A gentle ghost story, which won 2nd prize in Scribble's summer comp, 2009.
Travellin' Light
I see the ghost as soon as I board the number seventy-two bus.
He’s sitting at the back – and he’s staring right at me! It’s enough to give you goosebumps.
He doesn’t look like a ghost, I admit. Most of the passengers are schoolkids, so the pallid teenager doesn’t stand out too much. But his sun-starved complexion didn’t come from hours spent in front of a computer screen. This, I know.
Now he’s checking out my frayed denim jacket. A lot of people do. He’s wondering why a woman of my mature years isn’t wearing a dusky pink hip-covering anorak, I suppose.
I smile, but he looks away. No surprise there. I’m a member of the salt ’n’ pepper brigade, a different species, according to his generation. For a moment I wonder if this was such a good idea after all. I don’t want to see horror on his face once he finds out who I am. But he is the reason I got on the bus in the first place.
A man looks up from his newspaper and watches me head towards the back. “It’s chilly up that end, dear,” he says. “Heating must be off. Smells musty too.”
“Whole bus feels chilly,” his wife mutters.
I sit further along the back seat, leaving a gap between the ghost and me. He’s wearing jeans and a green sweater. You’d think he’d relish the chance to dress in something ethereal, rattle some chains and be off somewhere scaring a schoolteacher. But no. Where’s his sense of fun?
Time to break the ice. “Envious, huh?” I reckon that if I can talk in a snappy, modern way, I won’t seem too grannyish.
“Sorry?”
I point to the other kids, most of them nodding to a tinny beat. “They have mp-pod-thingies – whatever they’re called.” Damn, I do sound old. “I noticed you don’t.”
“Never had one.”
I know that but I can’t let on. Not yet. “I’m Mrs. Bowen.” I extend a hand. Just testing. He doesn’t shake it. He won’t – or can’t; I’m not sure exactly what ghosts can do.
“Peter.” He turns to wipe his arm across the grimy window, carefully avoiding the words “Travellin’ light” written in mirror-writing. Through the clear patch I can see we’re passing the lake.
“Used to go there a lot years ago,” he says.
“When you were little?”
“I was thirteen.”
“You look about thirteen now,” I say.
He doesn’t redden at his slip. Ghosts don’t, do they? “Maybe I look young for my age. I went there with my friend Cathy.” He smiles. “We’d get into loads of trouble skipping school. We went exploring.”
“Ah,” I nod. “A different type of education.”
He continues, “It’s not as if we didn’t catch up with schoolwork the next day. Her parents put a stop to it, though. They moved away, so I wouldn’t be able to see her again.”
“They didn’t like her missing school.” I look away for a moment. “I expect they really wanted the best for her, wanted her to do well.”
“But she was like me, she couldn’t be cooped up. We understood each other so well.” He sighs. “But I lived in a caravan, so even though I passed for grammar school, I was considered a bad influence.”
“According to her parents.”
“They couldn’t see that Cathy needed to be free, like me. We even had our own motto, ‘Travellin’ light.’ We didn’t want to be tied down.”
“Just travellin’ light, no ties, no rules, no baggage.”
“Yeah.” He looks surprised. “You’re quite ‘with it’ for...”
“An oldie?” I put on a shocked expression.
“No, er...”
“It’s okay.” I smile. So I’m old. But he is talking to me. And it’s lovely to hear his voice after my husband’s 60-a-day growl. I think back to a few days ago.
“My shirts aren’t ironed,” he’d said accusingly. “You been painting again?”
“Just a bit of drawing. My tutor said I need to get the perspective right.”
“Your job’s to look after me, woman.”
“Ed, I need to practice.” My voice had tailed off. I always knew it was no use arguing with him.
“Waste of time. You still driving to your brother’s?”
"Tomorrow,” I’d replied and then in a flash of bravado added, “I suppose you’ll be seeing Louisa.”
I braced myself for a slap, but he just said, “Daft cow. I’ve told you – there’s nothing going on.” He smiled, but looking back, I think it had been a sneer.
The bus screeches to a halt at the roundabout, jolting me back to the present. I groan. “I hate buses.”
“Me and Cathy used to love ’em. Her folks were well-off, so she’d pay my fare. We travelled all over, mostly in the holidays. But it was more fun when we skipped school.”
“Sounds like a lot of fun.”
“Oh, we were really living!”
I chuckle, thinking about two crazy kids dreaming of a life without rules, chores, and tellings-off. That dream isn’t just for kids though, is it? “But you preferred travelling during school hours, because it meant you were breaking rules.”
“It’s as if you can see right through me.” Peter smiles as he looks away, probably enjoying his private joke.
“What if I could?” I ask.
“What?”
“What if I could see through you?”
He doesn't get any paler. He can’t. But I can tell he’s shocked, by the way he’s staring at me. I lean across the seat to whisper; no point in upsetting the other passengers. “You’re a ghost. Aren’t you?”
He gasps. “How did you know?”
“It was in the papers. Must be over forty years ago now. I’d just turned thirteen when it happened.”
“That’s how old I was.”
