The Girl from the Lane. Installment #3


At twenty-three years of age Sheila, a single mother of two was a good looking young
woman. In spite of the difficulties involved with raising two young children on her own, she kept an eye on herself. Maybe it was the brisk walks to the roundabout each morning for the bus, followed by the trek from the downtown area where the bus disgorged its passenger loads each morning to join the teeming throng of humanity, to the primary schools where her children attended daily, but Shiela did a lot of walking and was in good physical shape. At first, the walking was murder on her feet, particularly because of her shoes. Thanks to the television serials, she copied and carried her shoes in her hand bag and donned her sneakers for the streets. After the birth of Newton, she had apprenticed herself to a hairdressers shop in Braeton where she had learnt to style peoples hair and fix their fingernails. The money was almost nothing, but it stopped a gap. When Tony mysteriously disappeared from her life eight months later, she left her young children in the daily care of a neighbor for a small fee and stumbled on a job in a restaurant. The pay was not great, but her attentiveness to the customers gave her tips and daily, lunch was “on the house.”

The Isuzu bus did not seem likely to stop as it barreled down the street towards the roundabout. At 6.17am it was almost packed to capacity. The waiting commuters surged forward as the silver and blue missile hurtled towards them on the wrong side of the road.
The conductor seemed to be swaying in the breeze his right elbow locked onto the railing of the bus’ rear door his shirt like a kite-tail flailing behind him. The lewd reggae lyrics was pounding as the bus screeched to a miraculous halt centimeters from the throng of commuters. With practiced skill, Sheila bundled her two kids onto the bus and made a space for the three of them. The bus was about to lurch forward when the man seated below her motioned her to his seat. Her smile was sincere as she nestled the two children in her lap. There were indeed men still around who were gentlemen.

Sheila recalled her chance meeting with Mrs. Martin. It was the middle of the rainy season and the lady had come to lunch as usual with the most fabulous looking middle aged black man she had ever seen. He seemed very business-like, but very attentive. They appeared a little hurried today as if they had an appointment somewhere. Instead of eating in, they ordered lunch to go. She bagged the take-out order and the gentleman paid in cash, leaving her a whole Ja.$300.00 as tip. It was while she was clearing the drink glasses that she noticed the black pocketbook on the chair next to which the lady had been sitting. She was sure it belonged to the lady. Sheila opened the pocketbook and came face to face with the collection of Gold credit cards. The purse contained twenty-seven US$100.00 bills as well as Ja.$11,000.00. Then she saw what she needed. The business card read: Faye A. Martin M.B.A., B.Sc.- V.P. Marketing and the name of the company she worked. It was three hours later that she came to retrieve her pocketbook after her secretary with whom Sheila had spoken earlier had alerted her. A month later, Sheila was working in the canteen of the same company. Six months later she swapped her apron for the company’s uniform and was clerking in the Sales Department.

The Isuzu bus raced past the line of traffic that snaked its way over the causeway bridge towards Kingston. Ahead lay the great metropolis of Kingston, the third in line for the ignominious title of “murder capital of the world.” To the right, the Fort Augusta women’s prison lay, framed by the green/blue waters of the Caribbean Sea. Some of the passengers, particularly the school children were chanting along with lewd lyrics being spewed from the bus’ sound system. The conductor, his left hand clutching hundred dollar and fifty dollar bills between each finger, recited the lyrics with gusto. He was half way in and out the vehicle, prancing along to the lyrics as the engine of the bus whined to the beat of the music. Sheila was no driver, but she felt the immediate change as the driver shifted to high speed as he raced over the bridge. The long draw on the air horn by the driver was the signal to all and sundry that he was not slowing. The causeway bridge is a “hump-back” bridge for one lane traffic either way and the silver and gray missile was thundering from west to east on the wrong side. As the top of the bus broke the horizon the driver of the Toyota Corolla approaching from the other side gave up the ghost. He was dead even before his vehicle connected with the Isuzu bus. The conductor flew past Sheila on the left side and slammed into the back of the delivery truck in the line of traffic on the left side of the bridge. Sheila clutched her two children and forced their heads into her lap. The bus flew through the air, strafing five other vehicles ahead.
“Mommy” Latoya screamed as Sheila held them both. The bus came down on the right side, then rolled to the left, then right again and Sheila held on to her kids. The noise was horrendous, and the screaming unbearable. It seemed to happen in slow motion and to take forever. There was blood on Latoya left side and Sheila thought the worst. In a flash, she pushed the lifeless body of the woman seated to her left from atop Newton. The man who had given her his seat lay in a crumpled heap on the stairwell of the bus. She had to squeeze past him in order to exit the wreck with Newton. She placed him on the median in the causeway before making her way back to the wreck to see about Latoya. She pushed and pulled again at the seat where they were sitting. Latoya called out to her. “Thank you, thank God,” Sheila said aloud as she bundled her daughter out of the wrecked vehicle. They were now standing in the median. Newton was now crying, while Sheila stood looking to the skies, giving thanks to God for sparing hers, and the lives of her children. All the while the excitement on the Causeway main road mounted feverishly as passing motorists rushed from their vehicles to rescue the injured.

Visit my website at: www.cricimages.com,.

Stay tuned for the next installment .