Seymour's work that had sparked their love in the
first place. He never told her of his cynicism, for her naiveté amused him, her
hard-earned money fed him, got him drunk, stoned, and housed. Her fabulous body
satisfied his sexual desires and her sharp mind kept him on his toes. It was
all perfect.
Seymour heard the
bus pull away from the stop outside and blew a sigh of relief. He was safe for
the rest of the day to wallow.
CHAPTER FIVE
Reality.
Polly despised the
bus and everybody in it. It was an ancient, ex-military single-decker belonging
to Hogarth's, badly repainted and sign-written to tell the world that the
people on this bus were doomed to a life of endless misery. She would often
catch its reflection in shop windows and see her bowed head, suitably distorted
and badly lit, slightly moving with every jolt and, written on the side of the
bus, 'Hogarth Heavy Engineering' as an apt subtitle.
The bus stank of
cheap after-shave, cheap perfume, rank armpits, cigarettes and burnt oil. It
reminded her of death, the sweet smell of rotting flesh she had smelt only once
when she had to visit a mortuary as part of the initiation for her two week
career as a student nurse back in 1970. That smell still burned her nostrils
whenever she thought about it.
Each day,
everybody sat in exactly the same seat on that damn bus, including Polly. Most
of the men sat in groups yelling at each other about the telly the night
before. ‘What about when he caught her? Yeah yeah and then that fucking other
bloke, his wife, gaw I wouldn't mind ... yeah, not 'alf.’
Male gang camaraderie at its best. It amused her whenever, for some reason or
other, the men were separated, like the days when a hard of hearing blind man
would use his free ride to Supasave. He would sit in one of the blokes' seats,
leaving one of the gang to sit away from his support group, sometimes next to
Polly. It had happened recently. Just the day before, one of the separated men
had drawn a comparison between Polly and an airhead with pert tits on page
three of The Sun, but when he sat next to her, close enough to her to arrange
to ‘run one through her’ as was his desire apparently – then, he was such
a good little boy.
The gang of girls
on the bus from the factory disgusted her more, constantly teasing and enticing
the men to delve deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit of human behaviour.
Scraping the fingernails that scraped the barrel of depravity.
Polly was the
only member of the office staff to ride in the bus. The rest either had cars,
found their own way, or were dropped off by their loyal husbands: any way of
avoiding this nightmare on wheels.
It was at times
like this she resented Seymour's ineptitude, a quality that at one time she had
found cute. Seymour had forgotten to learn to drive; she could, but they could
barely run themselves on her wages at the moment, let alone a car.
There was an
option to this bus, however. The number thirty two went to the bus station and
then, if all went well, she could catch the number three to a stop near
Supasave. But that involved leaving home fifteen minutes earlier and cost three
quid a day. That bus only stank of pensioner pee and beer vomit, which was, to
Polly, a bargain for three quid. The only down side was that if she screwed up
in any way, she'd miss the number three and would have to get the number nine
which made her twenty wonderful minutes late for work.
As infuriating
as it was to Mr. Arnold, the office manager, it was an option she took whenever
she could. But today it was not to be. It was Thursday, the day before pay-day.
She'd woken early after arguing with Seymour until the early hours, hadn't
showered and didn't have a penny to her name.
Polly, as usual,
did her best to block out the bus using the meditation she'd learnt long ago.
Those were the days when everything around her always smelt of incense. Those pre -what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life days. The pre- how-do-I-look
first place. He never told her of his cynicism, for her naiveté amused him, her
hard-earned money fed him, got him drunk, stoned, and housed. Her fabulous body
satisfied his sexual desires and her sharp mind kept him on his toes. It was
all perfect.
Seymour heard the
bus pull away from the stop outside and blew a sigh of relief. He was safe for
the rest of the day to wallow.
CHAPTER FIVE
Reality.
Polly despised the
bus and everybody in it. It was an ancient, ex-military single-decker belonging
to Hogarth's, badly repainted and sign-written to tell the world that the
people on this bus were doomed to a life of endless misery. She would often
catch its reflection in shop windows and see her bowed head, suitably distorted
and badly lit, slightly moving with every jolt and, written on the side of the
bus, 'Hogarth Heavy Engineering' as an apt subtitle.
The bus stank of
cheap after-shave, cheap perfume, rank armpits, cigarettes and burnt oil. It
reminded her of death, the sweet smell of rotting flesh she had smelt only once
when she had to visit a mortuary as part of the initiation for her two week
career as a student nurse back in 1970. That smell still burned her nostrils
whenever she thought about it.
Each day,
everybody sat in exactly the same seat on that damn bus, including Polly. Most
of the men sat in groups yelling at each other about the telly the night
before. ‘What about when he caught her? Yeah yeah and then that fucking other
bloke, his wife, gaw I wouldn't mind ... yeah, not 'alf.’
Male gang camaraderie at its best. It amused her whenever, for some reason or
other, the men were separated, like the days when a hard of hearing blind man
would use his free ride to Supasave. He would sit in one of the blokes' seats,
leaving one of the gang to sit away from his support group, sometimes next to
Polly. It had happened recently. Just the day before, one of the separated men
had drawn a comparison between Polly and an airhead with pert tits on page
three of The Sun, but when he sat next to her, close enough to her to arrange
to ‘run one through her’ as was his desire apparently – then, he was such
a good little boy.
The gang of girls
on the bus from the factory disgusted her more, constantly teasing and enticing
the men to delve deeper and deeper into the bottomless pit of human behaviour.
Scraping the fingernails that scraped the barrel of depravity.
Polly was the
only member of the office staff to ride in the bus. The rest either had cars,
found their own way, or were dropped off by their loyal husbands: any way of
avoiding this nightmare on wheels.
It was at times
like this she resented Seymour's ineptitude, a quality that at one time she had
found cute. Seymour had forgotten to learn to drive; she could, but they could
barely run themselves on her wages at the moment, let alone a car.
There was an
option to this bus, however. The number thirty two went to the bus station and
then, if all went well, she could catch the number three to a stop near
Supasave. But that involved leaving home fifteen minutes earlier and cost three
quid a day. That bus only stank of pensioner pee and beer vomit, which was, to
Polly, a bargain for three quid. The only down side was that if she screwed up
in any way, she'd miss the number three and would have to get the number nine
which made her twenty wonderful minutes late for work.
As infuriating
as it was to Mr. Arnold, the office manager, it was an option she took whenever
she could. But today it was not to be. It was Thursday, the day before pay-day.
She'd woken early after arguing with Seymour until the early hours, hadn't
showered and didn't have a penny to her name.
Polly, as usual,
did her best to block out the bus using the meditation she'd learnt long ago.
Those were the days when everything around her always smelt of incense. Those pre -what-am-I-going-to-do-with-my-life days. The pre- how-do-I-look
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