Chapter Two
The moment her eyes fluttered open, she knew something was wrong. The bus was empty and flying along a dual carriageway through fields and forests that didn’t look at all like London.
She poked the crustiness out of her eyes and ran both hands through her hair. A pain shot down her neck and spine as she pushed herself up in the seat. She tried to catch her reflection in the window, but the sun was shining fully now and all she could see was a layer of translucent grime. She staggered to the front of the bus and down the steps.
‘Gad Almighty!’ cried the driver as she tapped on his plastic booth window. The bus lurched a little to the left, then righted itself. He looked at her and shook his head. ‘What da hell is you doin’ in here?’
She shrugged apologetically. ‘I fell asleep. Sorry–I…’
‘You been on dis bus all mornin’?’ he demanded, slowing down for a roundabout.
‘Mmm,’ she replied, flying sideways as they swung round. She wondered where they were. Not London, she was fairly sure.
‘You comin’ to the depot then?’ he asked aggressively. ‘How was you up dere widdout me seeing, eh?’
She mumbled something about being tired and glanced through the window for a clue. There was a road sign a little way off, but too distant to read.
‘Where was you wantin’ to go to?’ growled the driver. He seemed quite cross.
‘Um…’ The road sign was almost upon them; she could nearly make out the place names. ‘Well, west…’ She strained her eyes. ‘Bagley,’ she said.
‘Bagley?’ he repeated angrily. ‘Where da hell’s dat?’
She glanced up as the sign flashed past. ‘Radley,’ she said. ‘I said Radley.’
He screwed up his face and looked at her, perplexed. ‘Radley’s where we’s at now! You was tryin’ to get to Radley by gettin’ on the N ninety-seven? Jeez.’ He shook his head again. ‘I don’t know what you’s playin’ at, but you better get off my bus ‘fore I get done for runnin’ a taxi service. I’ll drop you up here.’
The bus slowed down and pulled off the main road, then, to her surprise, turned a corner and weaved through a series of narrow lanes that were clearly not designed for motorised vehicles, let alone double-decker buses.
‘Station’s up there,’ he barked, pressing a button that made the doors hiss open and watching her stumble out into the daylight. He was still shaking his head as the bus thundered off down the small country lane.
It wasn’t clear whether Trev’s Teashop, the greasy spoon that occupied part of the quaint station building, was open; it looked dark inside, although she thought she saw movement in the window as she approached.
She was about to enter and ask about her chances of a cup of tea when the door swung open and a ruddy-faced bald man in an apron waddled out.
‘Morning!’ he squawked, sounding as though his voice box was blocked–a bit like his arteries, perhaps.
She smiled and watched as he set to work winding out a frilly brown awning above them, humming tunelessly to himself.
‘Hi,’ she ventured, watching as he straightened out one of the tassels on the awning and stopped to admire his work.
‘Yes, yes.’ The man–whom she presumed to be Trevor himself–brushed his hands against one another and bustled back inside. She followed him in. ‘I haven’t forgotten about you. You’re a tad early, though, aren’t you? Not that that’s necessarily a bad trait. I mean, early is better than late, of course. But on time is preferable.’
She frowned and loitered by the counter, wondering how a café stayed in business when its owner was so rude to the customers.
‘Are you…are you open, then?’
‘Nearly there, nearly there,’ he muttered, switching the lights on and squeezing behind the counter to flick more switches. She waited patiently, hoping that the preparations would soon be in place for her cup of tea. ‘Watch and learn, watch and learn.’
She continued to wait, perplexed as to why she should watch or learn, and irritated by the man’s habit of saying everything twice.
When it was clear that the water was boiling, the mugs were in order–twice rearranged by the red-faced man–and there was milk in the fridge, her frustration began to get the better of her.
‘Can I have a cup of tea?’
The man stared at her as though she’d just demanded he hand over the contents of the till. ‘What a presumptuous young lady!’
She stared back at him, mirroring his expression. She was the customer, for God’s sake. She’d been here nearly ten minutes. All she wanted was a cup of bloody tea.
‘I think perhaps we’ll have to run through the ground rules again. Remember, I’m paying you to serve the customers here, not to sit around drinking cups of tea,’ he said testily.
‘I—’ she started to protest and then stopped herself. The pompous man seemed to be assuming she was here to serve customers. He thought she was a waitress or something. Which might mean…which might mean he’d pay her. And if he paid her, she might be able to use the money on somewhere to live, which would mean that she could get a proper job, lead a normal life, do all the things that normal people did when they had a background and qualifications and experience and a past they could remember. In a moment of clarity, the plan formed in her mind.
‘Of course, no, sorry.’ She smiled apologetically, still thinking through the details. ‘I didn’t mean to sound rude. I was just asking whether, in general, I can have a cup of tea. You know, like, in a quiet moment when there’s not many customers, when I’ve been on my feet for hours…whether I can have a cup of tea in that instance.’
The man looked at her, touching his shiny head and clearly trying to work something out. ‘Hmm.’
He continued staring at her, his forehead deeply creased. He knew, she thought. He knew she wasn’t the girl he’d hired.
‘Well, in that instance…well, yes, I suppose that would be OK.’ He nodded, dipping his head in and out of his multiple chins. ‘Where did you say you were from, er…sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
She opened her mouth, hoping something would tumble out automatically. Nothing did. Her fingernails dug into the leather wallet in her pocket as she struggled desperately for an answer.
‘Er, what, my name?’
He looked at her strangely. ‘Of course your name.’
Then it came to her: not her name, but the closest thing to it.
‘Jo,’ she said. ‘Jo Simmons.’
‘Oh. Right.’ He frowned again. ‘And you’re from…?’
Oh God, thought Jo. Too many questions.
