Simply Stories - Trouble for Tea

Trouble for Tea

by

Jackie Anderson

                                                        

I only have to take one look at his face as he goes to step onto the bus and I know there will be trouble.  The deep frown on that smooth brow is a giveaway.  Then there’s that pout, pink and petulant, as he’s guided into the seats in the space where prams are normally parked.  The trouble will get far worse if someone with a buggy comes in.  Just like the old days, when my boy was young.

The boy flings his bag on the floor at his father’s feet.  I can see the similarity, except the father’s face is dark with stubble like all young men seem to have these days.  Lazy fashion, if you ask me, can’t get up in time to smarten up before leaving the house.  Then again, with a kid like that, it can’t be easy, I should know, and the poor man has those sunken, red-rimmed eyes that tell of sleepless nights and exhaustion.

The bus lurches away from the kerb and I keep my eyes firmly on the view outside the window.  It’s what I do every day at tea time.  I get on the bus and ride to the lighthouse and back, a pretty route, each turn of the narrow road opening up to the magnificent blue of sea and sky. There I get a cup of tea and return on the next bus.  It distracts me from the emptiness of the house now the kids have left home. 

“Come on Harry, pick it up please.”

I’m going to find this all very hard to ignore. 

“No.”

“You can’t leave it there, someone will trip over it.”

“I don’t want to!” the boy shrieks.  I glance at some of the other passengers.  They’re all disturbed, trying not to look.  I remember all this very well.

The man rubs his chin.  Beads of sweat are glistening on his brow. Maybe I should say something, but it’s been a long time since anyone wanted my help.  The man picks the bag up and settles in a seat with Harry.  I look away, not wanting to intrude in his difficult moment.

The boy is screeching, ignoring his father’s attempts to calm him down.  The other passengers shift in their seats and I can hear their disapproval rumbling along with the engine.

“Stop that, Harry, you know you like to go to Club,” the man says.  His voice is calm.  I watch him.  His face is flushed, eyes bright with an embarrassment he refuses to admit.  I know his chest feels tight, his throat is constricting because really he wants to weep, to shed a lifetime of tears for the son he loves more than he can say but whom he can’t seem to help.  But he won’t let himself weep because he knows he has to be strong, he has to be that special someone who can love that child, despite his tears and snot and his taking swipes with clawed fingers at his own father’s face.

“I hate it!” He punches and kicks, his screams turning into grunts, like a wild animal fighting the cage.

I’m squirming inside.  It’s all too familiar.  The red-faced father, the screeching kid spitting and scratching, the others, the rest of the world frowning and making you feel small, inadequate, breathless, as if drowning in disapproval.  A woman at the back is making loud tutting noises.  I hope she chokes on her own spittle.  I’m angry now.  “No upbringing,” says another.

That’s it.  I’ve spent far too long moping, missing my family, keeping myself to myself. I know what to do, and if the man minds, well, I can always get off at the next bus stop and walk the rest of the way. 

“Come on Harry, you’ll enjoy it once you’re there.”  He is incredible, this man with pain and sadness in his eyes, the calm voice and the big hands fending off the blows.  I rummage around in my handbag.  I always carry the puppet around with me.  It reminds me of my own little bit of trouble.  He lives away now, a grown man with a job of sorts and enjoying life.

“Hello, Harry,” my voice scratches at my throat.  The man’s blue eyes widen but he nods at me in approval.  My hand in the puppet, I give a little bark.  Harry glances round and his arms stop in mid-air.

“I’m Dotty the Dog,” I hurry on.  Harry looks suspicious but listens.

“You have a huge voice for a little boy,” Dotty says.

Harry grins and wipes snot and tears onto his sleeve. 

“And I’ve a really loud bark for a little dog,” I’m warming into my old routine.

“Shall we play a game?” Dotty suggests.  Harry nods and before long we’re playing word games and he is sitting on his father’s knee.  “We’re nearly at our stop,” says Dad.  Harry’s smile vanishes.

“It looks like it’s my stop too,” I say and Dotty glares at me.  Harry giggles.

“I’m Joss,” says the man, “and thank you, Dotty is wonderful, inspired.”

“My son, well, he’s grown up now, but Harry reminds me of him.  Dotty used to help him settle too.”

“Is Dotty coming to Club, Dad?” says Harry, once we’re on the pavement.

“Perhaps you can join us for a cup of tea” suggests Joss.

“Oh, you don’t want an old dear in the way…” I begin.

“Can we get Dotty some cake?” interrupts Harry. I giggle.  That’s the thing with kids.  They’re so natural.

“Dotty prefers biscuits, but I will happily have tea and cake with you, so long as it’s no trouble.”

“No, I’m the one that’s trouble,” laughs Harry and he takes my hand.

“He’s a bit over the top sometimes,” breathes Joss, a fluster of bag and coats.

“Well there’s nothing better than a bit of trouble for tea,” I say.  The boy in my right hand and Dotty in my left.  Like the old days.