I admit
it. My least favourite saying in England
is ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’. I dislike the
bumper stickers and embossed cups, the t-shirts and tweets which glorify the passive
maxim. I know that marks me apart as non-English
in character (though actually I was born in London) but every time I hear that
phrase I think “OMG it’s not the Blitz, can’t you think of something more
dynamic to inspire your life?” I was
brought up in the new world – aka Australia, the former colony with post-penal
(is that a word?) rebelliousness - so I’m more of a “shake it up”... “only dead
fish swim with the stream” kind of girl. I would suffocate without outbursts of
passion.
Ok, keep calm
- now that’s off my chest I’m getting to the good bit.
Yesterday I
encountered a living example of ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ which is to be greatly
admired. Indeed it was astonishing. And as “there’s always a story” with me, I
arrived at the pub in bright sunshine in Clapham Junction and blurted it out to
my Irish friend, Siabhra, and most of the bar staff. (Yes, I also talk to strangers – another non-London
trait – with a naive presumption they will be interested in my life... and sometimes
they are!). Anyway another friend, Chun,
said “well there’s something to take you back to the blog you’ve been ignoring”. So BOOM, I’m back.
I’m on a
packed 337 bus from Putney and a very young couple try to get on the bus with a
toddler and stroller. The stroller
is packed high with renovation materials – tins of paint, primer, brushes and
trays. The curly-haired, chubby kid is wriggling
madly and the tiny mum is having trouble, so it seems. When the dad pushes the stroller into the
middle of the aisle it jams. It won’t go
forward or back and, oddly, he doesn’t much mind. He takes his hands off it in defeat and kind
of slumps. The toddler is kicking off.
The driver calls something out and the skinny dad goes back to talk to
him. I presume he needs to swipe or
pay. So I jump up and try to move the
pram, as there’s no room to pass and clearly someone needs to help this young
mum who’s barely coping. Yet the
stroller won’t budge – too much stuff hanging over the side and banging into poles. So I unpack it a bit. I lift a few cans of paint which are strapped
around the handles and detach them, resting them on my aisle seat. I manoeuvre a few more bits and manage to
push the pram through the gap and into the wheelchair area. The conversation at the front of the bus is
getting louder but I’m not registering what they’re saying, only that it’s
taking a while. Then I collect
the tins of paint from my seat and bring them over to the mum who is now
sitting all but one seat away from the stroller; a gentleman having given up his
place for her. In retrospect, when I clearly articulate “these tins need to be secured, I’ve
only rested them on the top” the young girl seems vague.
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. I
figure she’ll get him to fix them when he returns. I sit back down.
The dad walks
past me as the bus starts up again, and proceeds to cuss and grumble to his
partner about something the driver has said to him. I don’t make out details as I’m in my own
world enjoying the beautiful sun, until she raises her voice in high dudgeon:“ that’s
the stupidest f**in thing I’ve ever heard”...“who the f**k does he think he is”
etc, by which time I am vaguely gathering that the driver had a problem with
the paint being brought onto the bus, they are unhappy about being singled out
as unsuitable passengers, while also delighting in the fact they have something
to complain about (you know what I mean, it’s in the ‘oh poor me’ tone).
It’s only
background noise so I don’t consciously piece this together, but one presumes their
occupation of seat and wheelchair space made it impossible for the driver not
to have moved off - well, not without a scene he must have decided to avoid. So I'm blissfully unaware I have conspired
to help them frustrate the driver’s wishes.
Nor am I cognisant of the risk. After
a few short minutes we round the corner past Wandsworth Council toward
East Hill.
Disaster. Bus
hits a bump. Stupid parents have not
secured the paint. BANG. Tin bounces out of the pram and crashes to
the floor, miraculously missing the silly girl and drenching an upper-middle-aged
lady sitting next to the wall with multiple coats of paint right down her left
leg, ankle and foot. It is as thick and layered
as an applied plaster cast. Her bag
takes a dose too, and the rest flows plentifully across the floor of the bus
where masses of people throw up their legs like a Parisian Can Can or scamper
out of the way and up the stairs.
Chaos. Stunned silence. Chaos again.
The girl
screams at her beloved in words starting with ‘f’ and ‘c’, and he defends
himself as best he can. He clearly isn’t
very bright. A fact she keeps cruelly
reminding him about. And the toddler
kicks and screams, such that if he doesn’t stop wriggling she is surely going
to drop his fat little bottom right into the paint. (I have to admit that would have been
funny.) But with the weight of him the
mum falls back into her chair, putting aside for the moment her desire to choke
the stupid ‘f’ and ‘c’; and probably him vice versa. That gives me an opening.
