BUS TO BIARRITZ
a short story by Madelene Cole

 

The woman and the girl stood at the crossroads, their high heels deep in the sand of the road. There was no shade from the dusty pines overhead nor any sign of a breeze from the ocean pounding hard on the beach beyond. The girl, coughing dryly, shifted the worn bag that sagged against her thin ankles. The woman, small, vigorous and English, rattled the paper hat bag in her hand and scowled up the road. They were waiting for the bus to Biarritz.

"It is always the same. You stand here and wait for minutes... hours, then all of a sudden not one, but two buses jump at you from around the corner. They race with each other, y'know." The woman passed a thin handkerchief over her carefully made up face. "And they have no sense of schedule. It is like the whole resort... stupid looking cottages, no decent roads, a beach too treacherous to bathe from and an expensive club."

"But it's cheap," said the girl. A shabby hat hung like the skin of some ripe fruit from her hand, leaving her hair free to shine in the sun and she stood silently, as though she would never leave that spot.

"It's cheap and it's near Biarritz... half hour by car the circulars say, but how should I know? I can only afford the bus while you..." she edged nearer the girl, lowering her voice. "Tell me, doesn't he think it's strange that you should live way out here? After tonight, of course, everything will be different."

"I don't mind the bus. Besides it's quiet here... peaceful."

"Oh... quiet. Tell me, from tonight on, you will be staying at Biarritz with him, won't you?"

"Yes," said the girl.

"Well, that's a relief. You don't know how lucky you are. He's a catch and not old either and in these times my! If you knew what some would give for your chance. Of course it's your youth. They want them young today, even in Europe. I can remember in my time a woman of forty or fifty attracted all the attention but not now."

"You're not old," said the girl kindly.

"That's because I've taken care of myself and you must do the same. You must plan first, last and always your future, for the possibility of being left alone. He will want to buy clothes for you because all Frenchmen are passionately interested in women's clothes, but use your wits and get him to buy jewels... they never go out of style." Her voice rose to a shriek. "Ah... the bus," she cried. "And two of them. What did I tell you?"

The two buses careening from side to side swung sharply around the corner, coming to a violent stop at their feet. The drivers, both swarthy young Basques covered with dust and perspiration jumped down immediately and began applying themselves to their steaming engines. With great dignity, the woman walked over to them pointed to the watch on her wrist. Then she began to argue loudly over schedules. Her French was voluble, crisp and assured.

As though she did not hear, the girl climbed into the first bus settling her bag beside her with her rag of a hat lying limp in her lap, she sat patiently waiting. The bus was top-heavy and old fashioned with long narrow seats at each side. Through the small dirty windows the brightness of the sandy road and the blue sky seemed like a distant blurry glare. The girl watched the young Basque (as if each motion were slow timed) lift a battered can and pour water into the front of the bus. Then as though she were still looking at some distant scene, she saw the woman finish her harangue and flounce up the high steps of the bus.

"And you say you like to ride on the bus," snorted the woman. "It's only because you are leaving all this squalor that you can speak so freely." The girl after one more look at the misty landscape turned her head around and stared in front of her. And as the bus shook, trembled and finally moved, she continued staring at the scratched frames around the bus windows but never once looking back towards the sea.

"Did you ever see such driving?" The bus, gathering speed lunged clumsily around a team of oxen, leaving them in a cloud of dust and sand. "These drivers are brothers, y'know, and they work for rival bus companies. All they think about is racing with each other. And they have no sense of schedule... I told them that. No sense of time, I said, not like England at all." She went on talking, talking, talking. "It is especially aggravating when we are in such a hurry, at least you are in a hurry. I suppose he will be meeting you at the bus. Should have thought he would have called for you, in style."

"No, this is fine." said the girl steadily. "And I am not in a hurry at all."

Soon they were off the narrow, sandy road and passing through a tall forest of pine trees, their sides laid bare in monotonous ugly strips, punctured at the base for the turpentine tapping. "Ah, a bit cooler," said the woman. "And imagine, in Paris they are counting the coals they put on the fires with frozen fingers. Here, people are dodging the sun." Suddenly the bus took a sharp turn up a side road, in the direction of the beach again.

