We Passengers

Chapter 2

One minute we're South of the river and, the next, we're on the outskirts of London, the grandeur of Westminster and Whitechapel giving way to run-down parks and huddles of blocks of flats reaching into the sky.

Me and Trevor have always said that when the kids come and we've made enough money to move out of Mum’s house, we'll move to Kent or maybe Great Missenden; a nice little terrace with a nearby park for the kids to play in and, maybe even a lido for the summers. I took Nancy to Ruislip Lido once, all the way out on the Metropolitan Line. Took forever it did but she loved it and we both came back red as beets from the July sun. I know it's not the same as a real beach but beggars can't be choosers and we enjoyed ourselves.

The world outside the window tells me that we've nearly run out of London and I wonder where the Conductor is. A job that keeps you on your toes that, being a Conductor, and I should know. I've never worked on trains but I've worked the number eight bus route for almost six years now, trundling between Bethnal Green and Tottenham Court Road on a bus full of shoppers heading for Oxford Street and those going to jobs in Holborn. I started on the buses straight from school, doing my training and then becoming a fully fledged Conductor while some of the girls from my class were still scrabbling for jobs in Selfridges and John Lewis. It's a long day and you have to deal with lip from the school-kids and your feet are killing you by the end of your shift but most of the time I love it; chatting with the old dears coming back from the hairdressers and letting our boys on for the price of a wink and a nod. But it's not always like that. For instance, there was that day a few weeks back, a Wednesday it was. We were just going down by the market when the sirens started going off and I hurried down the stairs and to the front of the bus to talk to Harold, the driver.

'We'll park up on Cambridge Heath Road,’ he said, ‘you'll have to help me get everyone to the shelter.’ I hadn't needed telling twice - we all knew that Bethnal Green station was being used as a temporary shelter and, as Harold pulled the bus over to the side of the road, I shouted for quiet as the passengers were all shouting; some crying, at the sound of the sirens.

'Ladies and gents,’ I said loudly but calmly, ‘as you can hear, we have an air raid siren. I'm going to lead you all of the bus and we're going to make our way - in an orderly fashion - to the shelter at Bethnal Green Station.’ Well, that was all very well in theory but, the minute Harold opened the doors, chaos and confusion reigned as the passengers all barrelled forward, pushing and shoving in their haste to be free of that bright red target on wheels and into the shelter. ‘Please stop pushing,’ I yelled pointlessly as I watched a woman laden with shopping bags roughly shove an older lady aside in order to get to the exit. Another one, a young girl, fell into the luggage compartment and, grabbing her hand, I pulled her back up before fighting my way through to the front of the bus and out of the driver's door. Running round the bus to the main doors, I shouted again for people to calm down - to be honest, we didn't even know if danger was imminent, we'd had false alarms before after all. I may have been in uniform but, the passengers took no notice of my authority whatsoever as they poured through the doors and I felt like a spinning top as I was buffeted this way and that by the mass of bodies crowding through the doors and running toward the tube station. Thankfully, just then, I spotted another uniform - a policeman's this time - and, grabbing his attention with a wave and a whistle, I was able to enlist his help in helping the injured and calming the flood of people into the station.

'Someone's gonna be killed one of these days,’ he said, gesturing toward the last of the people disappearing down into the bowels of the station and I shivered as though somebody had walked over my grave. ‘You off the number eight?’ he asked and I nodded. ‘Well, well done for keeping that lot as calm as you did now, down you go, Miss.’ So down I went, through the ticket office and onto the platform where my previously unruly passengers were now sitting quietly, some looking sheepish as others tended to the walking wounded.

'Ought to be ashamed of yourselves, you should,’ I said to one small group as I passed but they only glared at me and I wandered down to the end to wait it out with as much peace and quiet as possible. You never really know how people will behave in an emergency until it actually happens and, for the most part, I felt disappointed in my passengers as though I were a school-teacher whose class had engaged in a childish prank while her back was turned.

'No harm done, Miss,’ one of the soldiers who was on the bus called down to me and I said nothing, looking pointedly instead toward a woman who was holding a bloody handkerchief to her head.

'Never mind the Jerries,’ I said to a young woman sitting next to me, ‘We're doing enough bloody damage ourselves aren’t we?’ It seemed like hours that we were down there, waiting for the boom and crash of a strike that never came and then, finally, we heard the whistle that told us that all was clear.

Another whistle brings me back to myself, this one from the train that I'm sitting on and also, another sound which has become all too familiar.