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Bus Pass

Lisa Gray

    Carla pulled the plastic popcorn beaded cord of the louvred blinds and looked out. The yellow bus was halfway round the roundabout in front of her house. Carla caught a glimpse of the elderly faces on the passenger side of the bus. They weren’t clones. They were too old.
    But they weren’t happy.
    She couldn’t think why not.
    They had every reason to be cheerful. They’d all retired and were collecting their reward. Free bus travel.
    Don’t these people appreciate what they have? she thought angrily, making her way towards the kitchen. I’m not going to be like them, when I get old.
    Who’s kidding who? she thought, passing the dining room mirror. I am old.
    Her eye went to the bus pass form and the two photographs lying on the dining room table.
    She hadn’t filled the form in. She knew why. She hadn’t wanted to admit she’d joined the club. The over sixty-five club.
    Not if it means I end up like those sour, old faces on that bus, she thought.
     She picked up one of the two small passport-sized photos and studied it. She didn’t look her age.
    It was something she’d always been grateful for.
    She filled the kettle with water, opened the window to get some fresh air and wrinkled her nose. That unpleasant smell filled the air again. She wondered where it was coming from. She picked up the night before’s newspaper and scoured the headline.
    “Crippling Council Cuts. Council Facing Bankruptcy. Five Million to be Cut Over Five Years.”
    Five million, thought Carla. Cuts. There was bound to be some. There’d been nothing but cuts since 2030. She wondered if they’d cut the free bus for the elderly.
    She read on.
    “Council to come up with Action Plan.”
    That’s what I need, she thought. An action plan. It’s time I owned up to my age. I’d better fill in the form and take advantage of the free bus travel why I still have the chance.
    She was lucky she had the form. She’d never have gone for it herself. It was Joanne who’d got it for her. Joanne, her next door neighbour. Her only friend since she’d come to this small town.
    Joanne. Whom she’d not seen any sight of lately.
    But then you never see much of anybody here, she thought.
    It was the queerest place she’d ever lived – and the quietest.
    “Maybe it’s a government experiment,” her daughter Leanne had laughed, the one day in the year she’d visited her.
    She had laughed back. There’d been enough of them. But it was true. You never saw anyone. Despite the fact there were several blocks of apartments right opposite her, you rarely saw anyone entering or leaving. At the beginning she’d seen several elderly couples and a few young people coming and going but lately all she had seen were new, strange, young faces entering the blocks. Clones she suspected. She could always tell.
    “Maybe the elderly people have moved into a home,” Leanne had said. “And those clones have replaced them.”
    A home, thought Carla. That’s where elderly people used to end up but there were fewer and fewer of them. The old ones were being pulled down and no new ones seemed to be being built. She couldn’t understand it. Weren’t there more elderly people than ever? She’d always thought a home was where she would end up and she’d saved all her money towards that.
    Wasn’t that what the government wanted everyone to do? Save their money. So they wouldn’t be a drain on the state. And she always had. So it had been a shock when she’d made that trip to the bank.
    “I’m afraid you’re going to have to fill in a form if you want to access your money,” said the bank teller, handing Carla a large two page, A4 document.
    “A form?” she’d been ignorant enough to enquire.
    “You haven’t been putting any money in recently.”
    Carla had almost burst out, “I’m retired.”
    But she hadn’t wanted to admit her age.
    Instead she’d said feebly.
    “I know but what difference does that make?”
    “New government regulations,” said the bank teller, coldly. “If you don’t put any money in for two months, the government can claim the money.”
    Two months! thought Carla. First it was ten years, then five years, then one year and now two months. Claim all she’d been saving these years! What was the world coming to? she thought. Next thing they’ll be taking your house!
    She’d filled in the form, carefully leaving out her age and handed the teller the little money she’d managed to save. The bank teller hadn’t seemed to notice her error. For the first time Carla was glad she’d been served by a clone.
    That’s when she had decided she had to get away. To somewhere quieter. And here was certainly quiet. Too quiet.
    “Maybe that’s where I should be,” Carla had said to Leanne.
    “Where?”
    Leanne had never been one for concentration. But then none was expected now.
    “A home,” said Carla.
    Leanne had out a hoop of laughter.
    “You’re not old enough for that!” she had said.
    “Old enough for a bus pass,” said Carla, in a depressed voice.
    “You need to get out more and meet new friends,” said Leanne. “You’re becoming a misery.”
    Like those faces in the bus, thought Carla, but said nothing.
    Meet new friends? That was harder than she’d thought it would be here. Unless she admitted her age.
    She’d spoken to one elderly lady from the flats when she’d first arrived.
    “Morning! You keeping well,” she’d said.
