The Last Bus & Other Short Stories

By Robert Fowler

Last Bus Home.

15-year-old Scott is in town to buy a book. There, he meets street wise Adison, also 15. Their lives could not be any more diverse, and yet each become drawn to the other with disastrous consequences.

Swallow and Ice Cream.

17-year-old Steve is a lost soul working in a small village in Tuscany. He spends his days selling ice cream to tourists, desperately trying to forget Katherine, and the tragic events that surround her. But n o amount of distance can keep him safe for himself.

The Wicker Chair.

Beths mum is dying. While her dad and brother have accepted the inevitable, 13-year-old Beth continues to hold onto hope. She placed her faith in God, and believes that her prays have been answered when one day a man turns up next door to build a summer house. But not everything is as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Fowler
• Release date: Oct 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9781739875435

Robert Fowler

ROBERT R. FOWLER joined the Department of External Affairs in 1969 and was posted to Paris in 1971 and to the Canadian Permanent Mission to the United Nations in 1976. He returned to External Affairs headquarters in 1978 to become executive assistant to Allan Gotlieb, the under-secretary of state for External Affairs. In 1980, he was seconded to the Privy Council Office as assistant secretary to the Cabinet (Foreign and Defence Policy), where he served as foreign policy advisor to prime ministers Trudeau, Turner and Mulroney. In 1986 Mr. Fowler became assistant deputy minister (Policy) in the Department of National Defence, and then he served as deputy minister from 1989 to 1995. From 1995 to 2000 he was Canada’s longest serving ambassador to the United Nations, following which he was named ambassador to Italy and also personal representative for Africa for prime ministers Chrétien and Harper. Fowler lives in Ottawa, Ontario.

Book preview

Contents

THE LAST BUS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

SWALLOWS AND ICE CREAM

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Ninteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

THE WICKER CHAIR

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

The Last Bus

CHAPTER ONE

Maybe I should have ignored her, but she was not the kind of girl you could easily do that to. It would be like turning a blind eye to an unexploded bomb in your front room, knowing just how much carnage would ensue if allowed to explode. So, I simply looked at her and said nothing.

‘Get me a coffee?’ she said, with no please.

I was enjoying just sitting there, without someone who I had never seen before coming over to me and disturbing me just like that. I already hated having to hold conversations, but those with people I did not know agitated me even more. It’s one of the hazards of sitting alone anywhere; any odd bod thought they had the right to sit with you.

I placed my chocolate muffin back on my plate; I had taken just two bites from it. As I placed it on the plate it disintegrated, crumbling in at least six directions. It looked like what it was: a mess.

‘Just a coffee and I’ll fuck off out of it,’ she said, her finger stabbing at the crumbs the muffin had made.

At this point, ninety-nine out of a hundred people would have told her to take a hike, or words to that effect. Me, I got to my feet and walked swiftly to the counter and joined the short queue. I looked round; she was now sitting where I had been, both feet up on the chair opposite, surveying her surroundings.

I should have questioned my sanity then. Instead I wondered if she might like a latte or cappuccino, or whether she might like it black. The short bus ride had brought me to town earlier, a twenty-pound note that my mum had given me in my pocket; it was to buy a book needed for my schoolwork. But after spending an hour and a half looking, going from shelf to shelf, nothing had caught my eye.

Strange really, if the choice was between a book or a person, I would bury my face between pages any day. I had begun to hate people, or maybe they hated me, it was hard to work out. My time on this planet had been limited to fifteen years and two months, more experience might be needed.

I took hold of the handle of a blue mug, picked up three sugar sachets, and for a second, wondered if she worried about her teeth. Along with a spoon and a serviette, I arrived just in time to see the last remaining bit of my chocolate muffin enter her mouth. She then picked up my own mug of coffee and washed it down. I stood aghast but said nothing.

‘Do you always wear your school uniform?’

I looked down; black blazer, grey trousers, shiny black shoes and a white shirt with what looked like a tiny chocolate stain next to the red tie I wore. But I suppose the biggest giveaway was the embroidery on my blazer pocket, St Marks Boys School, along with some Latin of which I had long since forgotten the meaning.

I looked back down at her as she licked her finger and ran it across my plate, collecting tiny chocolate crumbs. Then she lifted it, took a look and placed her finger in her mouth. At a guess, she was about my age, maybe a little younger. It was hard to tell, although right now she was behaving like my ten-year-old sister, Kelly.

I placed the fresh mug down on the table.

‘Sugar?’

I laid the three packs down on the table along with a plastic stirrer.

‘Three?’ She looked disappointed.

I remained silent.

My mug was almost empty and tiny pieces of chocolate sponge floated on the surface. I lifted it to my mouth, what was left barely filled my mouth. She emptied all three sachets of sugar into her mug and discarded them on the table. I leaned forward, picked them up and rolled them into a neat ball that I placed on my plate, which was now as clean as it had been when I had first collected it with my muffin. She smiled for the first time; it was then I realised just how bewitchingly lovely her looks were.

