by Greg Yevko
“Is good, yes?” said Rye with a grin that split his face almost from ear to ear.
Stanley put his left hand on Rye’s shoulder then pumped his friend’s arm vigorously with the other.
“Indeed, indeed, is very good,” he beamed.
“Stanley, care to tell me what is going on?” Mrs Marley-To-Be chided.
Stanley turned to face her, then with a big grin, dropped onto one knee with a dramatic swoop.
“Marlene Clarice Tentbell, will you marry me?”
For probably the first time in the last 21 years since she had learnt to speak, Mrs Marley-To-Be had for once found herself speechless. After what seemed like an eternity to Stanley, but was in fact about five seconds, Stanley got his answer.
“Of course I will, you daft bastard.”
The first few weeks of marriage went very well. Mrs Marley quietly moved in with Stanley, and amidst many happy hours of physical exertions which even Vera Ruzickova might have struggled with, everything in the Marley garden seemed to be rosy. Although Mrs I’m-not-really-Irish was a little offish initially, insisting that the room really was a single let, once Stanley had won her over with his willing smile and an extra one and six a week, begrudgingly, she gradually warmed to the new extra tenant.
Once the hum-drum banalities of life began to reassert themselves and they established their roles as all young married couples do, it soon became apparent that they needed to start looking for something a bit bigger, a bit better, and certainly a bit longer-term.
“Stanley,” complained Mrs Marley for the fourth time that breakfast, “we really need to get a house.”
“Whoa there, Mrs Marley,” began Stanley, using the rather unimaginative term of endearment he had adopted since that day at the Tower Hamlets Register Office. “Do you know how much a new house is these days, especially round here in London?”
It was true that typical house prices were around £2000 which was way out of the reach of anyone doing the kitchen porter work that Stanley had managed to get himself “… to get on the ladder” as he always used to optimistically tell anyone who would listen.
He tenderly took his wife’s hand and, looking deep into her eyes, said with a heavy sigh, “Marlene, you know we can’t afford a house.”
“Not around here,” countered Mrs Marley, “But my family live close to a small city called Hereford; we might be able to get something around there?” Although it wasn’t a direct question, Stanley knew that she was asking him if he was prepared to move away from The Big Smoke.
He looked into his wife’s imploring eyes and knew that, deep down, she was right. His initial expression of resignation slowly transformed into his characteristic wide grin that had become well known by all who had ever met him.
“Mrs Marley, will you accompany me to the country?” he said in his best impression of a St Lucian doing an impression of an English country gentleman.
Mrs Marley could hardly believe her ears. She leapt up and gave him the biggest hug she could muster. “Let’s go back to bed to celebrate,” she whispered into his ear – she was late for work for the third time that week.
Umhlabathi 3.2 1951
The move down from London did not go well.
Although Mrs Marley’s mother was delighted at the prospect of her daughter once again returning to the fold, as she used to refer to it whilst gossiping with her neighbour over the creosoted fence that separated their respective small terraced dwellings, she was not happy with the prospect of having to accept “a foreigner, would you believe it!” as her new son-in-law. In fact, she had not even seen her daughter’s new husband up until now, and she had not been impressed with Marlene when she had received an excited phone call from London saying “Mum, guess what – I’m married now!”
The ensuing silence had told Marlene everything she needed to know about her mother’s views on her surprise marriage, and she felt just a slight twinge of guilt having not been more open with her mother about how her relationship with Stanley had been building over the last couple of years.
“But mum,” she had implored, “I didn’t know that the silly bugger was going to fling me into a register office after picking me up from work; how could I have possibly invited you to come up?”
Marlene’s mother was not one to be swayed by logic and reasonableness, and she had continued to berate her daughter in between inconsolable sobbing when she had first heard the news.
