Waiting at the Erstwhile Bus Stop
Mar. 29th, 2012 01:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
alicia_hThis is in response to a challenge at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
writerverse to write a story inspired by three randomly generated words or phrases. Mine were "Bus Stop", "Traditional Values" and "Shout".
---
I would have paid no attention to the woman had she not been sitting at the bus stop. Going by her appearance, she was one that perfectly boring housewife set that I dread socialising with for fear that I will become one when I finally consent to marry Simon. His grandmother's wedding dress came out of hiding the other day and I dearly wish it would crawl back there. It currently lurks of the cracked and crooked hook on the back of my door. It is waiting to be taken out to be professionally cleaned and tailored to fit me. I wish the door hook would snap in two and tear the ghastly white shroud to unrecognisable shreds.
I should move myself to the desk. Then I could write what I originally intended to write. If I could force myself to stop staring at it then I will surely be able to recall the shrewish face of the woman at the bus stop.
There are no buses now, of course. Not with fuel being so scarce. Rather, not with it being a plentiful but precious privilege rationed to those who don't deserve it. The Kommandant and Hauptmann Haber each have their own cars and personal drivers - island men who know the roads better than they know themselves - yet I have seen Haber racing about on his motorcycle more often than I've seen him stepping out of an austere black vehicle that once belonged to whichever important official was least inclined to cooperate with the new regulations.
Hauptmann Haber must ride his motorcycle as much for pleasure as he does for transport. It's likely he's a man who can't relax when he is at rest. This must be why he is so content to travel the length and breadth of the island each day to carry what seems to be a never ending list of duties and orders to liaise with whoever is making the most trouble at any given time. Best of luck to him, I say. He is only doing his job.
He certainly wasn't doing his job the day he dragged me out of the sea. Not many would be so lucky in a failed escape attempt. I fear I may have been regretfully overcompensated in my dramatic rescue. To be carried shore by a half naked and dripping wet officer from any army is not a stroke of luck to be sniffed at. Even under our specific circumstances, I do not regret reliving the memory with a shiver of awe and a distinct sense high adventure coursing through my veins. I wonder if my own diluted German blood makes my quasi-hatred of Hauptmann Haber and his fellows less automatic and absolute than the islanders' attitudes. It may simply be that I trust him because, after all this time, the Icarus fall of the my plane remains a mystery to the Kommandant and the flyers who shot me down.
On this day at the bus stop - I really ought to stop myself calling it a bus stop considering it has ceased to be one, as much as the sign marking it would like to argue against that point.
On this day at the erstwhile bus stop, which I should simply call a bench because it is now only a bench without a past or future as anything else-
On this day I approached this rather fetching bench donated by Simon to the town and all the people complaining about having to stand up during the long intervals between buses. For the first time in however many years I have known of the existence of this bench, I was given to wonder how Simon could have afforded to generously fund a bench when he still went to the effort of rowing back and forth to the lighthouse every single day because he would not rent a room, or God forbid, buy a house in the town. It would put him nearer to the hospital and would avoid me getting sea sick day in, day out. Even explaining that I could buy us a cottage with an excellent view of the lighthouse left him unmoved.
The brass plaque on the bench credited only Dr S. de la Mare. I was forgotten. I may have been remembered if I had ever been informed of it. I should accept that the saintly doctor and selfish Simon can be two quite different people. It is no wonder I took so long to choose to settle here with him.
Being angry with Simon did not alleviate the strangeness of sitting down on something that is mine in all but name. Since my plane was lost to the waves, I suppose this bench is the only thing of mine that remains on the island. Even my ugly wedding dress is inherited and my engagement ring was found during a rummage through decades old lost property at the train station where we first met. I always imagined it belonged to a woman from the Great War who never became a bride. Now I can picture clearly a woman wrenching it from her finger and throwing it onto the tracks during a tiff as a test to see how much her fiance really loved her. Or how much of a reckless idiot she was marrying herself to.
With all these kinds of thoughts running through my head, I know I must have been playing with my acquired ring.
I cannot have been paying the slightest bit of attention to my bus stop companion as I remember being extraordinarily surprised when she spoke to me.
"There'll be no buses, if you were hoping for any."
I told her stiffly that I knew that full well and all I wanted to do was rest my legs.
"I've seen you resting your legs all day in the library. Wasting the sunshine."
I told her that I'd had sufficient sunshine that morning, though I had, to be fair, been resting my legs on the wall of the fountain at the centre of the square. I pointed out that my legs were just as red as my face.
