The picture is from Pixabay. I’ve modified it to remove identity in the people waiting for their bus.

So often, knowing a small part of someone else’s life can result in a totally false impression.

Bus Pass George

George never planned his excursions. He walked the short distance to the bus station each day after breakfast, leaving earlier than necessary so he could watch children ambling to school. Sometimes, he’d select a little girl and make up a fantasy around her. Buy her a bar of chocolate, treat her, maybe sit her on his lap and bounce her up and down in the way that had made Lucy laugh. But that memory always made him sad and he avoided it if he remembered in time before the pictures came to mind.

On this particular morning he’d watched a little redhead skipping along alone and thought about her vulnerability. But she’d passed out of sight by the time he reached the station and he’d settled on his usual bench, waiting for the next bus to arrive and wondering where the ride would take him today. The bus from Driffield came in and stopped in the usual bay. It was Tuesday; the friendly passenger smiled and wished him a good morning as he hurried past on his way to his office. George often wondered at the kindness of that man. Why he, alone of the many, should choose to speak, acknowledge him as a human being. It always gave him a good feeling and made his day start well.

The usual mix of people gathered in the station. He rubbed at the slight crusting that had gathered at the corner of his left eye, clearing gunge and his sight at the same time. As he looked up, a girl walked past. A young woman really. Nice legs; wrapped tightly in black tights that accentuated shape but allowed some skin tone through. He found a patch, about the size of a daisy, high up on the inside of her thigh, showing pale, soft skin. The skirt hugged her hips, exposing flesh above until her back disappeared under a black lacy top that showed her bra. He wondered about her front. She got on the bus that had just arrived and, although he wasn’t keen on Hull, he followed, hoping to see more of her.

His bus pass allowed him free travel after nine. It was how he spent his days now he was retired. The little terraced house Mother had left him, when she’d…when she’d passed on, seemed empty and hollow now. She’d been such a constant presence in his life that her absence was like a raw wound, her physical lack a pain that could still make him cry a year after he’d placed in her final resting place. But he wouldn’t dwell on that. Sunday was the day for Mother. Fresh flowers, a walk to the cemetery, an occasional chat with that young woman who crouched over her child’s grave a couple of rows nearer the road. She was another who sometimes showed off her legs.

Today’s driver was that grumpy bloke who just grunted as he placed his pass on the pad so it could read the concession. He moved inside, seeking the girl. No sign, which meant she’d gone upstairs. He had to decide whether to sit where he could see her when she came down, or whether to go up and sit near so he could pretend to look out the window and study her. An old woman had followed him onto the bus and he had to make up his mind quickly. He chose the seat that would let him watch the stairs.

Mother had always made him take a different seat, tutting.

‘The way they dress these days. You can see what they ‘ad for breakfast.’

He missed Mother. But he was glad he had that freedom now.

The bus pulled out of the station and joined the traffic. As they stopped at the lights, he glanced out of the window and caught his reflection in a shop window full of female mannequins. A girl sat cross-legged on the floor in the window, sorting new stock to clothe them. She glanced up at him, and he smiled, but her face formed a grimace as she looked away. The bus moved on as the lights changed and he watched busy people going about their lives.

George wished he hadn’t seen his reflection, wished the girl hadn’t reacted to the way he looked. That was why he’d never had a girlfriend, never known the willing company and intimacy of a woman the way he’d heard work colleagues describe it. Did folk think because he was ugly he didn’t have feelings? Did they think his layer of soft flab protected him from snide insults and barely concealed rude asides? He’d been the butt of jokes at school but never bullied: his size prevented that. But they’d laughed behind his back, sneered when they thought he wasn’t looking. Or, in the case of Jennifer, sneered because he was looking.

Jennifer. She’d been something. All the boys lusted after her. Her blouse always on the point of bursting open with her ripeness. Her skirts, shorter than school regulations, showing almost every lithe inch of those amazing legs. He’d actually seen every inch: mixed swimming carried that double edged quality. The pleasure of seeing girls covered by no more than a single layer of thin fabric; cold water firming and revealing their true shape. And the pain of revealing his lumpen body with the puppy fat that had followed him into adult life, the speedos Mother insisted he wore, shrinking his inadequate equipment in the chill.