“Don’t worry about mum,” Marlene had tried unconvincingly to assure Stanley as they boarded the bus to start their five-hour coach journey from Victoria Station to Hereford. “She’ll be fine once she’s met you and that lovely smile of yours.” Stanley managed an equally unconvincing watery smile after he had hauled on board everything that they owned between them; it had all fitted into two large second-hand suitcases and his somewhat battered, canvas-clad demob suitcase that he had hung onto since the end of the war.
Marlene had never been the best of travellers, insisting on taking her Marzines for anything more than a sixpenny fare to Tottenham Court Road, and in spite of the promises on the small packet insisting that the tiny tablets were the perfect prophylaxis against motion sickness, before they had reached Slough, Stanley had the half-digested remnants of her breakfast nestling warmly in his lap.
“How much did you say again?” Stanley was finding it hard to believe that, having left the buzz and excitement of London to come to this backwater of what was basically a glorified market town rather than what he would classify as a city, the prices of houses still seemed to be eye-wateringly high.
Mr Eardsley, senior partner in Carr and Fob’s estate agents, eyed Stanley over the top of his glasses; he did not particularly like what he saw, and Stanley had the same reflective feelings. He cleared his throat.
“Mr Marley,” he began, “what price range do you feel would be an attainable magnitude for someone in your, er, position?”
“Weeeelllll…,” started Stanley, drawing out the single word into an over-emphasized expression of thoughtfulness as he tried to buy himself some time to do the mental arithmetic. “I was thinking a little lower than that; more like, say, £30 to £50?” He inadvertently turned what was meant to be a firm statement into something more like a pleading question.
Mr Eardsley could not prevent himself from pushing his glasses further down his nose, and leaning forward slightly, repeated the numbers back to Stanley in a slightly belittling voice. “£30 to £50?”
“Uh, okay, let’s say £40 to £50,” replied Stanley in as steady a voice as he could manage.
Mr Eardsley sighed inwardly and shuffled the details of several houses he had on the desk in front of him back into a neat pile before putting them away in the top drawer on the right-hand side; he then opened the drawer at the bottom of the left-hand side of the desk.
“Well Mr Marley, you may be in luck. There are a number of people in, let’s say, similar circumstances to yours who are looking for places to buy to get on the property ladder, and what is surprisingly popular and, if I may say, very modern, is the conversion of former omnibuses into first time dwellings. It’s just like a caravan really.”
Mr Eardsley seemed pleased with his proposed solution to Stanley’s predicament as he pushed a piece of paper across the desk towards Stanley. Stanley picked it up with an air of intrigue and saw that it was a typed letter, addressed to Mr Eardsley, on notepaper headed with the words in bold block capitals THE BIRMINGHAM & MIDLAND MOTOR OMNIBUS CO. LTD. – underneath was the unmistakeable red logo that Stanley had seen on local buses as they passed by with the words “Midland Red” emblazoned across the picture of a bus wheel.
Stanley read the letter through with increasing interest.
“Dear Sir,
Replying to your letter of the 11th instant, we give below prices of our obsolete vehicles:
Runners – £45 to £50
Non-runners – £30 to £35
The variation in the price depends upon the condition of the bod
y.
We would point out that it is the purchaser’s responsibility to make arrangements for collection as we cannot undertake to deliver.
We have one or two available at the moment, and these can be inspected at our Brierley Hill Garage at any time during normal working hours.
Yours faithfully,”
It was signed-off by the chief engineer based at Midland Red Chief Offices, Bearwood Road, Smethwick, Birmingham 41.
Stanley’s face betrayed the hint of a slight smile.
“You’ve bought what?”
Mrs Marley was staring at her husband with a look which was a cross between bewilderment, amazement and sheer incredulity.
“It’s a lovely first home of our own, Marlene,” intoned Stanley, “and is a very popular modern choice for young couples starting out.” He wasn’t sure if he was correctly quoting part of the speech that the omnibus salesman had given him when he went to view the old bus, but he felt sure that it was something along those lines.