Everything about her was small. Her hands that gripped the mug, each finger so slender, with bitten-down miniature nails. Her eyes were a deep solid blue, covered by a clear watery sheen. It was like looking into an undisturbed swimming pool.

An inconspicuous nose, small, with neat round curves in the correct places. A button nose, my nan would say. Her mouth was that of a much younger girl, almost childlike, her lips were a natural dark pink. She wore no lipstick, it looked like she wasn’t wearing any make-up.

Her hair was very short, like a boy would have, black with slivers of red placed here and there. It was a boyish haircut but strangely it seemed to bring out the femininity in her.

‘You dumb or something?’ she asked.

I woke from my trance and looked around me, although I knew the question was aimed at me. I was attempting to think of something constructive as my reply, instead I just said ‘no’ in a sort of whisper.

‘Thank God for that,’ she said, sipping another mouthful of coffee. ‘What you up town for?’ She placed the cup to her lips once more. ‘Or do you live up here?’

‘No,’ I replied.

She looked at me with those piercing blue eyes; you could almost see her thoughts passing behind them.

‘Shit, don’t you say more than one word at a time?’

On cue I responded with, ‘yes.’

She smiled again, the word beautiful bounced around inside my head, I did not want to talk, I was quite happy to just look. She had, in the blink of an eye, become mesmerising.

She wore a pair of blue jeans; they clung to her legs, showing off their slim shape. A grey cardigan covered a darker grey t-shirt, plain without words or patterns. On her feet she had a pair of black and white baseball boots. The laces looked brighter and less worn than the boots themselves.

‘Well?’ She crossed her arms and placed them on the table, then lay her chin on them.

‘I’m here to buy a book; at least that was the plan.’ I completed my first full sentence, proving to her I could do it when required.

‘A fucking book, you sad shit.’

I watched her lips move. The words were a by-product, I did not care what she said as long as I could stare at her face.

‘Don’t you read?’ I finally asked, wondering if we might have something in common.

‘I don’t think so.’ The answer was loaded with sarcasm.

‘What, never?’

The conversation seemed to bore her, so she swung it around.

‘They do chocolate here?’ she asked.

I watched as she poured more sugar into her mug, I left mine as it was. She peered over the rim, sipping slowly, allowing her eyes to survey the other tables. From one face to another, you could almost hear the cogs going round and round in her head, her eyes taking it all in.

Then those self-same eyes settled on me, I could feel them bore into me. Then she asked me my name.

‘Scott… Scott Williams.’

I didn’t think my next move was stupid until I saw her reaction. I half stood and held out my hand.

‘You thick fuck,’ she said, almost breaking into a laugh. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Sorry,’ I whispered.

We became silent, our mugs of chocolate sitting idly in front of us. I felt stupid. She sat looking at me like I was, like I was being analysed. All I had to do was stand up and walk out, but instead I remained where I was, a sitting target. I picked up my mug with one hand and held the bottom of my tie in the other.

‘How much money you got?’ she enquired.

‘About…’ I dug deep into my front trouser pocket. It would have been easier to stand, but instead I continued to struggle to get my hand into my pocket. ‘Fifteen pounds and twenty-two pence.’

‘So how much is a fucking book then?’

‘Anything from one ninety-nine to… well, fifty pounds, sometimes more.’

‘Well, I’ll be fucked.’ She let out a low whistle from between her gorgeous lips.

‘Have you ever paid say, twenty pounds for a book?’

‘Yes, once or twice maybe.’

‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’ With that she got to her feet. ‘You coming?’

CHAPTER TWO

I did not think to question her. I came willingly as if I was wearing a collar and she held the lead. I looked at my watch, I was going to catch the 6.35 bus, but decided on the 6.55 instead. Why? Because this was different, she was different, and I wanted to do something different.

There was a watery sun above. September can bring its light to an abrupt end, or just as well allow it to linger a little more. It was a month caught in two minds, which also applied to the temperature. This evening was mild. It was still that time when those travelling home from work, outnumbered those coming out for the evening.

Wednesday, so it seemed, appeared to be a good evening to venture out. My mum went to her book club down at Mrs Simpson’s every other week. She was my mum’s old English teacher and founder of the book club. She had started it as she entered her seventies, boredom and isolation being the driving force I had heard my mother say. Their number had grown to nine recently, and my mum told my dad how they had to hold back a laugh each time they went, as Mrs Simpson took a register of those attending, old habits it seemed.

I followed whatever her name was down the hastily filling main high street. My eyes settled on her petite round bum; no matter how hard I tried to focus on something else, my eyes returned back to the same place. It was in keeping with the rest of her body, small and perfect. Come to think of it, why do men, or boys for that matter, have this fascination with the female bum? The more you thought of its function, the less you wanted to reflect.

