she's oblivious to her audience but she carries on as if it's just her and her brood of two. It's a shame. If she would only turn around and acknowledge him, she would see his expression of snatched, relieved peace.
I often think about the boy as my bus journey comes to an end, about where he lives and what his parents are like. I don't think they've ever read him a story. If they can send him out in a uniform that can stand up on its own, I don't think they are the story-reading type. I often think it's a shameful world that we live in here. I also often think that some gifts, no matter how small, are worth giving, and that some annoyances are worth putting up with.
Journey • Opuss № I