"No," said the woman, "they simply can't go out to the little Cap, I won't have it. It isn't on the schedule. We shall never arrive at Biarritz at four if they do." She was about to rap on the window and signal the driver when he stopped, promptly and expertly in front of a dilapidated fishing cottage. Then he swung down from his perch, sauntered up the untidy walk, politely kicked two mangy dogs out of the way and thundered with his knuckles on the door. "M'sieu, M'sieu, it is me, the bus." he cried. The tousled head of a man appeared from a side window, called out a reply and a hand slammed the window shut.

"It is simply idiotic. I feel for you, m'dear. A man hates to be kept waiting."

"I don't mind if we go out to the little Cap," said the girl. "I should like to see the ocean once more."

"But it is the same ocean you will be seeing in Biarritz. I don't understand you really. You will have a suite of rooms at a smart hotel overlooking the rocks, the beach, the famous promenades, the shops... everything. But you must get some good clothes right away. You haven't got a thing. I have often wondered why he... tell me, m'dear, did you meet this man in Paris when you were modeling? I have often wondered."

"No, on the train coming down, and I had on a lovely black dress covered with sprigs of mimosa and a black hat. I bought them from the shop where I worked. So you see I have one good dress but I did not wear it at the little hotel. I have it in here." The girl patted her bag. "I have been saving it. In Biarritz it was possible to go almost anywhere in beach things or pajamas."

"Or a bathing suit. Nowadays a girl really needs little except a good figure. Well you don't have to worry about that. But you are a strange girl. Most girls would be so excited and upset and happy. After all, you have had little but hardships from what you say. In Paris, you danced and lost your job and then you modeled and lost your job and then you became ill and finally landed down here on your last cent. When I was your age, I knew what I was about. My mother had chucked me out because she considered me too beautiful to ever amount to any good and I took up with an elderly man... rich y'understand, and a gentleman. You may be sure I opened a bank account immediately and now I don't have to worry. I get about in season, living modestly of course, and I'm able to return to England at least once a year."

The man with the tousled head slammed his front door, buttoned his worn coat and then ran back hurriedly to shout many good-byes to his children in the rear of the house. Finally he climbed into the bus, going up in front to sit with the driver.

"But Americans never know what they want," the woman went on, glaring at the latest passenger who had already started an animated conversation with the driver.

The bus went rumbling down the narrow sandy road to the beach, past shabby cottages with nets hung to dry outside, a small store, it's front covered with espadrilles, brilliantly striped and dangling, in tied bunches, in the sun. "I meant to buy a pair before I left," said the girl. "They are so comfortable on your feet and they make you feel sort of like a native."

"You speak as though you were never coming back."

"He would not like it here."

"No, it is not fashionable, it is shabby. Do you realize that we have not seen a decent respectable person on the road yet? They're all back on the main road to Biarritz, riding in private cars. These peasants all look alike."

"I walked out here alone one day. The tide came up and made a heavenly pool, just like a little lake. I waded in and the water swirled around me, higher and higher." The girl leaned forward, hopefully. They were nearing the ocean and the lazy outlines of sand dunes, jutted here and there with hollows made by a fierce sea, stood out hazily against the blue sky. The bus sidled up to a low white beach pavilion and stopped, the driver and his amiable passenger getting out in front for a smoke.

"I think I'll have a look at the water myself." The girl jumped down quickly from the bus as though the woman might stop her. The beach was bare except for a group of bathers guarded cautiously by a lifeguard who stood, planted firmly and with arms akimbo, clad in red flannels to his heels. Leaning against the railing, the girl watched a man, evidently the father of the children in the group, venture out daringly to where the water was waist deep. It was not rough but the wave hit hard, climbing along the sand in long even rolls. The women, their eyes on the man, began shrieking at the lifeguard who took a careful step forward. The man struck out, took two or three strokes parallel with the beach and then walked in shivering to where the women were waiting. Chattering compliments, they rushed at him with towels, making him sit down and rest.

"Well, I hope you've had enough," said the woman as the girl climbed back into the bus. "Did you ever see such an exhibition? No wonder they all drown around here... they're scared to death!"

"They're like children. I love to watch them... they get so excited."

"You won't say that when you've lived here as long as I have. You'll get to know them better." The men had returned to the bus. "Come on." called the women. "No use waiting all day." The driver, holding a bit of paper in his hand kept looking toward the pavilion. Finally a sturdy French child, followed by his nurse, scrambled eagerly aboard, spraying the seats with sand from his pail. The nurse caught up the pail, apologized in rapid French and slapped the child's hands. The driver, bowing elaborately to the nurse, tore the note into bits and flung them out the window.

