She looked up past the street lights to the sodium sky, it was raining harder now, bouncing up from pavement flagstones, gurgling down kerbstone gutters.
It had been a bad day, Old Mother Price making her snide remarks, re-arranging her counter display.
“No girl, we do it this way at Hamlings, how many times do I have to tell you?”
Old cow, she didn’t even have the excuse of the monthly curse, she was way past that.
Two more days to pay day so the Prince and the Showgirl will have to wait, gosh, I wish that I had blond hair like Marilyn, so sexy; could dye it I suppose but mum and dad would go ape. She peeked out again from the shelter of the shop doorway. Where’s that bloody bus she asked herself for the third time.
At last the red Double Decker pulled up at the stop with a sigh of air brakes, she tugged up her tight pencil slim skirt, pulled her self onto the platform, paid her fare and climbed the stairs to the upper deck.
She chose a window seat and opened her bag delving through an assortment of makeup bits and pieces to find a pack of Senior Service.
The bus continued up Duke Street, turned left into Hope Street and stopped. She looked down at the huddled figures waiting their turn to board the bus. A broad hipped woman, carrying two shopping bags squeezed herself painfully up the narrow centre aisle beside her to the front of the bus.
A tall youth collapsed in the seat next to her and shook his head like a soaked terrier.
“Do you mind?”
“Oh sorry, it’s raining out there,” he grinned.
“Observant aren’t you?”
“Observant? Hey, that’s good”
She stubbed the butt of the cigarette on the ashtray on the back of the front seat and looked at his reflection in the darkened window. Lanky and thin with pimples; Oh god and at least another mile to go.
“Do you go all the way?” he asked
“Don’t be filthy”
He laughed out loud.
“I can’t believe I said that. What I meant was---
“I know what you meant and it’s none of your business”
The bus stopped again outside Armstrong’s factory. The sound from the stair well of climbing boots was deafening like a stampede of Rhinos; the accompanying stench of oil and rain soaked clothing was overpowering.
The bus at last turned right and geared down to start the climb up Brownlow Hill.
Thank God just one more stop.
She looked across at the youth beside her as he raised his hand to his cheek. Oh no; he’s not going to pick his spots is he? I’ll scream, I will.
“What’s you’re name?”
“Pardon?”
“Your name, I write poetry, would you like a poem just for you?”
“No, excuse me, this is my stop,”
He stood up.
“A song then,”
As she squeezed past him he looked down at the silver name tag on the plastic shoulder bag and grinned.
“Michele, got it; don’t forget mine, its John, John Lennon,”
Half way down the aisle she turned back to him.
“How could I forget, don’t tell me, you’ll be famous one day”
He grinned back at her.
“Bet on it Doll”