I was honestly glad to hear her chuckle a little at that and her next comment about my legs and face also matching my hair was not as hurtful as it might have been if not bookended by lighthearted laughter. I began to suppose that she was not as boring as she at first seemed.
I wasn't to find out if that was the case, however, because Hauptmann Haber chose that moment to roar into the square on his motorcycle. There had been a few moments as our laughter had died away in which I felt the ice between us defrosting. Hauptmann Haber somehow managed to melt it all away instantly. We watched with the same intense fascination his rapid movements as he circled the square several times. He smiled at us both as he dismounted and leaned his motorcycle carefully against the wall of the library.
"Ah! Fräulein Gardner!" He sounded delighted, in so much as it is possible for a German to sound delighted to English ears. "And Frau Chevalier also! I hope you will not mind my joining the two of you."
"Oh, no, Bernhardt, of course we don't mind you imposing," Mrs Chevalier assured. Her voice had a definite warm tone to it but there was still something calculating about her. "Though it's getting quite close to curfew, so I was just considering heading home. I would hate to get caught out and get into trouble."
She was very slowly standing up from the bench whilst keeping her eyes fixed on Haber. The way she was so unsubtly emphasising her words sorely tempted me to go back to mistrusting her.
Haber for his part remained seated. "I think that would be a good idea. I personally try not to be harsh with those who miss the curfew by a margin but I know that some of the men are not so lenient."
"I hoped you could escort me and explain to them that it is not entirely my fault I'm not home on time."
"I'm afraid I cannot help you this time. I wish to discuss an important matter with Fräulein Gardner."
I wondered if I had imagined her previous warmth because I saw no evidence as the desperation to have the second most important man on the island defending her honour faded and her expression hardened.
There was no more shrillness in her voice when she next spoke and that made the insult infinitely worse as her shout echoed all around the small town square.
"Fine. It's fine. I'll just leave you alone with your little Jerry Bag, shall I?"
writerverse to write a story inspired by three randomly generated words or phrases. Mine were "Bus Stop", "Traditional Values" and "Shout".---
I would have paid no attention to the woman had she not been sitting at the bus stop. Going by her appearance, she was one that perfectly boring housewife set that I dread socialising with for fear that I will become one when I finally consent to marry Simon. His grandmother's wedding dress came out of hiding the other day and I dearly wish it would crawl back there. It currently lurks of the cracked and crooked hook on the back of my door. It is waiting to be taken out to be professionally cleaned and tailored to fit me. I wish the door hook would snap in two and tear the ghastly white shroud to unrecognisable shreds.
I should move myself to the desk. Then I could write what I originally intended to write. If I could force myself to stop staring at it then I will surely be able to recall the shrewish face of the woman at the bus stop.
There are no buses now, of course. Not with fuel being so scarce. Rather, not with it being a plentiful but precious privilege rationed to those who don't deserve it. The Kommandant and Hauptmann Haber each have their own cars and personal drivers - island men who know the roads better than they know themselves - yet I have seen Haber racing about on his motorcycle more often than I've seen him stepping out of an austere black vehicle that once belonged to whichever important official was least inclined to cooperate with the new regulations.
Hauptmann Haber must ride his motorcycle as much for pleasure as he does for transport. It's likely he's a man who can't relax when he is at rest. This must be why he is so content to travel the length and breadth of the island each day to carry what seems to be a never ending list of duties and orders to liaise with whoever is making the most trouble at any given time. Best of luck to him, I say. He is only doing his job.
He certainly wasn't doing his job the day he dragged me out of the sea. Not many would be so lucky in a failed escape attempt. I fear I may have been regretfully overcompensated in my dramatic rescue. To be carried shore by a half naked and dripping wet officer from any army is not a stroke of luck to be sniffed at. Even under our specific circumstances, I do not regret reliving the memory with a shiver of awe and a distinct sense high adventure coursing through my veins. I wonder if my own diluted German blood makes my quasi-hatred of Hauptmann Haber and his fellows less automatic and absolute than the islanders' attitudes. It may simply be that I trust him because, after all this time, the Icarus fall of the my plane remains a mystery to the Kommandant and the flyers who shot me down.
On this day at the bus stop - I really ought to stop myself calling it a bus stop considering it has ceased to be one, as much as the sign marking it would like to argue against that point.
