Encounter

Out of the November fog a double-decker emerged and lazily paused to allow the four passengers to board. Philip went upstairs, clutching the unnecessarily large briefcase with its contents of six exercise books, a practically empty pencil case and assorted crumpled bits of paper – probably letters and notices for parents that he had neglected to pass on to his mum. Never mind – he might remember tonight.

As he climbed the steps to the top deck he felt his backside being touched. It wasn’t the pressure of someone hurrying him up; he was being fondled – groped.
‘C’mon, kid. Got to get up quickly’, the man said.
Upstairs the bus was crowded with people going into the city centre for work. Philip was able to find a seat next to someone else, well away from the man. He looked at him, trying to get a better impression of him.

The man was in his middle twenties, Philip reckoned. Dark hair. His face wasn’t properly visible from where they were sitting, however he had seen him before at the bus stop. He found the dark and sullen expression disquieting, and when the man spoke to Philip the boy usually tried to avoid answering. It was tough when your mum said ‘don’t speak to strange men’ one day and ‘speak when you’re spoken to’ another day. If he couldn’t avoid answering he’d mumble something monosyllabic. The man’s Scottish accent sometimes confused the boy too, making it harder for Philip to feel comfortable in his presence. The man was dressed in clothes that had probably seen better days – a suit, but worn and shiny in parts. Philip wondered whether he always dressed up smartly – perhaps he was an office worker. That didn’t pay much, he knew, because his dad had worked in an office and he wore shabby suits.

What to do? Philip felt confused. Was the touching intentional or not? If he mentioned it to anyone they would probably tell him he was imagining it. People always bump into one another on crowded buses, they’d say. And anyway, who was there to tell? His mum was always really busy, what with holding down a job, housework and looking after Philip and his brothers. She had enough to do without taking on some weird fantasy the lad had dreamt up. She often felt irritated by new problems that any of the boys introduced into her life, not because she didn’t care, but because it reduced her capacity to keep her head above water with all the other business she had to cope with.

Philip’s father had died last January. He wished that he could have asked dad for help. Mum had remarried already, but Philip and his brothers didn’t get on with the new husband their mother had found. When he was feeling charitable Philip might think that the only thing wrong with him was the haste with which he’d hitched himself to mum – ‘before your dad’s side of the bed’s gone cold’ his Nan once let slip.

Philip couldn’t talk to his brothers about the groper. They were still at primary school. What understanding, let alone assistance could they offer? So what about school friends. The answer was simply that he had none he could share the problem with. He got on ok with several boys, but since he’d gone to the grammar fifteen months ago there was no one he had invited back home to play with and he’d been invited to no one’s parties or anything. He just didn’t fit into their world. The same with his teachers. They cared about the subjects they taught, not the boys. The groper was a problem he’d have to tackle by himself.

The day after the incident Philip left for school fifteen minutes earlier. He’d thought about ‘being ill’ and taking the day off but that would cause all sorts of disruption at home that he couldn’t face. Yet he didn’t want to face the man either, in case it was real and not just his imagination. Perhaps the earlier bus …

The plan worked. For a period of three weeks the man didn’t show up, and then it was the end of term – the Christmas holiday. For Philip and his brothers, as much as for any pre-teens, Christmas was a joyful holiday, the pleasure being in anticipation as well as realisation. The love that their mother failed to exhibit in her hectic life she tried to demonstrate with gifts bought from catalogues that would take half the year to pay back. The three brothers clubbed together to buy a present in return and it never mattered to their mum what the gift might be or cost. She loved them all and she loved their love.

It was late January that Philip’s father had died. On the first anniversary the man returned to Philip’s life. Leaning in a shop doorway on Hattersley Road West, by the bus stop had kept him out of Philip’s sight until the boy reached the bus shelter. Philip’s throat felt tight. He couldn’t escape. They were the only ones at the stop. He looked along the street, willing the bus to arrive early. A stream of cars, headlights breaking the gloom teased his impatience.

‘Hello, kid. Did you have a good holiday?’ There was no response. The boy looked every way rather than make eye contact.
‘What’s up? Cat got your tongue?’ Finally their eyes met.
‘I’ve missed you these last few weeks, kid. I’ve been away, see?’
The final word, phatic, yet almost compelling Philip to respond, hung between them and then pulled the lad down into conversation.
‘Have you?’ He mumbled.

The arrival of the bus brought no respite. Did the man say ‘I’m after you’ as he waved Philip on board ahead of himself, or was it childish paranoia mishearing a simple polite gesture?
‘Shall we go upstairs?’ The man left no option because he had positioned himself on the boarding platform in such a way as to block access to the lower deck. As Philip reached the last few steps a hand was brushing the back of his leg. He cringed and looked ahead for a seat where he could be free of the menace. There was none. This earlier bus attracted so many fewer people and they all seemed to be in pairs. Perhaps the briefcase could form a barrier.

