Libby opened her bag and rummaged through the contents. She usually kept it tidy, but after a week with Hector, it now contained several toy cars, a half-eaten box of raisins, a small notepad, and a pack of coloring pencils. Libby pulled out the notepad and a black pencil, then looked over at the man.
Because he was sitting directly across the aisle from her, Libby could see only the left-hand profile of his face. He had a strong, angular jaw and dark eyes, and his ear was lined with small silver hoops. A tattoo was creeping up his neck from under the collar of his jacket, although Libby couldn’t make out what it was. Aside from his Mohawk, his head was closely shaved, and it looked like it would be almost soft to touch.Unlike Libby, who tended to slouch, this man was sitting tall in his seat, with the confidence of someone who didn’t care what anyone else thought of them. He really was extraordinary-looking. Libby glanced down at the blank white paper on her lap, then took a deep breath and pressed her pencil onto the page.
When she next checked out of the window, Libby was surprised to see they were driving down a busy shopping street, and an underground station sign told her they were at Oxford Circus. She stared down at the sketch and inwardly groaned. She’d made the man’s body a weird shape and his hair looked like it had been stuck on with glue, and there was a big line across his chin where the bus had hit a pothole and her pencil had skidded across the paper. It was the kind of thing Hector would draw, and he was only four. Libby ripped out the page and was about to screw it up when she noticed the profile of his face. It was far from perfect, but she’d managed to capture the shape of his skull, the sharp jawline and brooding eye. It was very rough, but with more time maybe she could make the sketch better? Libby glanced back up at the man. He’d barely moved all journey, staring forward as if in a trance. But he could get off at any minute, and then her chance to finish the sketch would be over. If only there was a way she could get a photo of him so she could carry on working on it at home.
Libby looked around her. All the other passengers were in their own worlds, staring out the windows or at their phone screens. She reached into her bag, pulled out her phone, and as discreetly as possible, lifted it up and took a shot.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
At the sound of the camera click, the man she’d drawn hadswung round in his seat and was staring at her. Libby stuffed her phone back in her bag.
“Were you taking photos of me?” His black eyes were fixed on her, and Libby could feel other passengers turning to look.
“No... I mean, yes, but sorry.”
The man scowled. “You think I’m some kind of tourist attraction, here for your entertainment?”
“No, I was...” Libby felt the color drain from her face. “I’m sorry. I’ll delete it.”
“Imagine if it was the other way round, and some random guy took a photo of you on the bus. How would you like that?”
The old woman sitting in front of the punk was looking at Libby and shaking her head. Libby felt a burn of shame, and she snatched up her bag and stood up to leave. As she did, the piece of paper slipped off her lap and, as if in slow motion, floated toward the floor in the middle of the aisle.
Shit! Libby watched as the punk leaned down and picked up the page as it landed by his feet. She closed her eyes, preparing to hear his roar of rage. But there was only the muffled sound of music from the two teens in front, and when Libby opened her eyes again, he was staring at the drawing with a look of disgust on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” Libby said, and she heard a tremor in her voice.
He didn’t say anything and carried on studying the piece of paper. She could sense the passengers around them were holding their breath, waiting to see what he would do.
“It’s a really bad drawing,” Libby said in a half whisper.
The man glanced up then and caught Libby’s eye. For a moment she stared back at him, unsure what to do. Then she ran toward the open door, humiliation coursing through her body.
CHAPTER
4
PEGGY
There’s nothing I love more than a bit of drama on the bus.
Did I ever tell you about that time, back in the sixties, when I saw a full-blown fight on the top deck of the 74? There were a couple of mod lads on the bus and then these rockers got on at Earls Court. It started as a few swear words chucked here and there, but before I knew it, they were facing each other off in the aisle, tossing empty beer cans like missiles over the seats. Most of the other passengers scarpered at the first sign of trouble, but you know me. I stayed up there, enjoying the free show until the police turned up and escorted them off.
And do you remember when we were on the 205 and we saw that skinny lad in a cheap suit get down on one knee and propose to his girlfriend? I remember how all the passengers held their breath while we waited for her to answer, and then she said no, and it was so awkward, the poor bugger had to get off the bus.
Well, let me tell you about yesterday’s drama. It started with great promise. I looked up as soon as I heard a raised voice, and I knew straightaway it was the young man sitting inthe row behind me. I’d clocked him as soon as he got on the bus, of course; you used to see a lot of punk rockers in London back in the day, but I’ve not come across one in years, apart from that nice man who works at Oxford Circus Station and once helped me when my shopper got caught in the ticket barrier. This lad on the bus was far too young to be an original punk, but he looked the part with his spiky hair, dark clothes, and angry face. He was glaring at a girl sitting across the aisle from him, who was clutching a piece of paper in her hands, quaking like a leaf.
Well, at first, I thought the punk was being inappropriate, and I was about to give him an earful when he started speaking, at which point I stood down. Turns out, I’d got it the wrong way round and the girl had takenhispicture on her mobile phone. Well, that’s all very well, but if you’re stupid enough to get caught, then you’ve got to be prepared to take the consequences. The girl looked like she was about to burst into tears, and I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help shaking my head. Honestly, young people are so soft these days it’s no wonder the world’s going to hell in a handbasket.
Anyway, the girl stood up to get off the bus, and as she did, the piece of paper fell off her lap onto the floor. I leaned down to get it, but before I could, the lad reached over and snatched it up. But I got a quick look at it, and you’ll never guess what it was. It was a pencil sketch the girl had done of him, right there on the bus.
Can you believe it, of all the things?
And then the strangest thing happened. At the sight of this drawing—which wasn’t half bad, by the way—I had this sudden flashback. It was almost as if I could feel a pencil in my hand, the sensation of it passing over rough sketching paper,the jolts and bumps as the bus rumbled along. And it was like I was back there, all those years ago, and I just sat there, letting the memories wash over me. Then, all of a sudden, they burst like a bubble, and I was an old woman again, back on the 88, heading down toward Piccadilly Circus.
The girl had got off the bus by then, and I turned back to look at the man. He was still staring at this sketch, and I waited for him to screw it up and chuck it away. But instead, he folded it in half, ever so carefully, like he didn’t want to damage it, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. And then he looked up and I had to turn back round so he didn’t think I was being nosy.
So it wasn’t quite up there with the fight or the marriage proposal, but still, I knew it was a story you’d enjoy. So little of excitement happens these days, and I hate to admit it, but sometimes I struggle for things to tell you. It’s why I’m grateful for my bus journeys. On the 88 there’s always the chance for a bit of drama or a brief chat with a stranger, a nugget of something new. And then, with a little bit of creativity and elaboration on my part, I can turn it into a story to share. But if nothing happens on the bus, if no one wants to talk to me and everyone’s staring at their phones, well, that’s when I struggle.