“But, a bus?” Mrs Marley shook her head and closed her eyes, hoping that when they were opened again things would not look the same – they did.
“It’s more like a static caravan,” countered Stanley, “and just look at what it comes with,” upon which he handed his wife a hand-written list on tatty squared paper which Stanley had been given by the vendor of the bus number HA 9432
1. Large dining table
2. Two chairs
3. Settee
4. Stove oven with chimneys
5. Kitchen cabinet with shelves
6. Curtains; down and upstairs windows
7. Partitions; down and upstairs
8. Double bed with spring mattress
9. Linoleum
10. Garden gate and fencing
“Stanley, Stanley,” began Mrs Marley, shaking her head, “What have you done?”
“I’ve just bought our first home,” replied Stanley, defiantly. “And it only cost us thirty-five pounds.”
Once Mrs Marley saw the bus, she was convinced her heart actually skipped a beat – she absolutely loved it.
Yes, it was still clearly a Midland Red double decker bus, without the engine of course, but somehow, being fixed in its spot at the site with its little fence and swinging picket gate, it looked quite magisterial in its own very tall way.
Stanley scooped his wife up in his arms, and looking deeply into her eyes, proceeded to carry her up the high step onto the deck of the bus. Misjudging the step by about an inch, they both went sprawling onto the floor where the conductor would usually be standing.
“Stanley, you bloody idiot!” shouted Mrs Marley, rubbing vigorously on the right cheek of her behind where she had unceremoniously been dumped, whilst Stanley swore loudly as he pulled his right knee tightly towards his chest in his now seated position.
“Fucking hell that hurt,” he exclaimed through gritted teeth and tightly screwed up eyes.
“Serves you right, you daft bastard,” snorted Mrs Marley, trying to stifle a slight laugh once she realised that really there was nothing wrong with her, and other than his obviously sore knee, there really wasn’t too much wrong with Stanley either, except for his damaged pride.
“Well, assuming that I can actually get around on this clearly, permanently damaged leg of mine,” he began, “perhaps I can show you around our new home.”
Golland 3.2 Tunesday, bit later on
“So, tavarisch, next phase of our little wager.” Perun was warming to this role of provoker-in-chief to test the resoluteness of the two-legs.
“Time to ramp up the pressure with some helpless little two-legs that these two must look after. Mind you, I would say that the fiery one with the lumps won’t take too much to wind up. I believe that by the end of today at least one if not both of them will have expired due to some form of inter-destruction.”
Bondje looked down on omnibus HA 9432 and the intertwined occupants contained inside it.
“Isn’t this the sort of jerking movements that sometimes creates new little two-legs?” he asked in his most innocent of voices he could muster.
“Tavarisch,” chided Perun “I think you know full well what can happen when these two-legs get together like this; however, no harm in us assisting a little just to make sure,” and with a swirl of material that looked suspiciously like a helping hand, Perun gave Stanley a little assistance that he wasn’t even aware of.
Umhlabathi E3.3 1952-54
“Wow, Stanley!”
Stanley and his wife had what most people would have called “a healthy regard” for sexual activities with even the odd bit of experimentation thrown in, but there had been something even more special about the love-making that had taken place that first night in their new double bed with the somewhat lumpy mattress on the top deck of HA 9432.
“You were like a man possessed!” continued Mrs Marley, her hair in a dishevelled heap, both of them breathless from their exertions, little beads of sweat working their way down their still entwined bodies.
“You bet,” enthused Stanley, feeling distinctly proud of his performance in particular that evening. “You better believe that nobody does it better,” he added, his distinctive wide grin almost filling his entire face.
Mrs Marley playfully pushed him away. “Big headed bastard,” she said, unable to suppress the smile that had crept across her face to reflect his own.
“You do realise, Stanley,” she continued in a more serious tone, “you really will need to find a proper job rather than that kitchen porter stuff you’re doing. I saw an advert for an usherette at the local Odeon that I could go for – it’s good money and on top of that you get a weekly pass for two to see the film every week.”
