The first part of a bus-train-bus journey to school circa 1970
On that coughing grey, dull, damp, wheezy winter morning, top deck of the bus, ride to school; sat, wedge tight, next to lazy eyed, nodding, unshaven shift workers not yet recovered from a weekend of pints and lost memories, and fags and pints, and rugby and chips, and pints; two years before Anais Anais, sat in front of Avon scented Susan and her Boots supervisor Chanel Carol; peering over the sodden heavy overcoat shoulders of smokers searching for their day lungs via muffled hacks and packets of baccy, Player’s No 6, Woodbine and Park Drive; trying to see “Clarky”, “Bradders” and “Elly”, my schoolmates from earlier stops; breathing in the adult air, the miasma of cigarette smoke, stale sweat, failed Brut and Old Spice, mingled with last night’s sleep in a working class fug that defined the Monday morning ride.
The tired suspension drive, past brewery and wire, past tyre repair and pub, past cobble and canal, and alongside the mighty Mersey … and there was that one day when the crisp and low early morning yellow sun, contrasted with the neon pink of the Mersey, as the dye factory stretched out its toxic fingers, grasping for the sea.
The sharp, acute, bus bell cuts through the vague, blurred, bump and shove of passenger’s muffled “excuse me’s” and neanderthal “get out of my way” grunts, as we worked the unkempt top deck, taking unsteady steps to the spiral staircase, to the open “jump off” platform, and the fleeting but crisp town centre air.
… and now to the train.