Page 93 of The Flowers of Bay C
‘Let us in,’ Kat says.
He stares at us. ‘I can’t do that. I’m not allowed to do that. I’m not in service, pet.’
‘Please.’
He stabs at something on his panel, and the doors hiss open, complaining in a slow high-pitched screech. He comes out into the snow, his curly greying brown hair like a halo in the light spilling out from his cab. He folds his arms and takes us all in, stopping and staring as he catches sight of Barbara, lost in her sleeping bag, a huddle of orange peeking through the shadows in the shelter.
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God.’
Kat says, ‘Oh, you’re religious, then? Catholic, I take it? Good. So, what would Mary say? What about your mother? What would your mam say to you now, when faced with six women who need to get back to the hospital and need your help? What would she say?’
He crosses himself and steps back, stumbling against the lip of the door. ‘I’m out of service.’
Kat points to something hanging from the rear-view mirror in his cab. ‘Nice rosary.’
He pushes out his cheeks. ‘I’m not supposed to.’
‘We know that. You told us. But you can take us, can’t you? You’re not going to leave a bunch of sick women out here in the cold and the snow?’
‘I’ve got to take this old bus back to the depot. Last time, like. Can’t take passengers in her, she’s not fit for it. Health and safety and all that.’
‘D’you think we care about how fit this thing is?’ Violet says. ‘You can fit us in there. You’ve got seats in there.’
‘They’re not very nice.’
Kat laughs.
‘Would you like us to sit out here and die?’
He runs his hand through his hair and gazes around at each one of us. His hair is almost white at the roots, his eyes a piercing green. He’d have been a bit of a looker in his youth, I reckon. Still is, really.
‘It’s up to you,’ Kat says, her eyes hard on the rosary beads.
He shifts and then gives a short nod. ‘I can get you into town, at least, I suppose.’
We don’t need to be told twice. Kat turns back to fetch Barbara and the rest of us crunch our way through the thickening snow over to the open doors. It’s one of those old-fashioned buses, no low floor for easy access, just a high step with a grab bar up the middle. Violet puffs and pants as she grips hold of the bar and drags herself up. Amina lifts her walker in after her, her hijab shimmering against the falling snow as she spins around to help Jodie up.
Jodie says, ‘She’s like that song from the olden days.’
‘What song?’ I say.
‘That stilettos in the snow one.’
A sharp pang through me, memories I don’t want to remember, school buses and playgrounds and reports that spoke of my uselessness. ‘Kayleigh,’ I say softly. ‘And less of the olden days, thank you.’
‘Can’t get that thing in here.’ The driver gestures at Barbara, sitting in her chair by the door. ‘Won’t fit. I haven’t got a ramp in this baby, you know.’
Kat stares at him.
‘Gonna have to leaveit here.’
She shakes her head. ‘But… but it belongs to the hospital.’
‘I don’t care if it belongs to the King. It’s not coming in my bus.’
‘Haven’t you got like a luggage thing on the side?’
‘It’s not a bleddy luxury coach, you know.’