    “Never better,” the grey haired lady had said, with a big smile on her face. “I’m starting dancing. Afternoon tea dancing. Tea and dancing. What more could you ask for? Going to get the yellow bus. The free one. I just ring them and along it comes. It takes you away.”
    That’s what I should do, Carla had thought and she’d looked out for the old lady to ask her what the number was.
    But she’d never seen her again.
    “I’ve got Joanne,” she’d said to Leanne. “Joanne’s my friend.”
    “And where is she when you need her?” Leanne had retorted.
    It was true. She hadn’t seen anything of Joanne recently. She couldn’t understand it. They’d been inseparable. Ever since that first day she’d brought a chocolate cake to Carla’s door.
    “Just a little welcome to your new home,” she’d said.
    Carla had smiled.
    I did the right thing moving here, she thought. A fresh start with friendly people. Just what she needed.
    And Joanne had been a true friend. The only one. They’d taken day trips together, shopped till they dropped and spent quiet evenings discussing the future.
    “I can’t wait till I’m sixty-five!” Joanne had surprised her with one of those nights.
    Not that it should have been a surprise. Joanne was full of surprises.
    “You must be joking!” Carla had said, knowing how much she was dreading it.
    “Why would I joke about that?” Joanne had said.
    “What’s to celebrate about turning sixty-five?”
    “The free bus pass if nothing else,” Joanne had replied. “Imagine. You just dial the bus and it takes you anywhere. For free. We can go wherever we like. Nothing can stop us.”
    “I don’t think I’m going to bother,” Carla had said.
    Joanne had looked horrified.
    “Not going to bother! Don’t be daft!”
    She looked at Carla suspiciously.
    “I get it,” she had said after a long pause. “You don’t want to admit you’re sixty five! Even to yourself.”
    “Why should I?” retorted Carla. “I don’t feel any different. Why should I have to admit I am? Besides which I don’t want to join a bus load of sour, old people.”
    “But it’s free!” Joanne had almost screamed at her. “And if you don’t fill in the form, I’ll have no one to go with.”
    So it was that Joanne had gone down and got Carla the bus pass form at the same time as her own. The day of Joanne’s sixty-fifth birthday.
    But a few weeks later Carla still hadn’t filled hers in.
    “I’ve handed mine in,” Joanne had boasted, the last time she’d seen her.
    They’d been going for coffee to the local museum cafeteria. Joanne had flashed her pass at the clone behind the counter.
    “Senior Citizen’s discount?” Joanne had said cheekily. The clone behind the counter had stared at the pass and smiled too sweetly. Carla hadn’t liked the look of him. She didn’t like any of them. She knew they were employed by the government and couldn’t be trusted. And there seemed to be more and more of them. Especially in this town.
    “Of course,” he said. “And your friend?”
    Carla shook her head.
    They paid for their coffees and made their way to the only spare table in the restaurant.
    “You should have had yours!” said Joanne, clearing a space on the table for her tray.
    “Mine?” said Carla absent-mindedly, too intent on watching the clone watching them.
    “Your bus pass.”
    Joanne’s voice seemed unnecessarily loud. Carla hoped no one would hear.
    “You would have got it cheaper,” her friend went on. “no one can afford to waste money nowadays.”
    Joanne’s right, thought Carla, looking at the form she hadn’t filled in. I’ll fill it in and take it round to show her I’ve done it.
    She should have done it long ago.
    But Joanne wasn’t in. A young, strange face opened the door.
    Carla felt apprehensive. Clones always made her feel like that.
    “Mrs. Jarvis has moved away,” the clone said coldly when Carla had enquired about her friend.
    Moved away? thought Carla. Joanne would never do that without telling me.
    “You a friend?” said the clone suspiciously.
    “A neighbour,” stated Carla, somehow glad she’d slipped the bus pass form into her bag.
     The clone seemed satisfied and closed the door. But Carla wasn’t. There was something in the wind.
    A clone living in Joanne’s house, she thought when she’d returned to her own home. Something was wrong.
    She opened her bag and took out the bus pass form, noticing as she did so her mobile phone.
    Maybe Joanne has left me a message, she thought.
    “Couldn’t wait around for you to fill in form,” said the text. “Have decided to try out free bus before the cuts.”
    The yellow bus was halfway round the roundabout in front of her house the next morning when Carla started up the car. She was careful to follow at a discreet distance. The free bus was the last link with her friend.
    Maybe the bus will lead me to her, she thought.
    The first stop was outside a church hall. Carla heard the sound of music from within.
    Two old ladies got off.
    “I’ll pick you up later,” she heard the bus driver say, as he pulled off again.
    Carla wondered if that was where the dancing took place. Maybe Joanne was there. Maybe she’d met a man! It wasn’t impossible. Even at her age. Maybe that was why she had moved away.
    But why didn’t she tell me? thought Carla. It was so unlike her.
