Summer reads: The No. 4 by James Fitzsimons of Giffnock, near Glasgow

They are all already there – the usual group. We almost have our own club except that we don’t say much to each other – if anything. The Non-Talking Club – perhaps that’s what we should call ourselves.

There’s the girl with the big bag who can’t possibly have it full or her arms would be six feet long and then there’s the suited, middle-aged man with the battered briefcase and the constantly texting woman that looks like the actress in Emmerdale, and who must have the only phone in the world whose battery never runs out. We silently acknowledge each other but The Non-Talking Club doesn’t speak – it’s against the rules.

Here it comes…my bus, snaking around the roundabout in the middle of the morning conga, heading into town. 7.37. It’s two minutes late...two whole minutes!

‘Aw right there hen?’ says Sid. I call him that coz he looks like Sid James from the Carry On films; wrinkled forehead, toothy grin and a dirty laugh. I smile and take my ticket without saying a word. Don’t want to engage with him otherwise I’d need to do it again tomorrow.

I move up the aisle to my seat. First one up the wee step, turn right, inside seat beside the window. My seat. Twelve years and I can count on two hands how many times I haven’t got it. They were not happy mornings. I like it because I sit high above the sitters in the lower seats in front of me, like my uncle Danny’s SUV. Nobody who gets on before would dare take that seat. It’s mine, and they know it. That’s just the rule. Another club – the Don’t Sit In My Seat Club. Members understand.

We set off, the bus sauntering in the rush hour traffic down the road past the Derby Café. I smile as I do every morning recalling me and Dave’s first date there. A ‘99’ with strawberry sauce, 12 years and 3 kids ago. Of course, I don’t when we have had a fall out. I turn my head away and look out the other window as if it’s not there. Doesn’t work of course. Just makes me think of it even more. Really annoying that...

Shawlands stop. A noisy girl gets on. She zig-zags her way up the aisle, grabbing the handrails like a slalom skier as the bus jerks away from the stop. It’s Sandra, and she’s got a big smile on her face. Her sister must have had the baby. I know her entire life story, her back story, her future story and her ‘if-only-I-had’ story. She doesn’t think anyone on this bus can hear her, obviously. I turn to look out the window, so my ears can get a better direct hit of information. Funny how nobody thinks anyone else hears them on a bus.

You get to know people and their story without speaking to them. The bus is all a therapy club – you know everyone without knowing them.

Sharon, that’s the one she always sits beside, lifts her bag to let Sandra sit. Think I heard her say something once too, but this is a one-way friendship if ever I heard one.

‘Old Vicky’ stop. Except it’s not there any more. Can’t get much older than that. My daily eye candy gets on. He’s a good-looking guy in a Glasgow sort of way…he looks better in the rain. He smiled at me once as he passed on the way to the back seat. I nearly blushed. Don’t think he noticed. Wish he would sit nearer the front though. If he got on a bit earlier, he could make Sharon get up and sit further back? That would be such a result.

The bus creates territorial behaviour and rituals. I defend the seat next to me with my bag. That seat is mine too. Each time the bus stops, check the size of the queue. Will I get away with it again…? I watch each new passenger as they make their way up the aisle. A guy arrives and looks at the seat…then me. He raises his eyebrow in that…'is it OK if I sit here as it’s really empty and I know you’ve just put your bag on it to stop me asking’ sort of way. I’ve lost! I force a smile and make that little move towards the window, like everyone does, as if to admit defeat but make him realise I’m now having to move… even if I don’t really. It’s like putting up an invisible barrier. The ritual dance is complete, and I accept his request to sit down.

One day, a guy, a stranger to our bus, sat next to me wearing a pair of those really irritating white earphones that make him look as if he’s wearing the packaging rather than the earrings. It made that far-away, screeching, tinny noise that is really irritating… A: because you don’t really want anyone invading your space and time with their noise…or smell, and B: because you really need to strain to hear what the hell the song is, as it sounds as if it’s playing in Edinburgh…inside a washing machine.

Then I made it out…'Got my first real six string…’ Damn! I love that song, but not this version I’m hearing! He got off after three stops, leaving me wondering where he was going, and what the next song would be?

The Tramway. From here into town is the dreaded run in damp weather. The ‘sauna run’. As we crawl along the inside lane, past the old dance hall at Eglinton Toll, under the new motorway bridge and head for town, I can feel the moisture begin to leave my body and gently soak my clothes. It’s the only time I think…'for goodness sake someone put their hand out and stop this bus! We need air!’ Never happens so close to town though. They say Glasgow isn’t a healthy city. Well, the one’s that live within walking distance of the centre must be. They don’t take the bus.

There’s the guy I see now and again in his too-tight running gear who I know races buses into town from his flat here. Sometimes he targets our bus. He picks his prey at the lights on Albert Road. It’s the only time I can put up with the sauna…just to beat him. ‘Nobody put out their hand!’ I imagine the Bridge Street underground as the finishing line. I lean forward in my seat, as if that will make us go faster. He always wins but one day...one day……

The bus turns towards the King George V bridge past the shiny new offices emerging on the south side of the Clyde. It doesn’t really feel like a bridge. Its big, wide lanes making it feel more like a landing strip as we descend from the scruffy south side into the big city. 'Welcome to Glasgow. The local time is 8.21. Thank you for flying with First Bus’.

I get up off my seat, let the good-looking guy and the woman with the big bag go first in our usual order. We are once again delivered safely to our destination, and another work day begins.

So, as I lie here in bed and contemplate another day of isolation, working from my wee study, and the dread of home schooling, I picture myself stepping off the bus onto the pavement of Glasgow’s most appropriately named road…Hope Street. My journey’s end.

We shall all meet again tomorrow, the daily gathering of the clubs. I am going to be a rebel – I am going to strike up a conversation. That will shock them all. I’ll smile at the eye candy, I’ll...I’ll…..Well maybe not tomorrow but one of these days…..I think, I hope……...I wonder what his name is……...I wonder why the bus is No 4…..Why isn’t it No 297?….If I don’t ask his name I’ll call him No 4…..No, that doesn’t sound quite right…...I wish my eyes would stay open….but they won’t…..No 4…..No 4…..

AUTHOR’S COMMENT: I am delighted and appreciate that you have taken the time to review my little story. My qualifications are extremely thin when it comes to writing. This is the first time I have entered any sort of competition, and my only real experience was a novel I had published a number of years ago (The Holborn Scroll) which was self published through the Book Guild...and was a present from my wife. It took me 10 years on and off to write so not surprisingly has not been followed up!

Anyway, back to your suggested alterations. I think the way you have taken my character and emphasised the fact she is part of the daily 'team' commute rather than have her simply observing from the outside certainly adds to the feeling that this is a communal activity and there is a 'warmth' to the changes. I certainly think this is a very positive change. I am pretty chuffed that The Herald are publishing it.

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