Star over Bethlehem - Agatha Christie [7]
“Come along now, hurry along, please—we can’t wait here all day.” She scooped up an elderly arthritic lady and thrust her staggering into the bus where someone caught her and steered her to a seat, and seized Mrs. Hargreaves by the arm above the elbow with iron fingers, causing her acute pain.
“Inside, only. Full up now.” She tugged violently at a bell, the bus shot forward and Mrs. Hargreaves collapsed on top of a large woman occupying, through no fault of her own, a good three-quarters of a seat for two.
“I’m so sorry,” gasped Mrs. Hargreaves.
“Plenty of room for a little one,” said the large woman cheerfully, doing her best without success to make herself smaller. “Nasty temper some of these girls have, haven’t they? I prefer the black men myself. Nice and polite they are—don’t hustle you. Help you in and out quite carefully.”
She breathed good temper and onions impartially over Mrs. Hargreaves.
“I don’t want any remarks from you, thank you,” said the bus conductress who was now collecting fares. “I’d have you know we’ve got our schedule to keep.”
“That’s why the bus was idling alongside the curb at the last stop but one,” said the large woman. “Fourpenny, please.”
Mrs. Hargreaves arrived home exhausted by recrimination and unwanted affection, and also suffering from a bruised arm. The flat seemed peaceful and she sank down gratefully.
Almost immediately however, one of the porters arrived to clean the windows and followed her round telling her about his wife’s mother’s gastric ulcer.
Mrs. Hargreaves picked up her handbag and went out again. She wanted—badly—a desert island. Since a desert island was not immediately obtainable (indeed, it would probably entail a visit to a travel agency, a passport office, vaccination, possibly a foreign visa to be obtained, and many other human contacts) she strolled down to the river.
“A water bus,” she thought hopefully.
There were such things, she believed. Hadn’t she read about them? And there was a pier—a little way along the Embankment; she had seen people coming off it. Of course, perhaps a water bus would be just as crowded as anything else …
But here she was in luck. The steamer, or water bus, or whatever it was, was singularly empty. Mrs. Hargreaves bought a ticket to Greenwich. It was the slack time of day and it was not a particularly nice day, the wind being distinctly chilly, so few people were on the water for pleasure.
There were some children in the stern of the boat with a weary adult in charge, and a couple of nondescript men, and an old woman in rusty black. In the bow of the boat there was only a solitary man; so Mrs. Hargreaves went up to the bow, as far from the noisy children as possible.
The boat drew away from the pier out into the Thames. It was peaceful here on the water. Mrs. Hargreaves felt soothed and serene for the first time today. She had got away from—from what exactly? “Away from it all!” That was the phrase, but she didn’t know exactly what it meant …
She looked gratefully around her. Blessed, blessed water. So—so insulating. Boats plied their way up and down stream, but they had nothing to do with her. People on land were busy with their own affairs. Let them be—she hoped they enjoyed themselves. Here she was in a boat, being carried down the river towards the sea.
There were stops, people got off, people got on. The boat resumed its course. At the Tower of London the noisy children got off. Mrs. Hargreaves hoped amiably that they would enjoy the Tower of London.
Now they had passed through the Docks. Her feeling of happiness and serenity grew stronger. The eight or nine people still on board were all huddled together in the stern—out of the wind, she supposed. For the first time she paid a little more attention to her fellow traveller in the bows. An Oriental of some kind, she thought vaguely. He was wearing a long capelike coat of some woollen material.