Home is black stone, black stone, blackened by smoke and soot and by the souls of those who wrought wealth from the valley. I needed to escape. Up, up, up past the roofs that sag under the oppressive sky. Up, up, up past the chimneys that bend into the wind like shoulders stooped by endless toil. Up, up, up past the walls that slump before the moors reclaiming their feet.
I was headed up the valley on the moorland road, leaving behind the village where I’d grown up. It was dark and becoming foggy, the light from the headlights of the car I was driving lighting up the fog, an impenetrable curtain draped ahead. The car, borrowed from a friend, coughed a couple of times and I began to worry. I had a ship to board, and I was to leave the car at the dock. Then it coughed, spluttered, and died. I got out and looked around. It was cold and damp, and I could see no farther than an arm’s length, but I thought I could just make out a light in the distance. I set out towards it. I'd only taken six steps when I walked right into a cigarette and the person smoking it.
He was cursing at me as I helped him up. I asked him what he was doing out there alone on the moor. He replied that he was waiting for a bus. I expressed doubt that this was a bus stop, and it didn’t seem likely that a bus would stop out there, miles from anywhere. He snorted and told me the moorland bus always picked up stragglers on the moor.
He'd no sooner said this than I heard the whine of an old, tired engine dragging itself up out of the valley. There was another sound, too, competing with the engine, I recognized it but couldn't understand it. It was the sound of trumpets playing a familiar tune, a local favourite, Pratty Flowers.
The music heralded the strange arrival of a bus. It seemed to simply materialize out of the fog. It did
indeed stop, just as the stranger had promised. We boarded together.
The was a conductor on board, but she waved us by, announcing there was no charge for stragglers on the moor.
She was a large, jovial woman who swayed comfortably up and down the aisle, joking with the riders. I saw now where the music I'd heard came from. On the rear seat of the bus was a young couple, resplendent in the uniform of the local silver band. As the bus began to move, they started to play again, the other passengers listening in obvious pleasure, one older man humming along with a pom, pom, pom. I found an empty seat, right beside a women with a huge parcel on her lap.
She began to slowly open the newspaper wrapping. The tantalizing aroma of hot fish and chips heavily seasoned with salt and malt vinegar began to seep out. I hope you're all hungry," she said, bluntly, in the manner of one accustomed to agreement. "I've just bought these in the village. My friends were supposed to be on this bus, but they must have missed it, now somebody has got to eat them."
I was starving. I'd missed supper, and with my mouth watering I didn't need asking twice. I tucked in gratefully. They were delicious. As I ate, I looked around at the other passengers. Just in front of me was a pair of small boys playing the old game of conkers — chestnuts on strings — each taking turns to swing at the other's horse chestnut in hope of smashing it, but neither had much luck. Across the aisle was a couple of middle age. He had a dour expression, and she looked tired. The seemed to share a sadness they couldn't talk about.
And yet there was much laughter on the bus. Three happy souls, enhanced by a few beers, were sharing jokes and they soon had the whole bus laughing along with them. Nearer the front was another small boy, playing alone with a red balloon. When the balloon bounced my way, I batted it back to him and soon we had a game going, back and forth, back and forth until he grew tired and fell asleep.
Meanwhile outside the windows of the bus it was pitch black, but from the sound of the engine I could tell the road was beginning to level out. We suddenly emerged from the fog onto the high moor where the driver stopped the bus and switched off the lights. It was beautiful, a full moon shining on the fog in the valley turned it into a sea of white surrounding the dark, brooding mass of the moor.
The view was enchanting; a barren land of harsh beauty, the land that had long ago inspired Charlotte and her sisters. The centre line of road, inlaid with cats-eyes — glass beads to aid drivers at night — reflected the moonlight like a string of pearls stretching across the moor to disappear into the fog.
The bus started up again and we soon began to descend into the valley on the other side, to be swallowed once more by the fog, now thicker than ever. The hill was steep, and the road switched back and forth, ever downwards, the engine in low gear, screaming in protest. I tensed up at the acrid smell of the overworked brakes, then relaxed again as I sensed the road levelling out.
"Woodhead junction coming up," yelled the driver. The bus groaned to a halt, but only the stranger got up to leave. Then, just as he stepped off, the balloon belonging to the small boy caught in a draught and disappeared through the open door. He awoke and tears started to run down the little guy’s face. I jumped from my seat and darted off the bus, to find myself chasing a blue balloon in the fog, an impossible task. It kept drifting into view, then would vanish, again and again, I was about to quit when I heard a voice from behind me. It was the stranger I’d first met. "Looking for this," he said.
He handed me the balloon. I asked him where the bus was. "Left," he replied, "left for ever. Once you get off, you can never get back on again." Then he vanished into the fog. I set out walking, holding the balloon. The fog was lifting a little now and I could see lights ahead. It was an inn. I entered. "Sorry sir, the bar has just closed," called out the proprietor.
"It’s okay," I replied. “I just need to know what time the next bus will be along. I have a ship waiting for me in Liverpool."
"Bus?" He said, "There is no bus comes by here."
But I just got off it, the moorland bus."
He looked at me in a sideways manner." There hasn't been a bus over the moor in twenty years, not since the last one crashed in flames on the descent." Although the pub was closing, he poured me a large brandy and offered me a sandwich. I took the drink gratefully, but I wasn't at all hungry.
Life is a journey, but sometimes when you leave the bus, you can never get back on, and there isn’t always another coming along. But you never forget the ride.
David M. Hobson May 15 1994
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