You’re one of them grammar school kids, aren’t you?’ said the man as he sat down next to Philip’s bag. His unpleasant and unwanted presence was making Philip anxious. His breathing quickened and his face flushed. He sweated.
‘What’s your name?’
The relentless questioning demanded an answer and the manners instilled in the boy’s upbringing forced Philip to participate in the cat and mouth conversation.
‘Philip’.
‘Hello, Philip. I’m Ian. Let me get your ticket.’
Philip protested but Ian paid anyway. Philip felt small and overpowered by this man, a child cowed by the confident authority of an adult. He knew the man would win any argument, let alone one so petty. He was defenceless.

Philip hurried to get up as soon as the bus left the penultimate stop before his destination. Never before had he been so eager to get to school and to reach safety from … what? He was still so uncertain. Was Ian a real threat of some sort? Was he just an adult who found it easier to make conversation with children than with other adults? Maybe he hadn’t touched Philip on purpose. Any doubts that the child had were dispelled as he moved away from his seat.
‘See you tomorrow, then’, Ian said as he patted Philip’s backside. Philip slipped on the steps in his hurry to get to the lower deck and leapt off the bus whilst it was still moving – forbidden by byelaws, but Philip wouldn’t have cared even if he knew this.

That day at school was one of his worst. He couldn’t get the morning’s journey out of his head even though the second bus travelled uneventfully from the Apollo to school. The distraction told on his work. Mr Neville, the Latin master, smacked him across the head because he didn’t know where the class was up to when it was his turn to translate. It hadn’t hurt physically, but it brought tears to Philip’s eyes that he should be humiliated this way over some daft task that was so utterly meaningless compared to what he was trying to deal with.

In the lesson between break and dinner he was given a detention for not handing in his homework. He guessed he’d left it at home but remembered doing it. His protests cut no ice with the teacher. And then after dinner it was games. The pitch was mostly mud and he was one of the last to be picked, as usual. He played left back and sometimes got to kick the ball if the other boys were careless enough to let it come his way. This day he got a good chance to kick it but slipped in the mud as his foot made contact with the ball. An own goal. To Philip it mattered little, swamped as he was by real problems, but his team would get him for this. His profound despair was too deep for tears. There was no escape from the gauntlet of towels that whipped him in the changing rooms, and the physical pain made him cry, allowing some release from the pent up emotions of the day.

That night Philip lay awake listening to the light breathing from his brothers’ bunk beds. Downstairs his mum was listening to the Light Programme on the radio. They were playing something by Duane Eddy that Philip liked. His mum hadn’t any idea where the missing homework had got to, but Philip had found it later, folded at the bottom of his briefcase. Another own goal! Maybe if he handed it in tomorrow he’d get let off the detention, but he doubted it. Olly was a bastard of a strict teacher.

Philip thought back to the best part of the day. On his way home he’d gone one stop further than usual. He got off the bus and, yes, there was the stop on the other side of the road for buses going the other way. He might avoid Ian by going from this bus stop tomorrow. If only he knew how to end the nagging feeling that this would be only a temporary respite.

It was two and a half months later and just before the Easter holiday that Philip encountered Ian again. His mum was too ill to go to work that day and Philip had had to help his stepdad, Eddie to get his brothers ready for school. To avoid being late himself he went back to the nearest bus stop that he used to use. He wondered as he walked there whether Ian might have ‘been away’ again, or even if he was away now. The bus came and there was no sign of him. Philip stayed downstairs, and to his pleasant surprise arrived at school eighty minutes later, incident free. At the end of school, however, he was mortified to see the man waiting at his bus stop.

‘Well, if it isn’t my old pal Philip. How’re you getting on? Teachers being nice to you?’
‘Alright I s’pose.’ Philip felt tempted to let Ian know what he thought of E-Type the English teacher with the initials JAG, who had just given him an end of term report that was brutal. ‘His prose writings are badly written, wrongly punctuated, carelessly paragraphed, short and usually uninteresting.’ Very helpful! Not the sort of thing to share with a weird stranger, though.
Philip looked about him. There was no way of avoiding Ian without being rude, and if he was rude the bigger man might get physical. The lad weighed his briefcase to assess whether he might use it as a weapon if that happened. He didn’t think so. It had bulk but not weight. Running wasn’t a solution either; he knew he was rubbish at games and sport. As usual he would have to put up with the unwanted attention.

‘Got something to show you,’ Ian said. ‘Across the road, see?’ He pointed to a car, a Mini Traveller. There was a bleached blonde woman in it who smiled at Philip and waved. It was weird. Why should this stranger make him feel any less uncomfortable than Ian? She looked open and honest, whereas Ian always looked a bit shifty and was often scowling and sullen. But then Philip recognised these characteristics in himself sometimes. Morose his form teacher wrote on his report. He was surprised to find himself waving back at the woman.

‘Do you want to look her over?’ Philip was momentarily caught of guard by Ian’s question until he realised that he’d meant the Mini.
‘Ok, yeah.’ Again he surprised himself. Minis were cool, but the Traveller wasn’t as good as the others. And would he have agreed if the woman wasn’t there smiling at him. He went and looked at the motor and made polite noises about it. Ian was obviously proud of it – although it really belonged to his girlfriend.