“I remember the photos. Still the same ginger curls flopping over your eyes. Even though you’re hiding your face with a cap, I recognised you immediately.”
“No-one else knows who I am. The paper said I didn’t know what hit me. But I did – it was the number fifty-five bus. Saw it a second before it hit.”
“Horrible.” I shudder.
“You’re wondering why I’d haunt a bus after being killed by one,” he says.
“Most ghosts choose bricks and mortar.”
“I lived in a caravan, remember?”
“Ah, yes,” I say. “But even that’s cosier than a bus.”
He shrugs. “I’m a ghost. I don’t do cosy. And I’m easier to find if I stay on the local buses.”
“In case Cathy comes back.” I wag my finger at him. “You’re hoping she’d think of looking on the buses for you.”
“Am I that transparent?”
We both laugh at his joke, and some passengers look round. “I can’t think of any other reason for you haunting the buses,” I say. “Peter, you do realise she’d be in her fifties now?”
“I guess. But true friendship lasts forever. Doesn’t it?”
“So you really don’t mind that she’d be old by now?” I’ve already decided that if he does mind, I’ll get off at the next stop. I guess that makes me a coward.
He shrugs. “Nothing either of us’d be able to do about that.”
I could hug him. Except I probably couldn’t. I don't know how these things work. “I know ghosts walk through walls. Can you do that fading away thing as well?”
“It comes with practice. You should see the look on people’s faces when I do that!” He looks serious again. “Of course, it’s not so much fun on your own.”
“Peter, if you’re always here,” I say, “doesn’t the driver notice?”
“If the bus is nearly empty I dematerialise. I reappear when it’s more crowded, staying at the back so I’m not noticed. Had to dematerialise a lot in the early years, otherwise I’d have been recognised.”
He pauses and then says, “Why’s it taken you so long, Cathy?” Just like that.
My voice comes out all croaky. “You knew it was me?”
“Not at first. After a while, maybe, but I wasn’t sure.”
“The years have not been kind, I know. I thought you’d be shocked by the way I look now.”
“And I thought you’d be too grown-up to want to be friends again,” he says. “But I always hoped, if you ever came back and spotted a bus with writing on the window, you’d find me.”
“Ah, yes. ‘Travellin’ light.’ I knew you must be here when I saw that. Haven’t liked buses since your accident, though.”
“Why did you come back now?” he asks. “Visiting old friends? Lucky for me.”
“I came here to look for you, Peter.”
He frowns. “But I’m dead. You knew that, Cath.”
“I knew you’d be floating around here somewhere.”
“You didn’t believe in ghosts when I knew you.”
“No.” I sigh, then say, “It’s such a long time since those days. Somewhere along the way I guess I changed my views on a lot of things.”
“I died the day after you moved, so my folks thought it was suicide. It wasn’t.” He reaches out as if to touch my hand but seems to change his mind. “Cathy, you never came to find my grave.”
“My parents thought it best if I stayed away.” Damn, I hate these awkward moments. “And then life got in the way. School, jobs, then marriage.” I look at the floor. “But that’s no excuse. I should have come. I’m sorry.”
“Any kids?”
“I couldn’t have them.”
“I didn’t know where you’d moved to,” he says, “otherwise I’d have floated over to see you.”
We both smile at this. “My parents didn’t give me our new address before we moved,” I say. “They didn’t want me telling you. They wanted no further contact.” The bus stops at the station and more teenagers get on. “I was going to write, though.”
“I’m glad you’re here, even though you’re more like a mum now.”
“Ouch.” Best not to admit that I do feel sort of maternal towards him now.
He grins. “If only we could have fun, like in the old days.”
“Even though I never came back, and even though I’m...?” I don’t really want to remind him about my advanced years, but the words slip out before I can stop them.
“Age is irrelevant now. I’m a ghost, remember? And we’re still friends, aren’t we?” He frowns. “You got on without paying. The driver didn’t notice, because of the queue, but I saw you.”
“I can travel free now.”
"But you’re not old enough for a bus pass,” he says.
“No.”
“But you said...”
“Yes. These days, I travel free. I travel...light.”
Amused, I look at the changing expressions on his face. First blankness, then confusion, and then the most beautiful smile as he finally understands.
“Cath, when?”
“Two days ago. My husband fixed the car. He’ll enjoy the insurance payout, unless the police catch up with him. He’ll probably marry his mistress. They’ve been seeing each other for years.”
“Oh, Cath. You’ve been so alone. Like me.”
“Not any more, Peter. I’ve found my best friend again.”
“You have.” He puts on a mischievous expression, points down the bus towards the other passengers, and then whispers in my ear, “So let’s liven this place up – before the bus starts moving. We don’t want to cause an accident.” He grins. “And then we’ll visit your husband.”
Following him towards the front of the bus, I feel like a girl again even though the staring passengers must assume I’m Peter’s grandmother.
And when we reach the front we carry on walking – right through the windshield! Twenty-five or more schoolkids start screaming. Giggling, Peter and I hover above the pavement for a few minutes and then we start floating away to visit Ed. It’ll be my first proper haunting.
© Bec Zugor 2008