But Jennifer had been worth the trials and shame. At least, until she’d caught him openly studying and admiring her. Then, she’d emphasised what the costume allowed, only to  scorch him with her eyes. Shown him exactly what she thought of every part of him, as she scanned him from head to toe, laughing at him once she’d humiliated him so thoroughly.

After that, he’d been less honest and open in his admiration. Mother had told him he’d never get a girlfriend if he was always sneaking glances at them. She’d been right, of course. And he’d been without female company, apart from Mother, for the rest of his life after Lucy. But he wouldn’t torture himself with that today.

The bus had left the town behind and they were travelling the semi-rural route towards the city. Few people would board the bus now. But it stopped near the pub in Woodmansey and a young couple boarded. They didn’t use the bus often. Didn’t have the right change and had no idea of the fare. But the young woman seemed more sensible than her man and sorted things out with the driver. George breathed in the scent of her as she came close and he watched the pair climb the stairs, the man behind, screening her.

The bell rang as the bus wove through traffic on Beverley Road in Hull and he heard heels clump on the stairs. The girl with legs came down, almost showing what she’d had for breakfast. Almost, but not quite. The moment was over too soon and he transferred his gaze to her top. But he avoided her face. Long ago he’d learned not to look at faces. Too often they looked back with expressions of disgust.

He watched her walk the pavement toward the shops and then the bus moved off. But they were in town now and the bus filled up until someone was forced to sit beside him. He glanced at the old woman, sniffing all the time, and smelling a little unpleasant. She never looked at him, though.

At the station, busy and noisy, he looked at the ranks of bus stops and saw the one for Hornsea had a bus waiting. If he hurried, he could catch it. A day at the seaside would be nice. He could have fish and chips; well, chips anyway. Maybe a battered sausage if funds would stretch. And he could stroll along the prom and watch the people. Maybe, if the weather continued to warm up, if the sun came out for good, the girls might be in their bikinis.

It was the friendly women driver, the pretty one who always smiled at him. Nice woman.

‘Mornin’ George. Off to the coast for the day?’

He placed his pass on the machine and nodded, his eyes on the ticket machine.

‘You have a good time, George.’ She gave him a wicked grin and winked, as he looked up.

And then he had to move on because of other passengers behind. One day, he must ask her name so he could say hello to her properly.

He sat upstairs. Not right at the front, though he liked the open view of countryside from there. But the space was too narrow for his feet to be comfortable. The seat opposite the top of the stairs was vacant and he sat against the aisle, hoping he’d be left alone for the whole journey. Once they set off, he shifted over to the window side.

Through the busy city centre he gazed out on crowded morning streets, noting summer dresses and tops, studying shop windows when the bus stopped. In the suburbs, he smiled at a small crocodile of children on a day out, recalling times he’d done the same. Children were his favourites. Especially little girls. He loved how they laughed and smiled but could suddenly look serious. He loved how they dressed; all girly and soft, with their fragile little legs sticking out from their skirts. But, most of all, he loved their innocence, their air of being untouched by life, the way they all seemed like a fresh piece of garden ready to be planted with the seeds of life. But there returned the sadness of Lucy and he had to look away.

The upper windows of the houses flew past, promising glimpses of other lives. Once, the bus had slowed just as the curtains were opened by a mother and he’d caught a glimpse of a teenage girl slipping out of bed. Another time, he’d gained the briefest glimpse of a woman entering her bedroom from the shower. The bus had taken him away before he’d really seen what he thought he had. So, he scoured the windows: you never knew what might turn up, after all.

On the way out of town, a young woman sunned herself in a garden. Her bikini emphasising her curves. And he realised the hoped-for sun had emerged into a clear blue sky. Then they were in the countryside and he watched the fields flash by. Here and there the corn was ripening and oil seed rape was ready for harvesting. The bright yellow of its flower no longer colouring the landscape, the way he liked it.

He enjoyed the woods and copses they passed, recalling days spent exploring as a lad. Once, he’d taken Lucy into a wood and played with her. But she’d been too young for him to really do anything with her. Lucy, with her little limbs all fresh and clean and her bright little dresses he’d helped her with.

Mother had been so happy about Lucy, such a pretty little girl. Such a contrast to George.