On this day at the erstwhile bus stop, which I should simply call a bench because it is now only a bench without a past or future as anything else-
On this day I approached this rather fetching bench donated by Simon to the town and all the people complaining about having to stand up during the long intervals between buses. For the first time in however many years I have known of the existence of this bench, I was given to wonder how Simon could have afforded to generously fund a bench when he still went to the effort of rowing back and forth to the lighthouse every single day because he would not rent a room, or God forbid, buy a house in the town. It would put him nearer to the hospital and would avoid me getting sea sick day in, day out. Even explaining that I could buy us a cottage with an excellent view of the lighthouse left him unmoved.
The brass plaque on the bench credited only Dr S. de la Mare. I was forgotten. I may have been remembered if I had ever been informed of it. I should accept that the saintly doctor and selfish Simon can be two quite different people. It is no wonder I took so long to choose to settle here with him.
Being angry with Simon did not alleviate the strangeness of sitting down on something that is mine in all but name. Since my plane was lost to the waves, I suppose this bench is the only thing of mine that remains on the island. Even my ugly wedding dress is inherited and my engagement ring was found during a rummage through decades old lost property at the train station where we first met. I always imagined it belonged to a woman from the Great War who never became a bride. Now I can picture clearly a woman wrenching it from her finger and throwing it onto the tracks during a tiff as a test to see how much her fiance really loved her. Or how much of a reckless idiot she was marrying herself to.
With all these kinds of thoughts running through my head, I know I must have been playing with my acquired ring.
I cannot have been paying the slightest bit of attention to my bus stop companion as I remember being extraordinarily surprised when she spoke to me.
"There'll be no buses, if you were hoping for any."
I told her stiffly that I knew that full well and all I wanted to do was rest my legs.
"I've seen you resting your legs all day in the library. Wasting the sunshine."
I told her that I'd had sufficient sunshine that morning, though I had, to be fair, been resting my legs on the wall of the fountain at the centre of the square. I pointed out that my legs were just as red as my face.
I was honestly glad to hear her chuckle a little at that and her next comment about my legs and face also matching my hair was not as hurtful as it might have been if not bookended by lighthearted laughter. I began to suppose that she was not as boring as she at first seemed.
I wasn't to find out if that was the case, however, because Hauptmann Haber chose that moment to roar into the square on his motorcycle. There had been a few moments as our laughter had died away in which I felt the ice between us defrosting. Hauptmann Haber somehow managed to melt it all away instantly. We watched with the same intense fascination his rapid movements as he circled the square several times. He smiled at us both as he dismounted and leaned his motorcycle carefully against the wall of the library.
"Ah! Fräulein Gardner!" He sounded delighted, in so much as it is possible for a German to sound delighted to English ears. "And Frau Chevalier also! I hope you will not mind my joining the two of you."
"Oh, no, Bernhardt, of course we don't mind you imposing," Mrs Chevalier assured. Her voice had a definite warm tone to it but there was still something calculating about her. "Though it's getting quite close to curfew, so I was just considering heading home. I would hate to get caught out and get into trouble."
She was very slowly standing up from the bench whilst keeping her eyes fixed on Haber. The way she was so unsubtly emphasising her words sorely tempted me to go back to mistrusting her.
Haber for his part remained seated. "I think that would be a good idea. I personally try not to be harsh with those who miss the curfew by a margin but I know that some of the men are not so lenient."
"I hoped you could escort me and explain to them that it is not entirely my fault I'm not home on time."
"I'm afraid I cannot help you this time. I wish to discuss an important matter with Fräulein Gardner."
I wondered if I had imagined her previous warmth because I saw no evidence as the desperation to have the second most important man on the island defending her honour faded and her expression hardened.
There was no more shrillness in her voice when she next spoke and that made the insult infinitely worse as her shout echoed all around the small town square.
"Fine. It's fine. I'll just leave you alone with your little Jerry Bag, shall I?"
no subject
Date: 2012-03-29 09:30 am (UTC)i was completely caught up and could have read a lot more - this sort of scene setting really whets my appetite for the main course!
excelsior! and what-not, my friend :))
no subject
Date: 2012-03-29 02:29 pm (UTC)I love my writing but how will I ever have a normal job if I need to stay up till half past four in the morning to produce something like this?
I'm thrilled you love it anyway and I love how my characters turn out when I'm in the writing zone - which frequently borders on the twilight zone if I send myself crackers enough while trying to meet a deadline! :-)
no subject
Date: 2012-03-29 06:25 pm (UTC)'Action Editing' - i may steal that label, LOL!
:)))