I am able,
thank God, to creep between pram, paint and feuding couple to help the
paint-covered lady to stand up and try to delicately move from the position in
which she’s most uncomfortably trapped; the excited child and parents still
presenting something of a provocative possibility. Taking one arm and her bag we somehow get her
up, the left sandal threatening to slip away at any moment. We hop, duck and weave to an
accompaniment of four letter words until we have her over the massive white puddle
near to the exit door. The soon to be
accused don’t even notice. Can I
smell alcohol on him? Anyway his speech is
not clear, and hers all too clear. Oh
dear, I don’t like that kid’s chances.
Back to the
lady: She, I, indeed most passengers,
stare at her leg and foot unable to comprehend what has just happened. A few mutter “ooh, sorry” but noone
knows what to do next. She has not
uttered a word. Her face is calm. My God it is
unbelievably calm. Perhaps she’s just
numb? That would make sense. I try to speak: “I’m soooo sorry”. “Are you ok?
This is so awful, what can we do... we need to get it washed off”. As the bus comes to an abrupt stop she
replies, “I’ll be fine”. Seriously? Fine? The
couple are still arguing, but her face is placid, resigned. There’s no fight in her, no defeat
either. She is simply calm, stoic. She knows you can’t get spilt paint back in
the tin so what’s the point of making a fuss. And she didn’t even have to go through a
mini-hissy fit to get to that point... she didn’t even let off steam. Wow. It is a revelation.
There really
ARE people who Keep Calm and Carry On – even in the midst of an unexpected
onslaught. She should have been a
pilot! (Hmm, maybe she is?)
As we slither
down onto the curb I adopt her optimism: “Yes, hopefully it’s
water based paint, so we just need a tap...”.
She pats my hand, in a way which is both comforting and dismissive, “Oh, I’ll just go home, I’ve not far to go now...”. The paint is dripping everywhere. One foot is stepping, the other sloshing sideways
like a dead-leg. “Where do you need to go?”
I ask, wondering how in hell she can go anywhere with a leg and foot like
that! I mean, would another bus driver
even let her on?! Then the bus driver
appears.
Game on.
He tells the
selfish couple how stupid they are and why he tried to avert this risk. He doesn’t swear. Everything he says is reasonable, albeit
impassioned. When instructing everyone
to get off the bus he adds “you all thought I was mean to ask them to get off
the bus... but see what’s happened, now you know why”. He looks at me accusingly. (Or that may be my guilty conscience.) “I didn’t think you were mean” I attempt, “I
didn’t hear”... but he’s on to other things.
When everyone
is on the pavement a few passengers get stuck in. I join the fray: “hey you, don’t just walk
away, you owe the driver and this poor lady an apology”. Lady is still quiet, calm. The only evidence of her distress is the
occasional confused look down at her leg as if she doesn’t own it. If she is greatly discombobulated it is
private. She simply looks to the driver
for advice, waiting patiently until the other actors in this scene all calm
down.
“I already
said sorry”, he replies pathetically. “Well,
why don’t you say it again so she can hear?” I add, perhaps trying to make up
for the lack of passion on her side. But
when he does apologise I figure it’s time for me to shut-up. And the totally un-contrite mum is still
telling him off, so poor lad he really has bitten off more than he can chew
with all these responsibilities – when all he wanted to do was make their
little flat look better. Oh dear, bit
sad really.
Nowhere in
sight is there a tap. No front garden
with a hose. I feel culturally
discombobulated and useless. So I
apologise to the driver. I wish the lady
well as she seems content to be left to
the driver to get sorted, or abandoned on the pavement I’m not sure which. And I change buses. Everyone on the next bus is talking about the
incident. One lady saying: “They should
have caught a taxi. Probably only cost £5”.
Ah, hindsight
is a beautiful thing. But now whenever I
see that sign “Keep Calm and Carry On” I’ll be visualizing that quiet lady
standing drip, drip, drip on the pavement in Wandsworth.
What a woman. I do hope she got quickly
cleaned up and outside again to enjoy the wonderful sunshine yesterday!
And I promise
myself I’ll write to TFL to tell them it really wasn’t the driver’s fault, as
no doubt the bus had to be taken out of service. That’s my next bit of writing.
Get coffee and
carry on.
