Hijack 'At Home' by Betty Chatterjee (the reading list book txt) 📕

Susanne’s mother never, ever seemed to find the time to turn up at her school parent-teacher meetings. Only once did she do so and that was a day to remember!

‘It was an 'At Home', as they so grandly called it, at the end of the 1st year sixth. By that time, in her eyes, I was 'trailing clouds of glory'; if only as far as my school work was concerned.

I remember it all so clearly. It was a blazing hot day in June and the air was rich with the scent of roses and freshly mown lawns. Coming home from school at the usual time I snatched a quick meal and then casting off my uniform I squeezed into my best summer frock and high-heeled shoes. Mum delving into the wardrobe fished out her Sunday best and she even remembered a touch of lipstick.

Off we went to the bus stop. My mum, who was nearly as broad as she was tall, waddled beside me, whilst I tottered along in spindly, pointed high-heeled shoes. By the time we got there we were limp, sweaty and irritable. There with no shade to be found and no bench to rest our weary limbs. We stood there waiting and waiting and waiting. The bus we had hoped to catch did not turn up. We realised that we would be late for the ‘At home’.

'Better late than never!': said my mother.

'Wish we could take a taxi!'

'Better wish for a rocket to the moon!'

Bus-only people have no choice but to wait for the next one.

At long last a bus arrived and we both noted the destination: Chichester.

We staggered onto the half-empty bus and selecting the two front seats we sat back preparing to enjoy a prime view of the shimmering, sultry countryside.

Off we went! The bus ambled along the narrow, dusty road stopping once in a while to discharge passengers, and by the time we reached the open countryside, we were the only people left on board. In the 1950’s buses were not hermetically sealed cocoons and the balmy summer breeze soothed our overheated bodies and rustled our hair as it trundled along.

Then all of a sudden the bus came to a stop, not because there were passengers waiting to get off or on. Oh no, it stopped and stayed put. The driver switched off the engine, stood up, picked up his bag, then turned and said:

'This is as far as we go.'

'What!?': says my mum.

'This is as far as we go.' he repeated impatiently.

'It says Chichester on the front of your bus.'

'No, it doesn’t!'

'It most certainly does.' Retorted my mother icily.

The driver bore down on us with his arms akimbo.

'We're stopping here and that's that, so get off my bus - scarper!' He snarled.

'You're damned right we're stopping here', announced my mum. We're stopping here until you drive us to Chichester.'

My mother turned towards me and catching a certain look in her eyes I decided to enter the foray.

'Please, have a look yourself, it does say Chichester and you did sell us the tickets.' I said somewhat timidly.

If looks could kill, I'd hardly be drinking your tea now. However, he followed my advice and had to admit we were right. But rules are rules and it was his knocking- off time, so we could bloody well get off his perishing bus and wait for the next one. By this time his face was scarlet and shiny with sweat and he seemed to be trembling with less than righteous indignation.

Once again my mother glanced in my direction and it seemed to me that she gave me a discreet, conspiratorial and sly wink, then:

'No, you can knock off, when you've driven us to Chichester. It's only another five miles.'

I held my breath. My mother stared piercingly at him. His jaw dropped and he eyed us up and down and we stared back in total and utter silence. Then he shrugged his shoulders. What could he do? He a solitary, puny man would never have been able to throw a buxom wench like me and my enormous mother off his bus. So, he turned on his heel, walked back to his seat and started the engine.

At that moment I felt so proud of my mother!

We got to the At Home half an hour late. The hall was crowded with groups of parents, pupils and teachers coolly and calmly intent on their civilised conversations. As we walked in I felt as though everybody turned round to stare at us reproachfully. My mother still elated by her victory did not seem to notice or care. My feet ached and I was sweating like a pig. We stood there on the fringe until Miss Evans my class-teacher came up and shook hands with my mother, who promptly and loudly started telling her all about our escapade and a lot more too. Was it just my overheated sensitivity, or did Miss Evans sneer ever so discretely, just seconds before she slipped away to socialise with somebody else? '

I often wonder whether Miss Evans ever had a ball telling her colleagues about the female hoodlums who had hijacked a bus just to get to a frigging ‘At Home’.

I silently handed Suzanne a tissue and refilled her tea-cup.

Publication Date: 01-29-2010

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