‘At least you’re only soft ugly, George. There’s none of the ‘ardness you get in some ugly folk. The fat ‘elps, of course; softens the edges. You’ll never get a girl, you know; not looking like you do. But you can look and that’ll have to do for you. Lucy, now, she’d ‘ave ‘ad all the men she wanted. So pretty…’

Then Mother would cry and he’d try to console her. But she’d never really recovered from the loss right up to the day she died herself.

No. He wouldn’t do it. This was a day out to the seaside, a day for a treat, a day for enjoyment in whatever form it came.

The bus drove into the station and he checked return times, deciding on the direct ride back to Beverley so he’d be home in time to watch Coronation Street. Never missed an episode of Corrie. Knew all the characters like friends. Good show, that was.

The streets down to the prom were full of trippers. Lads in shorts and no shirts, girls in skimpy skirts or brief shorts and some with bikini tops and no tee-shirts. He felt a bit warm in his jacket and tie.

He followed a group of teenagers all the way down to the beach, imagining himself that age again and enjoying the banter and the chance to touch a girl here and there in fun. They were so young and fresh and inviting. Mother had said he should have his fantasies with older women as he grew up; it was healthier that way.

‘’Cos I’ll tell you sommat for nowt, George: fantasy’s all you’ll ever get, lookin’ like that.’

And that was true enough; had always been the case. But he liked the slenderness, the budding womanhood of teenagers, their lack of experience. It made fantasies more exciting.

After an hour or so sitting on the sand, watching people all around him, he made his way up to the prom again and indulged in an all-day breakfast from a sea front café; ate it at an outside table so he could watch them pass by. The food was good. And the big mug of tea with three sugars went down a treat. He finished off with an ice cream cornet, a ninety nine, with two flakes, and sprinkles.

Another hour of watching and wishing, selecting those one he’d like to share his fantasy with. And then he needed a visit to the gents.

Out on the street, he looked at the shops and thought to treat himself to a new tie. If he could get one cheap. Outside the post office, he saw a little girl, blonde and cute and dressed in red. So like Lucy he nearly called her name. But he stopped himself in time and found a quiet corner where he could recover without people wondering what was wrong with him. Every day he thought of his poor little sister, dying in that hospital bed after the accident, and never having the chance to grow into the beauty she might’ve been.

Life wasn’t fair. Lucy, bright and beautiful, had died too early to enjoy her life. And he, George, ugly, fat and slow, had led a long life of…of, well nothing, really. More of an existence. He’d looked after Mother as she grew too old to take care of herself and then he’d been alone and would be until his own life came to an end.

He knew they called him Bus-pass George, the drivers. He didn’t mind that. It gave him some identity amongst the crowd. But he wished, how he wished, that he’d been born good-looking, that he’d once, even just once, known a woman who could love him.

It was time to go home. No point in sunshine and holiday crowds when he felt like this. Sometimes, when he felt this way, he thought there was no point at all. But Mother had said he shouldn’t feel sorry for himself. He should remember all those, like Lucy, who’d never had the opportunity.

The traffic brought him to his senses when he nearly crossed the road in front of a local bus. The driver glared as he drove past. Not one of those he knew by sight. But he suddenly realised how fragile he could be. A human body against something as solid as a bus had no chance.

He walked back towards the station at a leisurely pace. The next bus wouldn’t be for half an hour, so he had plenty of time. Ahead, just a few paces, was the little blonde girl who looked like his sister, her mother talking on her mobile, the way they all did these days. Across the road, a small group of children her age was being led by a harried young woman; on their way back from the beach to play school, he guessed. The blonde girl waved and one of them called back and she started to move forward, across the road.

Everything slowed down then. George saw the lorry. Knew exactly what would happen. There was no possibility of it being any other way. Once was bad enough. He couldn’t let it happen again. She cried out in alarm as he stepped out in front of her and pushed her back onto the pavement. After the initial crunch of metal against flesh and bone, he didn’t feel anything. As darkness slowly drowned him, he felt, at last, a sense of purpose and the wonderful release of peace. A young innocent life saved for a rosy future and his own pointless existence ended in a way that might make Bus Pass George a hero, for a day or so.

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