THE WAITING GAME
Chapter 1
It was a dismal Tuesday morning, early November. A few spots of rain trickled down from somewhere in the pale, grey sky, and as Jason made his way up Carlton Road, the few leaves that still clung to the branches shivered in sympathy for him. It was nice to think someone cared, even if they were just leaves – though it seemed more likely (relatively speaking) that they were shivering from fear, born out of the knowledge that any one of them could be the next leaf destined to be ripped from the branch, and carried away to an uncertain future.
Jason gave himself a little shake, and reminded himself that they were just leaves, incapable of any sentient thought, and that he really needed to stop thinking like Wordsworth. Even so, they ought to recognise him by now, after five years of walking up and down the same stretch of pavement, tramping through their soggy, decomposing brethren, on the journey between his front door and the bus stop. He had walked this way every day since he started at secondary school, at first to catch the twenty-to-eight bus, and then – after three months of getting to school much too early – to catch the 42A, at ten past.
On his first day of high school, in 2002, Jason had been a tiny ‘Year Seven,’ swamped by the enormous, brown winter coat he had inherited from his mum’s father. Despite his protests, his mother had assured him he would grow into it, and practically pushed him out of the door, looking like an escaped circus midget with brand new shoes and a nice rucksack. Then he had hurried to the bus stop and stood, nervously, at the edge of the pavement, listening for the slightest sound of an oncoming bus, clutching the correct change in his little hand, and praying that nothing would go wrong. Now it was 2007, and Jason was in the first year of sixth form – but while the coat was still too big for him, and he still liked to turn up with the correct change, any excitement the morning routine might once have inspired had long since faded away.
Whatever day it was, whatever month it was, the situation at the bus stop never changed. Jason would walk down at eight o’clock (so as not to miss it), and sit quietly on the bench, with his rucksack wedged between his knees. And then, he would wait. Sometimes other people came to wait with him – doctors and lawyers, cleaners and carpenters – he didn’t know who they were, and he certainly didn’t ask. There was a strange, unwritten law of silence surrounding the bus shelter, which no-one dared violate, least of all Jason – a law which even extended to the only other regular, a mysterious old man who had been there every morning since Jason first started catching the 42A. Rain or shine, sleet or snow, the old man was there, huddled up in his grey overcoat – a silent and inscrutable figure, who was as much a part of Jason’s morning as his cup of tea or his slice of toast.
While an outsider might think it strange that, despite seeing each other every weekday for five years, they had never had a single conversation, for Jason this was a perfectly acceptable state of affairs. At some point during their third month of waiting, he had realised that if they hadn’t spoken so far, they weren’t ever going to – and sure enough, that was exactly what had happened. There was no real excuse for this lack of communication, other than a vague feeling that he was quite happy in his own little world, and didn’t want to be disturbed. Jason liked to think they had a silent understanding, and that if they ever met somewhere else, they would simply exchange nods and keep on walking – not that this was ever likely to happen, of course. Jason had never seen him anywhere else, his mum had no idea who he was, and he never seemed to actually catch the bus, preferring instead to watch Jason get on every morning. What he did after that was anyone’s guess. Perhaps he only came out for the fresh air, perhaps he was just getting there early for the next bus, perhaps he had been hired by Jason’s mum, to make sure he was actually going to school.
As the minutes dragged by on this particular Tuesday morning, Jason found himself trying to sneak a glance at the man, wondering if he would even recognise him if they met elsewhere. The man would recognise Jason, he was sure of that. No-one ever missed Jason in his huge, brown coat, and Jason liked to think he would recognise the man, especially if he was wearing his distinctive green scarf and flat cap. On closer inspection, Jason guessed he was in his mid-eighties, and as such had done extremely well to not miss a single day at the bus stop – although Jason had no idea how well he did during the summer, when he didn’t go anywhere near this end of the street.
Jason suddenly realised that, while he had been discreetly peering at his companion, the man had slowly turned to meet his gaze. For the first time ever, they were looking directly at each other, and openly acknowledging the other’s existence. It was a terrifying, unexpected moment in history, and Jason found himself filled with a mixture of fear and shock.
Come on Jason, he thought. Say something!
‘Hello,’ he said, though he wasn’t sure anything came out. His voice was always a bit dodgy first thing in the morning – especially on days like this, when his mum had gone to work before he woke up, meaning he hadn’t had a chance to warm up his vocal chords. He desperately tried to think of a follow-up comment.