Stanley put two Woodbines between his lips at the same time, then, after passing his lighter over the tops of them both whilst taking in a deep breath, he passed one of them to Marlene. He took a long draw on the remaining one before carefully removing it and slowly blowing a swirling jet of smoke towards the roof of the bus.
“Yes, yes. Of course, you are right, Marlene,” and he reached over to pick up the Hereford Times that he had purchased a couple of days ago and started going through the classifieds.
There was the usual mix of requirements for both skilled and non-skilled workers in the Men and Boys columns, and Stanley was running his eye down them all to make sure he didn’t miss anything.
“Bread-baker, clerk, confectioner, cowman…” he had only just started to read down the first column when Mrs Marley cut across his list with a snort and stifled laugh.
“Cowman?” she repeated in an enquiring way. “Shame it doesn’t say ‘Cowboy,’ you’d be a shoe-in for that one.”
“Ha bloody ha,” he responded indignantly. “It was your idea to come to a bloody cattle-based place don’t forget.”
He continued to go down the list, ringing the occasional entry of mild interest, none of which was cowman.
“This sounds promising,” he said eventually. “There’s one here for a trainee in the Pickling Department of that metals factory on the outskirts of the city. Shift work with plenty of overtime available; sounds like it could be just the thing to build a little bit of cash to help us keep moving up the ladder?” He looked over to his wife who was nodding appreciatively.
After successfully passing a fairly superficial interview and getting the okay from a medical examiner with extremely cold hands who, Stanley judged, seemed to be spending a little longer than was really necessary on the “…and now cough please – no cough again” phase, Stanley found himself on the payroll of Henry Wiggin & Company Limited, metals and alloys, founded 1835. Although the rigours of 8-hour shifts proved to be quite difficult to adjust to initially, Stanley soon found that the recurring format of a week on days, followed by a week on afternoons, followed by a week on nights brought some benefits to compensate some of the inconveniences. He secretly quite enjoyed the Midnight to 8am shift in particular, since he was able to have a very leisurely morning with his
wife once he’d got back in from the cycle ride home and before she had to disappear for the afternoon film show.
Things had started to settle into a good pattern, when, one morning, Mrs Marley sidled up to her husband with a half-smile on her face. Stanley looked across suspiciously, then Marlene slipped her hand into his, and whispered in his ear, “We’re going to have a baby.”
For what seemed like weeks, Stanley felt as if he was walking on cushioned shoes. Marlene had not wanted to tell anybody else too early on, so he had had to keep their secret entirely to himself, but even his co-workers noticed that he seemed to have a spring to his step.
“What’s up, Stanley? Won on the gee-gees for once,” they teased, but Stanley merely smiled and would carry on quietly humming to himself as he rolled yet another large aluminium rod into the fiercely roaring furnace.
Once back in the safety of the bus, he made plans with his wife about how they would cope with the new arrival.
“But now we really will have to move to somewhere a bit more permanent with a room for the little one,” sighed Mrs Marley as they lay together one evening. “And of course, we will need a cot”
“A cot?” exclaimed Stanley. “What was good enough for me will be good enough for our baby when he arrives.”
Mrs Marley looked at her husband warily. “Okay,” she started, “Two things: 1. What do you mean by ‘when he arrives’? and 2., why am I very worried when you use the phrase ‘good enough for me’?”
“Ah, Mrs Marley, Mrs Marley,” said Stanley in a condescending tone with a dismissive shake of his head. “When you are blessed with the gift such as I have been, you will know from the manner of conception what the sex of the baby will be, and the way we were at it that night, believe me, that is going to be one hell of a boy. And my mother put me in a beautifully decorated banana box which was quilted and padded and I slept wonderfully and deeply, and she always said that I was a model baby allowing her to rest as much as she needed whenever she wanted to.”
“Stanley Marley, you are so full of shit,” retorted Marlene.