The double decker buses of my childhood were the only mode of transport my family used on a regular basis as we didn’t own a car, and neither did anyone else I knew My favourite position on those red Midland buses, was upstairs, sitting right at the front where the wide windows gave an elevated view of the road ahead, and to each side..
From my seat I could watch men run for the bus as it left the bus-stop. While sprinting, they would hold out a hand for the steel pole in the middle of the doorway and nimbly jump onto the platform, thrilling me with what I considered to be Tarzan-like agility. Sliding casually onto a seat they remained alert, waiting for their destination. They’d then return to the platform, holding the pole and waiting for the bus to slow before stopping. Releasing the pole, they’d leap off while the vehicle was still moving, legs pedalling the air before feet hit the pavement at a reducing jog. It appeared a mark of manhood and I admired their agility each time it happened.
When I was ten years old, I once travelled on the bus with my grandmother to the nearest big town, about eight miles away.
Granny talked to me throughout the journey speaking English in the local Derbyshire dialect. Her speech was peppered heavily with words like, mardy, clarty, and jitty, and few passengers, unless they were from my hometown, would have understood much of what she said. I wasn’t encouraged to speak ‘local’ at home but could chat easily with Granny when we were together. However, when one of the men departing from the bus mistimed his exit leap, and made an undignified tumble, Granny exclaimed incredulously, ‘Na then! Is’t puddled? The nesh wazzerk’s clouts’ larruped’n mud’n rammel from’t causie. Ee bah gum, mi duck. He’ll be pigglin some scabs amorra ̶ an scraitin! His tabs’l be burnin nah’s mucked up. Worra barmpot!’
{Look at that! Is he drunk? The silly man’s trousers are covered in mud and rubbish from the pavement. Well, he’ll be crying tomorrow, and his ears will be burning, knowing we’re talking about him making a mess of things. What an idiot!}
Everyone laughed at Granny’s explosion of home-grown vernacular – even those passengers with little idea of what she’d said!
Burnside Writers Group 