Myra introduced herself to Philip. They made light, easy conversation. Philip was still uncomfortable with Ian, but less so. If he had this nice lady as his girlfriend then he couldn’t be all that bad. Philip even began to wonder again whether he had imagined all the problems of the last few months.

Too late Philip saw his bus go past. He was on the wrong side of the road and the traffic was too heavy to get to his stop in time. He swore mildly.
‘Was that your bus, love?’ Asked Myra.
‘Yeah. It’s another half hour before the next one, and I had hoped to get home quickly ‘cos my mum’s not well.’
‘Ian could give you a lift, couldn’t you, Ian?’
‘Aye, I could that. It’s no bother. We’ll get there before the bus.’
Philip sat next to Myra and they chatted and listened to the car radio. Del Shannon was playing. Ian overtook the bus and made good time. As they came into Hyde Myra asked Philip if he wanted to visit that evening – assuming his mum was ok with that. They made a flexible arrangement that Philip would drop in if he could after tea. He took their address in Wardle Brook Avenue, just near his house, and dropped him on Paignton Avenue.

So began one of the happiest times that Philip could remember. It had been so long since he had friends he could visit, and his mum noticed he was happier than he’d been since his dad died. Sometimes they’d just hang around at the Wardle Brook house, playing cards or talking about movies. Ian enjoyed war films, and so did Philip. Ian said it was wrong that the Germans never won in any of them. He told Philip all about the Nazis and Hitler until the boy was quite an expert for his age. Sometimes they’d drive out to the moors and go for walks. They used to take Philip up by Shiny Brook onto Saddleworth Moor for picnics too. On one occasion Philip had said he wanted to swim in Woodhead Reservoir. Myra stopped the car, turned to Philip and slapped him really hard.
‘Never, ever talk about going swimming in these reservoirs again, d’ya hear me?’
Philip nodded, trying hard not to cry. The suddenness of this assault had taken him completely by surprise – the day had been brilliant until then. He noticed that Myra was also almost crying and he didn’t understand. After a couple more miles she turned to Ian and told him that she was going to turn round and go home. It was there that Ian took Philip on one side and told him about a boyfriend of Myra’s who had died swimming in a reservoir.

There were a few occasions that Philip asked his mum if he could sleep over. It was only round the corner and there seemed no harm in it. Ian and Philip and Myra played games, watched television and listened to records. They had similar taste, surprisingly, except that Philip didn’t like Elvis and the two adults did. When it came to bedtime the games changed. Myra came into Philip’s room and they chatted and joked and then she started to tickle him. Ian came in to find out what the noise was and before long they were all trying to tickle one another. Suddenly Ian said,
‘I know one place that I bet you’re ticklish!’ Immediately he reached beneath the bedclothes and started to touch Philip. The boy didn’t know what to do. It was like the bus problem over again. Ian stopped and then started to tickle Myra. She wouldn’t let him and told Ian that they should go down stairs.

There was a lot of shouting downstairs afterwards, and Philip’s curiosity got the better of him. He opened the door to his room and listened. It was difficult to make much out because the radio was blaring out - Roy Orbison’s ‘In Dreams’ and then the Springfields’ ‘Island of Dreams’ seemed curiously juxtaposed as he made out some of the words the couple hurled at one another. He picked out something about ‘knowing too much’, ‘going on too long’ and ‘doing it on the day we pick them up’. None of it made sense. Then Ian said something about ‘and he has to put up with a stepdad just like me’ and there was sympathy in the way he said it. The living room door opened, the music became louder and Philip crept back into his bed. Moments later his door opened and Myra looked in.
‘Everything ok?’ she asked.
‘I’ve never heard you two rowing before. My mum and Eddie are always at it – usually about me and my brothers.’
‘Nothing to worry about, love. Go to sleep now’ Myra said.

Philip didn’t stay over again after that. In fact he wasn’t asked to. He saw less and less of the couple but when he did see them at the local shops or at the bus stop on his way to school it brought back the memory of the fun times they had enjoyed together. The last visit to the Wardle Brook Avenue house was in the first week of July.

Four months afterwards Philip was watching the news on the television about John Kennedy’s assassination. Everyone thought it was a great tragedy. Nothing else seemed to matter. Even the local news had items about it. What Philip noticed, however, at the end of the North West News Bulletin was that same day a boy had gone missing who shared the same initials as the dead President.

The following year, Philip saw Ian and Myra on television. They had been arrested for killing children. John F Kilbride in November and a girl called Pauline Reade back in mid July. Philip remembered the visits he had made to Wardle Brook Road and the walks on the moors. He remembered the strange man who he had wondered about when he felt himself being touched up on the bus and the nice lady who always seemed to stick up for him and looked after him. He had never spoken to anyone about this.

It’s over forty years ago now. Time my secret came out.