‘Always the same, isn’t it?’
‘Aye,’ said the old man, and Jason felt a shiver up his spine. What was the right thing to do now – acknowledge the five years of silence, or pretend it had never happened, and they had just met?
‘I’m Jason,’ he said, as warmly as possible, giving a weak smile to go with it. ‘I live just down the road, number twelve.’
‘Frank,’ said the old man, his gaze returning to the pavement, perhaps suggesting the conversation was already over. But Jason found himself filled with an uncharacteristic stubbornness, and realised he wasn’t willing to let this opportunity slip away.
‘You’re down here a lot, eh?’ He continued, to no response. ‘Are you going anywhere exciting?’
The old man – Frank – breathed out slowly, as if realising that this kid wasn’t going to leave him alone.
‘No,’ he replied at last. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’
He paused for a second, considering whether or not to continue, and turned slightly to look at Jason, as if evaluating his suitability to hear the rest of the story.
‘I’m waiting for my son,’ he said, eventually. Frank spoke slowly and deliberately, in the well-worn tones of a granddad – with every word full of power, mystery, and sadness. ‘He used to live near here...must have been more than fifteen years ago.’
‘Oh,’ said Jason, filling an unexpected silence. ‘But he still visits?’
Frank let out a sudden, sharp laugh, and smiled a grim smile.
‘No, no, he doesn’t. That’s the thing, you see. Something happened...well, a lot of things, really.’
The smile vanished, and Frank’s gaze returned to the road.
‘Several things. He left, went off into the wide world. Didn’t leave me any contact details, or owt. All he told me was that one day, when he had sorted it all out...when he had done something I could be proud of...he would come back.’
Frank spoke very slowly, taking his time over every syllable, but as he told this story, he seemed to come alive in front of Jason’s eyes. Jason got the feeling that Frank didn’t get the chance to talk to many people, and this knowledge just made every word seem more mysterious and powerful.
‘Told me he would just turn up one morning, on your bus,’ he added, in conclusion. ‘The 42A. So I come down here to meet it...have been doing every morning since.’
He paused, and turned to stare at the street corner.
‘Just in case.’
Jason sat in silence for a few seconds, trying to process this revelation – while Frank, his story finished, went back to staring at the road. A thousand questions flashed through Jason’s mind, each ruder and more intrusive than the last, until he eventually decided to simply seize one and ask it, while he still had the chance.
‘Haven’t...haven’t you ever tried to find him? Tried to track him down?’
‘No,’ Frank replied simply, but with a familiar note of resignation and regret. ‘He doesn’t want to be found, does he?’
Frank glanced at the corner again.
‘He told me he’d be back one day, on this bus, and he will. When he’s good and ready.’
‘OK,’ said Jason, uncertainly. ‘But...I’m sure he wouldn’t have wanted you to wait for him, like this!’
‘Aye! And happens no-one’s forcing me,’ Frank answered, at first sounding slightly irritated, but then ending with another sharp laugh. ‘It’s not like I’ve got owt better to do.’
‘Oh,’ Jason said, by way of a reply, unsure what to say to this latest comment. ‘Well...I hope he turns up for you.’
‘Aye,’ Frank repeated, looking at the corner again. This time he was rewarded for his effort, as the bus roared into view – his years of practise finally paying off. Jason stood up, swung his rucksack round onto his back, and watched the bus as it pulled to a halt in front of them. There was a certain feeling in the air that, now the story had been shared, Frank’s mysterious son would be waiting at the door, ready to leap off and give his old dad a big smile and a hug – but as the doors opened, they saw that there was no-one waiting to get off at this stop, just like there hadn’t been any other day in the last five years. Just like there probably wouldn’t be for the next five, as well.
Jason turned round briefly to give Frank what he considered to be a reassuring smile, although it probably looked more like a grimace of pity – and either way, it wasn’t returned. So he climbed aboard, showed the driver his pass, and tried to find an empty seat, watching Frank pull himself to his feet and begin the walk back to wherever it was he lived. One conversation in five years, that’s all they had shared, but already Jason felt strangely responsible for the old man – a feeling of vague concern that he knew wouldn’t go away until someone did something about the situation. And, as it appeared he was the only person who knew anything about what was going on, it looked like that someone would have to be him. No-one else was going to sort it all out, set things right, and free Frank from his purgatory. No-one else could. It was entirely up to Jason.
And he thought about it all the way to school.
