Different perspective

The streets used to be so lively before, bustling with activity, men off to work to provide, children clinging on to their mother’s skirts, she remembers when the buses never used to be driven by wheels but were pulled by horses, it was miraculous, the way technology had moved forward.

But that was before.

There are hardly any buses around anymore, hers was one of the only ones used for the public, and even so, the streets are much quieter now.

It’s strange how life has changed, how it continued despite events, she almost expected life to come to a standstill, but it carried on.

Just yesterday she had heard how a bus driver had taken a soldier to Ypres, the same driver used to take the young man to work every morning.

More buses vanished, on route to France and Belgium, more tickets to be punched in.

The ticket machine didn’t feel as heavy around her neck now as it did when the war began.

It is around midday when the bus comes to a stop and a man steps onto it, he is carrying himself with an air of responsibility, head high, chin pointed, but his eyes are blank, he nods at the driver, but does not spare a glance to her, just holds out his hand for the ticket, and places the money in her hands, as if it was something of disgust.

This does not surprise her.

She counts the money, exact change, and places it into the money bag around her neck and issues his ticket, he does not thank her rather, he ignores her existence and walks to his seat.

He is one of those, she realises, the bitter ones. Bitter that she was there, doing a man’s job, as if it was as easy as breathing, putting as much as the effort in, she could comfort him with the fact that either way, she is still getting paid less.

Her wages were barely enough to cover expenses, her mother in work too as a Munitionette. Every night she comes home, her mother’s hands are grittier and calloused than they were the previous day, but even though she felt tired and weary, she would glow too, everywhere she touched would be yellow.

Despite having no idea where her husband was and what he was up against.

She is unsure if the newspapers are cruel or kind when they bring no news.

By his appearance, he could be a doctor, he clutched a briefcase to his side, placing it gently at his feet, his hands clasped in his lap, his jaw clenched.

He might not be bitter towards her at all. He could be bitter about the fact that he is here and not on the front line. That his job is protected, that he does not have to leave the comfort of his own home, whereas other young men are out there risking their lives for a home they might not even be able to come back to.

She stays standing, holding the front pole as the city passes in a slow blur, the clouds grey, the air thick with fog and smoke.

She readies herself as two soldiers board next. They are wearing green tunics with brass buttons, and wool trousers tucked into combat boots.

They differed in stature, one tall and bulky, his face resembling a tomato, the other was skinny, with a long face, he stood almost shrunk in, as if he wanted to make himself smaller.

“All right Clippy?” The boisterous one says, with a toothy grin, she smiles back breezily, because she is supposed to enjoy this attention.

When they sit down, the boisterous one is full of life, talking the other one’s ears off with flamboyant hand gestures, they were soldiers on leave from what she could hear, the big one on his way to see his lover, the other quietly admitted that he was going to see his mother, his hands shook as he did so.

Do they have nightmares too? Of fire and screams and trenches full of the corpses of friends and family. The way his hands shook, it would not surprise her.

Did he have aspirations like she did? Of something more than this? Even in a time of death there was opportunity, for her at least.

At their next stop, a man with a complicated contraption, a camera, stands in front of the bus and gestures to her quickly, she looks at the driver who nods her away, she stands holding onto the pole,

“Picture for the Lincolnshire Echo, Love.” This is a statement, not a question.

She nods her consent and smiles, it’s the least she could do for the war effort after all.

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