On A Winter's Night
                                              John Bruton
The windscreen of our bus was a million beads of dark water.

It was bloody cold on the North Downs. There was snow drifting across the roads and the
county authorities couldn’t cope. We were not having a lot of fun either. It was hard to keep
the bus warm in this weather. Our bus, the house-bus, our six-wheeled narrowboat of the
tarmacadamed highways and byways was moored in a layby just outside Guildford with the
fire out and its twin fanbelts perished and gone.

We had taken public transport into town today to pick up the new belts, just before two inches
of snow crippled the nation and three days before Christmas. Van and I had to walk the last
couple of miles back to the bus. Van hitched for a bit but no one wanted to stop. I didn’t blame
them. We were an unprepossessing sight.

The missing links, the belts, had taken five days to arrive. We had been stuck, stranded for that
long. Talon and Mouse had driven us into town to order the belts up but had moved on soon
after. Mouse had a date to keep with a lady in Sussex. Talon had other business. The rest of
the crew were heading into the City for the season. We just wanted to make the Ashdown
Forest for the Solstice.

“We might just make it,” Van trembled under her woollen hat, her scarf was wrapped around
her face such that only her crystal blue eyes were visible, “if the snow stops and we get the
bus going tonight it’s just over an hour away.”

At that moment there was a break in the clouds and we caught a glimpse of the full moon.

“It’s a sign,” she said, then, “what’s that?” as a dark shape flapped past the silver disc of the
moon.

The windscreen sparkled. The droplets of water on the glass had fused into ice.

I unclipped the engine cover and lifted it off. Five feet below, the tarmac gleamed oily and
bright in reflected torchlight. Cold air rushed up through the opening. The engine was a huge
metal troll and it tugged our home from county to county, growling all the way. Its six pots sat
on top in a line next to the driver’s seat. When she ran she roared and we shouted like sailors
in a storm to be heard above her. It was brilliant.

But right now it was bitterly cold both outside and inside our travelling tin can. The heart of
our Rayburn wood-burning range was as still and chilled as the stalled Bedford engine. We
shivered against the biting, icy wind.

Van steadied the torch and I reached into the cavernous engine bay and grabbed the
alternator. I laid on my front and tried to engage the nut with my old adjustable spanner. It
was difficult.

“I need another elbow,” I muttered,

“I can reach that for you,” Van leaned into the opening, the torch light flickered.

“I wish I had some gloves,”

A crow called in the darkness. I jumped and the spanner slipped. I crunched my knuckles
against the metal ribcage of the Bedford. Van gripped a mounting bolt with a pair of pliers and
I worked the wrench back onto the nut.

“We can do this,” she urged, then I slipped again and knocked the pliers out of her hand. The
wrench followed them five feet down to the pavement. There was a splash and a sparkle of
dark water.

“Butterfingers,” I said, “I’ll have to get down there. Perhaps I’ll do better from below? I might
get a better grip.”

“I thought I felt the bolt start to move,” Van didn’t sound convinced, “It must have had some
effect.”

I stood on the bottom step in the doorway to the Bedford. I felt like we were being watched
but I couldn’t see anyone about. There was a little traffic moving slowly in both directions but
no obvious sight-seers.

If one day it was the Police taking too much of an interest, then the next day it was the public
and the day after that the gypsies and the wide boys. The cops were cool as soon as they
heard we were leaving their manor. As long as we were going to be someone else’s problem
then the brand new Criminal Justice Act didn’t matter. All that paperwork got them down. But,
if we were still around at the end of the week, we knew what would happen.

Mr and Mrs Public came and took pictures of our big red bus. Some got close enough to ask
questions. Most gypsies were after our gearbox while the wide boys were out for a deal. “Got
any? You know? Sell us some stuff to put up me nose?” Wish we had a dog at times. Dog would
have kept us warm too.

The snow was lighter than before, less determined. I looked at my hands in the erratic light of
passing cars, my already bruised, grazed and bleeding hands. Red and black rivers ran from
wrists to elbows. I was the anointed one.

The crow called again. I thought I caught a glimpse, saw half a fluttered wing.

I walked around to the front of the Bedford, got on my hands and knees and crawled beneath
the bumper into the profound darkness under the guts of the beast.

My numbed fingers felt nothing as I fished around in the dark soup. The chemical gravy
soaked into my jeans, I wondered if there was any battery acid in the cocktail. I thought I could
smell piss. I told myself I couldn’t. If there was a gully under here then all would be lost.

“Are you alright down there?” called Van, “I can’t see you.”

“I’m okay,” I called back; “I’m just here.”

A sudden squally breeze ruffled the waters in the gutter and I spotted the wrench. The snow
had redoubled and was blowing straight through the wheel arches and into my face. I grabbed
for the wrench and caught hold of it. The pliers dug into my left knee.

Van’s torchlight from above gave the shadow of my head a halo. It was little help and less
comfort. I rolled onto my left side to survey the work ahead. From here maybe some progress
could be made.

Creak, squeak, clunk, twist, scrape, graze, rub, bleed, the nuts began to loosen. Oil, grit and rust
cascaded like a flight of dark fleas, plinking into the water, plopping onto my face. The wrench
was not fitting properly. It kept slipping, making me punch the cold metal sump over and over
again.

I sighed with frustration. Up above, in the dry, Van dazzled me with the torchlight. I closed my
eyes.

And then I heard a voice.

“Hallo there, need a hand?”

I thought perhaps it came from way inside my own head.

I heard it again, “You look like an old troll down there in your cave,”

I opened my eyes, then my mouth and made greeting. “Who’s that trip trapping over my bus?”

“Do you need a hand? Your girlfriend says your wrench doesn’t fit?”

“That’s right,”

“Try this number fourteen,”

And that was the key, to unlock us from the prison of immobility. It shone like Excalibur, and I
became Arthur as I took it in my hand.

The visitor reached down and held the alternator while I took off the bolts. The job went bold
and swift and was quickly done. The new fan belts gleamed sinewy and strong.

“It looks great,” he said, “she’ll go like a dream now.” Then he disappeared from view.

Uncomfortably numb, wretched and stiff, I crawled backwards out from under. I was the
colour of puddles and smelled of pollution.

I clutched my pliers, wrench and old fan belts in my left hand. My right gripped the silver
number fourteen spanner. It glimmered in the passing headlights.

The snow felt clean on my skin. I closed my eyes and faced into the wind.

We neither saw a car draw up or pull away. There was no other vehicle in the layby.

We called ‘hello’, we called ‘thank you’, but there was no reply. Traffic sped past, faster now
and loud. We got back in the bus; I quickly changed into some dry clothes and climbed behind
the wheel.

I turned the key and unlocked the troll. She growled and roared into life. I turned on the
headlights, dip, then mainbeam, dip again.

A crow on the fence shrugged once, then flew into the night.



© John Bruton


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