by Gill James
still water
Miss Pringle did not like the Metrolink. It shuffled and shook her. Many
of the people on it were a bit smelly and usually the smelliest of them all
would sit themselves down right next to her. Or the only seat remaining would be
next to someone who was a bit fatter than they should be and they would take up
half of her seat.
However, it was cheaper than paying to park and it would
save the hassle with the traffic.
She didn’t have to wait long for a tram. And though
there were a lot of people on the platform she managed to find a double seat to
herself. She generally marvelled at how selfish some people travelling alone
could be. They would take up a double seat and later couples who wanted to
travel together had to sit separately. But of course it was different for her.
She was Miss Pringle, now retired, but formerly the respected teacher of
thousands, yes thousands of infant school children over the years.
It wasn’t the best seat. It was rather near the wibbly-wobbly
one that was in the bend in the tram. The bar on the window spoilt her view. If
she had to travel by tram, she liked a window seat with a good open view of
people’s back gardens. Her very favourite seat was behind the driver; it made
her feel as if she was driving the tram.
It must have been all those years of teaching the
little ones. That was the sort of thing they liked to do. It must have rubbed
off on her.
At Whitefield a couple with a young daughter got on.
They stood near the door.
“Why don’t you go and sit next to that lady?” said the
father.
Miss Pringle shot the little girl one of her school
teacher looks. Don’t you dare.
The little girl buried her head in her father’s arm.
At Prestwich another young family got on.
“There’s a seat next to that lady,” said the mother.
The little boy shook his head and turned his back on
Miss Pringle.
Quite right, too. She was no lady. It was funny how
when she’d been a girl children were expected to get up from their seats and
let grown-ups sit down. Nowadays it was
all about the children. Well she wasn’t budging. She was over 60 now.
She was aware of a young man sitting behind her on the
wibbly-wobbly seat. Well you could hardly ignore him He was constantly on his
mobile and when he wasn’t making or receiving a call, he was exchanging texts
with someone or playing some noisy game.
It was an intrusion into people’s alone time. If he’d
been one of hers she’d have given him what far. So selfish!
The young man also had his feet on the other single
seat opposite his own. Disgraceful.
At Crumpsall a third family got on, an extended one
this time. Hindus, Miss Pringle thought. The females all wore shalwar kameez
and had their heads covered. The matriarch, a big-boned woman, but perhaps not
fat, promptly sat down next to Miss Pringle. At least she didn’t smell, except
perhaps of a rather sickly perfume she was wearing. She should at least be
grateful that the woman was clean.
The older woman, the same age as herself, Miss Pringle
supposed, nodded and smiled. She seemed to be very careful about not taking up
more than her half of the seat.
The younger woman and the two High School girls made
their way down the aisle. The man held the little boy’s hand tightly.
“Here,” said the young man with the phone. “Take these
seats.”
The younger woman and the older of the two girls took the
two wibbly-wobbly seats. The older girl
pulled the little boy up to sit on his lap. The younger girl and her father
held on tight.
“It’s so nice to see that young people still have some
manners, is it not?” said the woman sitting next to Miss Pringle.
“It is indeed,” said Miss Pringle, though it hadn’t
been quite what she had expected. A shock, really.
Now what could she complain about?
About the author
Gill James writes fiction of all lengths for children, adults and young adults. She also works as an editor and publisher and in fact edits this e-zine,
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