By Helen O’Leary

 

I must have gotten my love of story-telling from my mother. She never stepped off the bus without regaling us with a scéal; the woman who travelled to the city regularly to have her hair blue-rinsed, the retired man who travelled for a free haircut and so on.

Back then everybody spoke to their fellow passengers on the bus, it would have been considered the height of bad manners not to!

As townies we had no need for the bus. Therefore, it held a great fascination for us. My great aunt Maudie who lived in a small cottage about 15 miles from town, would come in about once a month for her messages. If my mother were busy, we would be dispatched to meet her.

Maudie would alight from the bus dressed for the occasion; crisply ironed blouse worn under her good navy costume, lace gloves, small hat perched on her head, nylon stockings, seams perfectly straight, and highly polished black laced shoes.

She always carried a leather handbag from which she would extract a starched white handkerchief edged with lace. She used this to dab her weeping right eye; a source of great amusement to us children.

The bus driver knew each passenger by name and probably most of their business too! As Maudie alighted he would offer a hand to help her down the steps. Then he would unload various parcels wrapped in brown paper and secured with twine which would be left at the local newsagent’s for collection.

At Christmas, these boxes could contain anything from a half dozen duck eggs to an unplucked turkey, its limp head draped sorrowfully over the edge.

Continue reading in this week’s Ireland’s Own