"Can you imagine. Somebody gave him a note to call for the child. It's agonizing. Simply agonizing."

The bus turned and rattled down the road, past the shabby cottages, the store and a wine cart bristling with straw and bottles. It was drawn by a small donkey patiently prodded by a gnarled old peasant clumping along in wooden sabots and a tattered smock. The fresh salty crispness of the air was gone now and soon they would be back on the main road with its gasoline fumes, its noise and its pretentious villas.

"Ah... Biarritz," breathed the woman as the bus rolled smoothly out on the main road. "Soon we shall be there and I shall have a porto after my shopping. You needn't worry about me. I won't go with you to spoil your meeting. I shall get off at the stop after. But I shall remember you always, even though I never see you again for although we have been but casual acquaintances, still we have much in common."

The girl looked at her closely, for the first time. "But you must come to call. I can't be alone." She turned to hide her concern.

The woman was gratified. "Don't imagine, my dear, that I have told anybody at the hotel a thing. I have not violated your confidences. After all, you had to talk to somebody, just sitting on the beach all day alone..."

"There are many things more," the girl started, "that I should like to tell you. Many things. That is the trouble. I have had nobody really, to confide in. You have been good but you can understand the confusion of the past few days."

"Naturally. Some other time you must tell me... everything, but now we are nearing the convent and it is a scant half hour from here." The woman started to smooth her skirts primly. When they reached the carefully tilled acres of the convent, so rich and green compared to the dry sandy beach from which they had just come, the girl stretched up her arm and dusted off a square on the window behind her. Then she looked far into the distance, up to the rolling hills where the convent buildings were located.

"I wonder if I shall ever go home again," she said.

The woman was roused to immediate animation. "Of course, and you will be a big success, assured, experienced... I tell you a touch of Europe does a girl no harm. But remember, in this country, you occupy a position of some dignity and you must live up to it. He will expect you to act like a lady. Of course he will want to show off your beauty and take you around but be careful. Don't drink too much and don't smile at any of his friends... that is, unless they're wealthier than he is, in which case, use your wits." The bus started to slow down. They had reached a cheap little section, flagrant with advertising bills posted over shabby squat buildings. "If he stops again and we have to wait!" wailed the woman.

The bus came to a stop at the corner where a large bundle of an old woman stood, resting heavily on the arm of a middle-aged man. She was so old and ponderous and the man so completely uninterested in getting her safely and comfortably into the bus that the driver and the workman jumped down to help. It was some time before they got her settled in the bus, her shabby black skirt hanging limp and creased around her shapeless mass of a body and her head, drooping and sad, draped in many frayed shawls. The man settled himself stiffly at her side looking first at his hands and then out the window. He offered no consoling whispers to the old woman nor did he bother to even look at her again.

There was something very disturbing about the age and helplessness of the old woman. Seated directly opposite them, both the woman and the girl looked at her fascinated. She had the stamp of the country on her withered features and her tattered garments bore the imprints of its soil.

"She must be blind!," said the woman, trying to keep sympathy from her voice. "And he acts ashamed of her so that I do not imagine he is her son. He does not speak to her so she is probably also very deaf. Well, that is the age for you and when these peasants come as old and helpless as she is, they are really old."

The girl, sunk in her seat, was looking at the old woman's hands. A glint of gold showed between her lumpy fingers which remained half hidden in the dusty folds of her skirt. Then the old woman's lips started to move. Rather, they drooped, sagged and then drooped again. Everything about her yellowed wrinkled face seemed to droop, the triangular patches under her sightless eyes and the dirty creased pouches which were her cheeks. The small crucifix remained half hidden in her hands, its thin chain looped over her fingers. She kept working it back and forth, its bright metal glinting in the fast moving patches of sunlight that flashed across her through the window of the bus. Then the bus swung around the corner and she lunged forward, helplessly, almost falling off her seat.

"She is going to faint," cried the girl leaning across the aisle to steady her. The man turned coldly and pushed the old woman back in her seat. For many moments he disregarded them but when the woman, digging around in her handbag finally offered a small vial of smelling salts he waved it away angrily. Then he began to speak rapidly.

"He says that she has never been on a conveyance before," interpreted the woman. The man, his face working with anxiety, addressed himself to the woman in the soft, slurring patois of the Basque and he spoke with an air of explanation as though something must be said about why a neatly dressed gentleman like himself should be seen with such a hag.

