Ye Cannae Bring Yer Granny On The Bus

We’ve ay loved gaun wee hurls on the bus, hivn’t wi Gran?

Wuv been aa ower the bit, tae! Peebles, Biggar, Lanark, Ayr. Wuv seen aa the best bits ae Scotland. (Well, the best bits waein a twae hour commute fae Dumfries, that is.) But we’ve got aa the best bits doon oor wiy onywi, hivn’t wi Gran? That’s whit yer ay tellin me. And Papa said it tae. Teacakes in Troon. Fish’n’chips in Largs. Mind thon time wi went on the wee ferryboat ower tae Millport? That wis pure deid guid. Ye telt me yer Mammy (ma Great-Granny) took ye’s ower when ye’s wir weans and ye’d love tae see it again. Ye near laughed yer heid aff when A askt could wi cycle roon the island. ‘Me, on a bike? Ye aff yer bliddy heid!?’, and ye howlt and howlt et that yin.

It’s been geeat since A got ma young folk’s caird tae get me on for nowt wae ye. ‘Free pass!’ ye cry et the driver when wi get on, slappin yer pensioner’s plastic on the wee reader hingy, me daein the same wae mine. A still cannae believe wi kin juist walk tae the road en and go these adventures waeoot spennin a penny. ‘But dae spen a penny afore we leave, yer no wantin caught short!’ ye aywis joke.

‘Remember, ye can go onywhaur, ma darlin. Onywhaur at aa. Nivver let onybdy tell ye itherwise.’

A love it when ye say hings lik that. A get goosepimples up and doon ma airms. It makes me feel lik A’m gaun places, lik onyhin’s possible—onyhin at aa, even fir the likes ae us fae a wee bit in the middle ae naewhaur.

Afore ye fell asleep last Tuesday, ye says tae me ‘Wuv no been doon the Galloway coast in a while, hae we?’.

A wis in the middle ae puttin awae the wee pile ae claes the home help wis efter washin and ironin fir ye, and efter a thocht aboot it a wee meenit, A realised ye wir richt.

‘Naw, Granny. Wuv no. It musta been Afore.’

When A say Afore, A mean afore ye moved tae the wee sheltert hoosies. Ye moved efter ye wir no weel thon time, didn’t ye Gran? Mammy and Daddy thocht it’d be better if thir wis ay sumbdy tae check on ye if ye needit a haun.

A wisnae share aboot it, but here, ye really liked. Ye said it wisnae like a nursin home, and A hudnae tae worry. Ye got yer ain wee hoosie, and it sits amang the ither wee hoosies, and they sit amang flooerbeds and trees, wae a warden’s block and a nurse’s station et the road en. Ye said it wis mare lik gaun tae Butlins on yer holidies, and it’d suit ye fine. Yince ye said that, A felt a million times better. We went tae Butlins et Ayr thon time on the bus! Ye’d still hae freedom tae come and go, but noo ye’d hae help.

Mammy says it’s gied ye a new lease ae life.

‘Right’, ye say aa ae a sudden. ‘That settles it. Tell thon fella et the gate wu’ll be gaun a hurl on the bus next week. Ye kin tak me tae Whithorn tae see yer Papa.’

A wait et the usual bus stop fir the Stagecoach tae arrive. It’s rainin, but A dinnae mind. A like gettin this time tae masel wae ye. It’s felt lik the past few weeks wuv no hid that the same, whit wae aa the folk that’ve come and went.

A see the 500 come ower the wee brae, and A sing ‘Oh! The Deadwood Stage is a-rollin’ on over the hills’, cause that’s the song in thon auld filum ye yaist tae play us. A smile et ye, remembrin that.

The bus pu’s up. A heave masel up the steps, and A slap ma caird on the reader and cry ‘Free pass, Driver!’ He lucks et me lik A’m no richt, but he prints ma ticket and gies me it onywi. He lucks et you, then lucks back et me, and A wunner whit he’s gaun aw starey-eyed and funny fir, then he points et ye, and A say ‘Och, ma Granny!’, cause A’ve near forgot aboot ye in aa the excitement. But, he shakes his heid, and he says ‘Eh… ye cannae bring yer granny on the bus.’ A laugh. A hink he’s crackin a joke, lik the ither wee song wi yaist tae sing, ken, ‘Oh ye cannae shuv yer granny aff a bus’, but he’s deid serious, so A go, ‘Oh, sorry’, and A pu oot yer wee bit pensioner’s plastic and stick it on the reader, and his machine automatically spits oot anither ticket. A haud up yer caird tae show him yer photie and cry ‘That’s her!’ and point ma thumb et ye. He shakes his heid et me again lik A’m a no-richter, and says ‘On ye go.’

A say ‘Jeezos, A’m no daft, im A, Gran?’ as A plunk masel doon on wur favourite high seats above the wheels, and A cuddle intae ye as the world goes by.

The best bit aboot Whithorn is that it’s whaur ye first met Papa aa they hunners ae years ago. Well, no the absolute best bit. Sorry Granny, but A love readin too much no tae love the bookshops. And A ken you hink that tae, hinkin aboot aa the times ye’ve brocht me tae the book festivals.

But still.

Efter A get aff the wee connectin bus, A walk doon the high street by aa the wee cafes and bookstores, hinkin aboot the scones and the cream teas wuv scoffed ower the years, hinkin aboot aa the wee adventures wuv been on.

A keep on walkin, clean oot the toon, doon the windin lane, past the ruint cottage, and oot tae the cliffs whaur the teeny lichthoose sits, luckin oot tae sea lik a miniature castle, freshly paintit white. Here’s whaur you and Papa came yer first walk the gither. Ye’s ay loved comin back here. A hink it’s whit ye meant afore ye fell asleep last Tuesday. That ye wantit me tae bring ye back here, tae be wae Papa. But A’m no ready. A dinnae want tae say cheerio, Granny.

But it’s time. So A open the wee lid, and let ye go.

A stop and hae a wee scone in yer favourite tearoom when A walk back. Grab a new book fir the bus. We’ve ay loved gaun wee hurls on the bus, hivn’t wi Gran?