    The bus headed out of town and turned left and up a winding country road that Carla had never been up before. It stopped at the back of a low, dark coloured modern building and all the occupants got out and entered the building. Carla parked the car in the cover of some shrubbery and waited. Thirty minutes later the bus driver appeared, got into the bus and drove away. He must have gone for the others, thought Carla. This must be where they get their tea. She wondered what to do. Follow the bus or enter the low building.
    The bus would be coming back for the others so she decided to take the latter course. Maybe some of the others could tell her about Joanne.
    She got out of the car and ran across to the shelter of the building. A strong, sickly aroma was carried to her in the wind. Something’s burning, thought Carla. Maybe it’s the afternoon scones to go with the tea.
    She was passing a low window when she heard the two male voices.
    “There’s five million to be cut, you know.”
    “I know. I don’t know how we’re going to manage.”
    It looks like no one is immune from the council bankruptcy, thought Carla. Those elderly people had better make the most of their free afternoon tea. It obviously wasn’t going to be around for much longer.
    It seemed no one was immune from the cuts.
    She was about to look in the window when she spied a plastic cup on the ground.
    Someone didn’t like their tea, thought Carla. They’d thrown it out the window. Some old people don’t even appreciate a free cup of tea, she thought angrily.
    She picked up the cup. The cup reminded her of Joanne. Even the lipstick stain on the side looked like Joanne’s favourite shade. Carla picked it up to examine it and caught the faintest whiff of something in the wind.
     She walked round the front of the building. She’d wait for Joanne here. Suddenly she saw the plaque on the wall of the building.
    “Inverdeen Crematorium.”
    Carla felt ashamed of herself. Those elderly people were all attending a funeral. She couldn’t disturb them. Maybe that’s where Joanne was too. Not that she could see a sign of anybody. It was quiet and queer no one was around.
    She smiled, thinking of Leanne’s words.
    “Maybe it’s a government experiment.”
     no one coming or going.
    They must all be inside.
    She thought of the clone’s words.
    “Five million to be cut.”
    Were they going to cut funerals? Where were people going to go when they died? Whatever next? she thought.
    That’s when she decided.
    She’d go straight home and fill in her bus pass form. She’d better take advantage of it while she still had the chance. Before the cuts.
    And she would have done. If she hadn’t seen the bus pass.
    It must be bringing the others from the church hall, she thought. She waited for it to stop at the front door of the building but it drove to the rear.
    Strange I was told funerals were at the front, she thought. Maybe I could catch those people before they go in and ask them if Joanne is there, she thought, in an instant. But by the time reached the back door it was firmly closed.
    I’ll wait outside for them, she thought. But half an hour passed and no one came out. They must be having tea, thought Carla.
    She was about to give up and go home when she heard a man’s voice. Must be the bus driver, she thought.
    He was laughing.
    Had the man no respect for the dead? thought Carla.
    “Five million to be cut. A lot less funerals!” she heard him say.
    Clones, thought Carla. Completely insensitive. Didn’t they realise they would be cut if there were no funerals?
    “What do you want done with these?” he carried on.
    “Put them on that table there,” said the clone’s voice.
    Must be the tea, thought Carla.
    She wouldn’t have much longer to wait.
    And then she would see Joanne.
    The cold wind whipped at her and the same, sickly smell scented the wind. She tried the handle of the door. It gave way under her hand.
    I’ll wait in here, she thought, away from that smell. She was in some sort of ante-room. There was no sign of the bus driver or the clones. A door on the opposite wall was ajar. The tables would be set for tea, thought Carla. Joanne would have her own table, I expect, she thought.
    She couldn’t help herself. She had to look.
    Joanne had her own table. And so did all the other bodies. She didn’t recognise Joanne at first. Among all the others. But she knew it was Joanne. The bus pass was still in her hand. There’d been cuts all right. When her hand had been removed from the body. The same hand that must have thrown the tea-cup with the cyanide out the window.
    “Five million to be cut!”
    The words echoed in her ears. It wasn’t the free bus that had been cut or the funerals. It was the elderly. But one cut led to another. And this was only the start. She backed away in fear into the anteroom.
    The door beside her opened and a voice, carrying a tea tray, said sharply,
    “You got your pass?”
    Carla turned and looked startled.
    “My pass?” she said slowly.
    “Your bus pass.”
    The clone’s voice was cold, curt.
    “No.”
    Carla began to shake her head, her blonde curls dancing, softening her youthful face.
    The clone studied her.
    Would he guess? thought Carla.
    The clone studied her carefully.
    “No. You’re not old enough.”
    There was the roar of an engine. And Carla saw the bus pass.
    She didn’t look her age. The clone had said so.
    It was something she’d always be grateful for.

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