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‘Where the hell is it?’ I say, or rather I thought I said, but actually I don’t think I said anything; I just thought it very loudly and then waited for a response while staring at my feet, just in case I had said it. Nobody answered, which is a relief. Rain is trickling off my hat, and soaking my coat collar, making me nervous and prompting a stream of questions I don’t have a ready answer for, like ‘Can I do it?’
‘Are you alright, mate?’ the man in front of me asks. He must have noticed me fidgeting. My shoes are soaking and the water has started to penetrate through to my socks, so I keep shuffling about trying to get out of the puddle gradually forming beneath me. ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It’s just this rain.’ The man turns away and drags on his cigarette without a word. There are at least twenty people in front of him. A few of them have umbrellas, but the pavement is so narrow and so crowded with people trying to get past that they have to keep taking them down. It is rush hour in the City of London, the famous ‘Square Mile’, and it is always like this, but in the rain it’s a lot worse. Behind me is a woman in her twenties. I know that without looking, as she is talking to a friend. The conversation is about whether to try to find a better flat. Whether to leave now and go back home to live with her mum or wait until she has found somewhere else. Her friend suggests she leave straight away. ‘Think of the money you’ll save!’ But the woman says…well, who cares? The damp from my socks is now rising and the rain has breached my shirt collar and is now trickling down my vest. No doubt the buses are in a mess because of the heavy rain. We have already waited for half an hour and no sign. This happens from time to time: fog, snow, ice, vehicle breakdowns, staff shortage, strikes, but it doesn’t stop us queuing every day, a bunch of lemmings waiting to throw ourselves under a bus. ‘But there isn’t one, so we can’t – ha ha!’ I laugh to myself; at least I think I do. Nobody else is laughing so I am right. Of course, a bus shelter would be nice, but no doubt there is a good reason why they can’t provide one. Either that or somebody in the council hates bus passengers. ‘Somebody is taking the piss,’ I think loudly as I bury my hands into my coat pockets and they slither into a collection of wet bus tickets. Miss Typing Pool behind me whispers to her friend, ‘It’s coming.’
I can see it, about halfway down Farringdon Road. A Number 25, for sure. The roads are chocker, so it’s going to take a while. The queue starts to ripple like it’s been caught in a squall, which it has. The rain is getting heavier, and now the wind is blowing it into our faces and turning umbrellas inside out. We all know it’s on its way, and we all know it will be full to bursting. If it’s really full, it might not even stop; but with traffic like this, it will be forced to, and after some argy-bargy the conductor will let on a few people even though it’s against the rules. The people standing on the bus will have to shuffle down the aisles; people trying to get off will be panicking, shouting, and ringing the bell; meanwhile, yours truly, number twenty-one in the queue, will be stood waiting for the next one.
The man in front of me drops his cigarette into the puddle that had now formed at our feet. He twists the stub with his foot. ‘An arsehole, I knew it!’ The two women stop talking and push forward toward the approaching bus. I can feel a handbag poking me in the back.
Ahead, a number of umbrellas come down. It’s now only two bus lengths away, but the rule is you have to wait until it stops at the bus stop, so nobody moves, nobody tries to jump the queue. In front of the bus, a taxi stops to pick up a top-hatted passenger who has just stepped out of the Stock Exchange. The bus and all the traffic behind it come to a halt. The top hat turns back to some other top hats and bowlers who are sheltering in the doorway and starts a noisy but incomprehensible conversation. The queue tightens as the participants squeeze up.
Finally, the top hat climbs into the taxi and the bus is able to crawl, grumbling and steaming, toward the bus stop – toward us. The queue shuffles urgently forward toward the platform where the conductor stands, both hands raised in a gesture of NO ENTRY. ‘Now or never, you fucking bastards,’ I think very loudly. Stunned by this sudden outburst, a queue of heads turn in my direction and passers-by on the street stop. ‘Oh, fuck it!’ I scream, dragging the man in front of me backwards behind me into the Miss Typing Pools, who collapse, screaming, flat on their backs onto the wet pavement. For a moment its seems that the City stops. The queue steps to either side as I stride to the front and step up onto the bus like a prize bull mounting a heifer. The conductor drops his hands and gestures me on board. The bus is silent, and the passengers standing down the aisle obediently shuffle one person forward, giving me room at the back where I can lean comfortably against the luggage area. I take out a cigarette, light it, and breathe. The city starts up again, the conductor rings the bell, the bus pulls away, and I smoke and drip gently back to Barking, thinking very, very quietly, ‘I can do it.’
February 25, 2022