"She is going to the Poor Farm outside of Biarritz and he is angry because he had to leave his work to escort her there. She has worked for his family all her life but lately she has been very sick and he has no money for a doctor and she has caused lots of trouble. The Poor Farm will not send for her and of course he cannot spend the money for a private conveyance. Just the other day she had a fit and now she cannot even be left to watch the children. It is especially annoying to him because she has no family to take her off his hands." The woman stopped and looked at the man and then said in English, "The poor thing has been a slave of course, a slave, nothing else but a slave."

"And this is her last ride," said the girl. "Anyone can see that."

"Yes, all her life she has plodded beside the oxen in the field and tended children for somebody else and now, at last, she is treated to a ride." The woman leaned her head back and laughed shrilly. "Can you imagine! And some women get even less out of life."

"My grandmother," whispered the girl, "was very old when she died but she was useful to the end and very hard working."

"Ah, you come of strong stock," said the woman, "anyone can see that."

"No, my mother is not strong."

The old woman emitted a sound, not a cough or a sigh but something like an empty prolonged groan. The man beside her moved impatiently.

The girl, her eyes still watching the old woman, began to talk eagerly, hurriedly, aware of the fact that the bus was lumbering closer to her destination each minute. "My mother slaved all her life too, and now she is old. That's why I am here, I tell you." She stopped as the nurse, from the front of the bus cried sharply to the driver and started to collect her things.

The child, who had fallen asleep suddenly against his nurse's side was prodded and his hands pushed into small white cotton gloves. They stood up, the nurse clapping her paper back novel shut and leaning over the driver's seat to say good-bye. He drew the bus cautiously to the curb for them, running around to assist the child.

"I guess I had something else in mind for myself besides this," said the girl as the bus started up again. "But my father hasn't worked in over five years and I made up my mind I wasn't going back empty handed... you know how it is."

The woman tried to soothe her. "Yes, I know, I know. Come now. Put on your hat and how about a little powder and lipstick? You look pale."

"I only took this dancing job in Paris because I thought I could help out. You don't know how tough it's been in America the past few years."

"I do know," said the woman. "I do know indeed. Something terrible, I've been told. Worse than the War."

The girl stood up grasping the handle of her bag, her hat crushed in her other hand." I don't want you to think I'm always complaining. Of course I know I'm lucky..."

"The Rue Alexandria, for Mademoiselle," called the woman. "Good gracious, he was going to fly right past your stop."

The girl leaned over swaying a little with the motion of the bus. "I guess I wouldn't feel so funny but for one thing..."

"Oh come, you've got nothing to worry about." said the women with a small, nervous laugh.

"It's this... I've never been with a man before. I don't know what it's all about."

"My!" The woman plastered her right hand against her cheek and shook her head. "You Americans! Why didn't you tell me? Naturally, I thought what with your dancing and working in Paris and anyway, the young people nowadays are so free! Why!"

"I'll call you when I know where I... where we'll be staying." The girl walked to the end of the bus. "It's a nice day isn't it... swell! Look at the clouds."

"Yes. Yes. It's fine." The woman waved her arm and tried to smile encouragingly. "Well, good-bye. Good-bye. Good-bye." Her arm dropped and she said to herself weakly, "Well I must say... I must say."

The bus drew up to the curb and the girl got out. For some minutes the woman did not turn her head but as the bus went down the hill she looked back. She saw a large car parked at the corner and the girl walking toward it.

The bus was coasting down the hill and between streets, built high with rich villas, could be caught glimpses of the bright blue sea. Soon the rocks could be seen, impressively bordering the coast with the ocean foaming at their base and smart hotels, restaurants and shops posed on their tops. Down in the hollows where the waters swirled placidly, crowds of people bathed. The bus stopped for the woman and she got out, shoulders erect, looking neither to the right or left, her hat bag clasped firmly in her hands.

The middle-aged man had moved up in front and was laughing and talking with the driver, leaving the old woman to sit alone. Her head was bowed over and her hands made no movement. When the bus started to ascend the hill her head jerked up and she gasped. The hand that held the crucifix reached out and then fell leaded, in her lap. Suddenly she stiffened all over, a small gurgling sound coming from her throat and she toppled. As she fell, the crucifix sprawled with her, dangling from a purple hand. The sun flooded the seat where she had sat and the bus, gathering speed, lumbered up the hill out of Biarritz.

 

 

 

 

© 1934 Madelene Cole

Some Stories