In a PicklePaul Chown Mary and Peter had just left the supermarket when they saw it. They both held bulging carrier bags, the weight of which threatened to pull their arms out. It was Saturday afternoon. The high street was teeming with shoppers criss-crossing each other like flocks of birds. The bus stop was two hundred yards away on the opposite side of the road. "We’ll never get that," said Mary. "Let’s call a minicab." "They charge ten quid just to go a few miles down the road," said Peter. "At least we’d get a seat. Anyway, that bus’ll go soon." "It’ll be quarter of an hour yet. That’s where the drivers have their tea breaks." "But we don’t know how long it’s been there." Too late: Peter had begun pushing through the crowd. Mary heaved up her cargo and shuffled after him, knowing it was pointless to argue. They battled past mothers pushing buggies, skateboarding youngsters and tin-rattling charity collectors. The 137 remained motionless, tantalising them as they gained ground. Two old ladies, steering an uncharted course, blocked Peter’s way. "Let’s cross over," said Peter. "We’ll never get past them." "I wish we’d just get a minicab," said Mary; but Peter was already negotiating the traffic. Mary caught up with him on the other side. She was baking inside her overcoat. Her heart was protesting at the extra work. They were both out of condition, but she felt that even Olympic athletes would have a hard time catching the local bus. She put her bags down and caught her breath. It was fifty yards away now. Mary could see the driver through the grimy windscreen, a short, squat man eating a chocolate bar. She stooped down again to collect her shopping. "Oh!" she groaned. "This bag’s splitting." "Chuck it away," said Peter. "We’ve paid for it." "There’s not much in there." "It’s got my digestive biscuits..." "They’re fattening." "... and your Branston pickle." "My Branston pickle?" Peter paused. "Alright, give us it here." Peter took the bag from Mary and cradled it in his arm like a baby. I notice we don’t chuck the bag away when there’s something in it you like, Mary thought ruefully. A whisper of compressed air brought her round. The bus door had opened. They snatched up their supplies and ran, dodging passers-by. Peter held out his arm as if commanding the driver to stay put. Two yards away, one yard ... The driver must have seen them. The last of the queue had boarded. The door swung shut again. "Rotten swine!" said Mary. "He’s going without us." "No he isn’t," said Peter. Then, calmly, he stepped onto the road and walked towards the bus. "Peter, no!" Mary called out; but Peter carried on walking. The wheels of the bus swivelled sideways and the vehicle pulled out. Peter placed all his carrier bags down on the tarmac and straightened up again, daring the driver to run him over. A synthesised clarion rang as the driver pressed the horn. Mary felt the blood in her veins thicken and turn to ice. Then, the bus jerked to a halt, its brakes groaning subliminally. The driver stuck his head out of the side window. His face was pink, creased with indignation. "What’s your game?" the driver demanded. "You saw us running!" Peter yelled back. "I’ve got a timetable to stick to." "Well I ain’t moving ‘til you let us on." Mary was aware, now, of the whole street watching them, including the traffic snaking behind the bus. Yet at the same time she felt strangely proud of her husband’s machismo. After she had let out a couple of short, frozen breaths the door banged open again. Peter turned to Mary and nodded, indicating that she should get on first. Mary needed no further prompting. She was only too eager to disappear. She hurried across and struggled up the short step. The other passengers were staring out of the windows or at their feet, pretending not to have been absorbed by the drama. Mary heard the whispered comment ‘Nutcase’ from somewhere. "You wanna get him locked up, love," said the driver. "Two fifties, please!" Mary said with as much venom as she could muster. Peter clambered up behind her with a rustling and clanking of provisions. He and the driver eyed each other fiercely, until the driver turned his attention to the road ahead. Mary sat by the window. Relief coursed through her. She shook as she thought of Peter standing defiantly in the machine’s path. True, it hadn’t actually started moving, and wasn’t very big in any case - a single-deck ‘hopper’ with Lilliputian seats - but it had still dwarfed her podgy husband. The floor vibrated as the engine came to life again. Mary took the split bag from Peter’s lap and began transferring its contents to another. The small tear had become a gaping rip now. "Your pickle’s gone," said Mary. "It must have fallen out." The bus moved forward and then, just as suddenly, braked again. Everybody was thrown forward in their seats. "Now what?" asked Peter. The driver stood up and pushed open his guard. He twisted the emergency lock above the door, opening it, and stepped off the bus. Everyone craned their necks to watch the driver. He walked to the front and looked down. Car horns from the despairing motorists behind them shattered the silence. The driver walked back and called through the door: "Everyone off, please. I’m afraid we’ve got a flat tyre." A collective groan snowballed down from the back seats, accumulating volume and indignation along the way. Passengers collected their things and filed out apathetically. "What happened?" an old man asked the driver. "Some idiot left a jar of pickle in the road," he replied, looking straight towards Mary and Peter. Mary felt a hundred eyes burn into her. Peter had gone the colour of milk. "Come on," said Peter. "We’ll get a minicab."
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© 1999 Westminster Writers' Group. Last updated 02/07/99.