My friend at school, James Richardson, whose dad was on the board of governors so they said, got hauled in to see ‘Flannel face’ our headmaster, Mr Flannigan. He had brought glossy magazines of naked women into the school, which had circulated round each class in our year, but even those pictures seemed to focus on the girls’ bums as much as their other parts.

She suddenly turned to me. ‘Fancy a chocolate bar, Scott Williams?’

‘Okay,’ I said, wondering why she used my full name.

We entered a small, crowded shop which had stacked boxes and displays everywhere, leaving little space for the customers.

We moved around people, with the door constantly opening and closing. I noticed how she kept looking from the door to the counter, her face deep in concentration. People leaned over the counter to hand their money to those behind; even on the other side of the counter it looked congested, with three pairs of hands working around each other.

The bell on the till sounded more like it was a tune being played; I wondered just how much money they took in a single day, or for that matter a single hour, in such a tiny shop. She leaned towards me, I was sure she was going to ask me what I wanted, instead she whispered in my ear.

‘Do you know the park by the large timber yard?’

‘Yes, opposite the red painted pub which has shut down?’

‘That’s the one,’ she whispered.

I had no time to try and work out what she was talking about or why, her hand flew towards the cardboard chocolate bar display, ‘BUY ONE, GET ONE HALF PRICE!’, and clasped a handful of bars. Then in the blink of an eye she was out the door. Her timing perfect, it was pure art and I was certain it was not beginner’s luck.

I had always taken a dim view of those who stole, ever since my Auntie Liz got burgled and we had to go round to help clear up. She could not stop crying; each time she picked up an object, broken or not, she broke down in tears again. It was painful to witness the mess they caused. By the time we left, I was determined to become a detective, so one day I could track down the people who did things like this and bring them to justice, yet here I was, an accessory to the crime.

‘Was that your girlfriend?’ a man in a baseball cap said, grabbing my shoulder.

‘No,’ I answered. Technically I was not lying.

‘You were talking to her just before she took off,’ said another.

I felt the eyes of everyone squeezed into the shop on me, my mouth became dry and the hair on my neck stood on end.

‘You can pay for your friend,’ said a man with a large red dot on his forehead. ‘Two pounds ninety.’ He held out the palm of his hand.

I emerged from the shop two minutes later, two pounds ninety lighter. I did not have it in me to argue. I stood for a minute debating with myself which was the easier thing to do. Catch the next bus home? My argument was not too convincing, because I began to walk in the opposite direction, towards the park.

There she was, gently swinging to and fro, about to bite off a large wedge of chocolate from the bar she held in her hand.

‘What kept you?’

‘Paying for them.’

‘You didn’t!’ She burst out laughing. ‘Why didn’t you tell them you didn’t know me?’

‘They saw you talking to me.’

She laughed again while taking another large bite from the pilfered bar.

She threw me two wrapped bars which she had balanced on her lap.

‘Well, you better have them seeing as you paid for them… How many did you pay for?’

‘Three.’

‘Well, that’s a fucking result, we got one free.’

With that, she squeezed the final bit of chocolate into her mouth, discarding the empty wrapper on the floor.

I strolled over and picked it up and deposited it in the waste bin a couple of metres away. She watched me closely but said nothing.

‘You got here quick,’ I said, wiping a smear of chocolate from my hand.

‘They don’t call me Jet for nothing.’

She pushed her legs forward and the swing increased in speed. Now she bent her knees back under her seat to reverse the process. The swing increased in both speed and height.

‘That’s not your name though,’ I said as I bit into stolen goods. Just for a moment I felt like rebel.

‘No, silly bollocks, it’s a nickname.’

‘Why? Because you’re fast?’

‘I’m fucking lightening.’

I sat on the swing next to her; I saw a tiny sliver of pink skin between the top of her jeans and her grey t-shirt and allowed my eyes to remain focused on it. I finished the chocolate bar; I was hungry and remembered I had hardly eaten any of my muffin earlier. I walked over and disposed of the wrapper. Jet was slowly decreasing in both speed and height and stared across at me.

‘Why bother?’ she said. I could tell my actions had annoyed her.

I could think of no answers so I shrugged my shoulders. Instead, I walked back and sat on the swing next to her, grabbed hold of the chains and moved forward, removing my feet from the floor.

‘Fucking annoying,’ she said under her breath.

I ignored her and swung a little higher until we were almost level.

‘Do you run at school?’ I asked.

‘Used to.’

‘Not now?’

‘No… I don’t go.’

‘Why?’

‘You’re a nosy bastard.’

But then she smiled at me and her face lit up. It was like tasting something bitter, before filling your mouth with the sweetest taste you could imagine. I felt in a way honoured she had bestowed her smile on me. How strange this evening was becoming.

‘Won every race… never beaten.’

‘Why did you stop?’

‘All lesbos including the teacher.’ She brought the swing to a halt using her baseball boots, scraping them across the concrete floor.

‘The other girls watched me undress,’ she continued. ‘They looked at me in a strange way… you know that look that fucking lesbians give.’ She pushed off ever so