Rescuing Mother

This morning, during my new routine of jogging at daybreak, I saw a girl on a peppermint green High Nelly bike.  It was early but I assume she's cycling into work.  She wore a soft green helmet that matched her bike, a sky blue zipped up jacket and on her back, she carried a red polka dot backpack with a flask in a side pocket.  She looked as neat as a pin sitting upright and as controlled as a swan pedalling through the near-deserted village into work.     It made me want to have a bike again.  

Maybe when I go back to work, if I ever go back to the office, I'll cycle in too.     Sometime in 2012, when I still did the school run, there were two weeks out of every three when I didn't need the car.  I took advantage of the Bike to Work scheme and bought a black High Nelly style bike.  It had wide wheels and a thick comfortable saddle.  Even in the throes of dense rush hour traffic, it only took me 20 minutes each way.  But rush hour traffic is hazardous.  I know myself when I'm driving to work I become a crazed beast: everything else on the road is an obstacle that's out to stop you getting to work on time.  No one else has the right to be on the road the same time as you.    

Cycling home on the back Douglas road one winter's evening, I overtook a No. 206 bus that had just pulled into the bus stop.  As I passed the bus, a truck overtook me.  For five terrifying seconds, I was trapped between two moving vehicles.  The weather is another issue. To be fair, Ireland isn't as wet as it looks but the two weeks leading up to Christmas, it rained every single day.  Even with rain gear, my shoes filled with rainwater.  It's like all things when you want to be independent, you have to be well prepared and it takes a lot of work.  On the other hand, I have good memories of cycling through Ballyphehand leading up to Halloween and the evening filled with the aroma of burning peat fires.     

I kept it up for two years until Tom started college. Since I had parking and he didn't, I reverted to driving again.  One person who still cycles into work is a girl called Amber.  I don't know her very but she works in the building next to mine.  Most mornings, I see her gliding in on her mint green High Nelly bike, the front basket of her bike filled with pretty things, she wearing velvet green shoes and clothes made from floaty fabrics and smiling.  She's always smiling and in her effortless elegance and poise, she reminds me of Audrey Hepburn from Roman Holiday.   

One Sunday evening, about a year ago, I was standing on Aston Quay in Dublin waiting for the 6 0'clock bus to Cork.  I had spent the weekend with my friends, Deirdre and Liz and being hungover and talked out, I was tired.  You know that feeling when your holiday is over and you just want to get the journey home over with.  A few minutes before six, I saw Amber coming towards me pulling a small suitcase behind her with her left hand and holding a large fruit cake in her right.     My first thought on seeing her was, 'please don't let her see me.'  I didn't have the energy for small talk with a work colleague for the next three hours.

Amber spots me and comes over smiling.   "I'm just back from a week in Cyprus and I spent the weekend with my brother in Dublin.  He's a baker and he's given me this huge barmbrack," and waving the cake in the air she continued, "sure, how am I going to eat all that, I'm living on my own."  I suggested that she freeze it and cut bits off as she went along.   Amber dropped her voice and whispered, "I'm booked on the 7 0'clock but you know how it is when your holiday is over and you just want to get home."    I quickly reassured her, "Oh, you'll have no problem getting on.  They're very good like that.  Whether you have a ticket or not, if there's room, they'll let you on."   

A minute later the bus pulled up.  It had stopped at Dublin Airport first and it was already a third full.  The driver opened the door and stepping down onto the street shouted, "All those with booked seats first please."  I picked up my bag and assured Amber I'd keep her a seat.    The bus filled rapidly. By the time I got on the only free seats together was at the back of the bus.  I slid into the second seat from the end of the row cornering the last seat for Amber.  The bus continued to fill up but no sign of Amber.  The driver wrestles his way down the centre of the bus past the crammed seats and badly stored bags.  He stopped in front of me.  He pointed to the empty corner seat and said: "Who's sitting there?" 

"My mother," I said.

"Where is she?"

"She was right behind me a few minutes ago, but I don't know where she's got to?"

"Did she get on the bus?"

"I don't see her"

"Can you identify her?"    

I wasn't expecting that.    I was getting annoyed now and wondered why he couldn't just leave her on.  I said, "Well, she's not on the bus so she must be still out on the street?"

"Come with me," he said.

I asked the African student sitting on my right to keep an eye on my stuff and reluctantly followed the driver to the front of the bus.  The driver pointed to the group of hopefuls clustered around the bus door, "Which one is she?"  I spotted Amber standing to the far right of the group.  Keeping my eyes averted from the pleading eyes of the rest, I pointed to her and said, "The lady with the hat." I immediately returned to my seat.  

Seconds later, Amber boarded the bus and made her way towards me, smiling and waving her barmbrack in the air.  "Have I you to thank?" she said.  "Are you my lucky charm?"     

"Ssssh," I said putting my finger to my mouth and as soon as she settled into her seat, I whispered, "You're my mother."  

"Well that's gas," said Amber.  "Here, have the barmbrack as a 'thank you'."  

"Thanks, Mum," I laughed.  "I love barmbrack."   

The African student leaned forward, his dreadlocks swung out elegantly as he turned his face to look at us.   He looked from Amber to me and back again, "You two are not related, are you?"    

We laughed and Amber said, "What makes you say that?"   

"No offence," he said looking at me, "but she's at least half your age and about 12 inches taller."

"And you'd be right," I said.  "That's why I didn't hang around after I pointed her out to the driver. If he saw the two of us together even he couldn't fail to notice that Amber couldn't be the mother."  

"So, why did you say mother?" asked the student.

"I don't know," I said, "It just came out."

"There's something about the word 'mother'," said Amber.   "It just tugs at the heart.  No one can refuse a mother." 

"I feel bad for the other people who didn't get on," I said.  "I'd hate to be stranded in Dublin and I've never seen so many people turn up for the bus at the same time." 

"It's always the same on a Sunday evening," said the student. "And don't feel bad, you did the driver a favour.  He could only pick one person and you made that decision for him."

The student then introduced himself as Albert.  I bumped into Albert in Cork a few weeks later.  We laughed about the bus incident.    Amber got a good laugh too the following Monday when she introduced me to her colleagues as her daughter.