Bus to Eden

The number 142 bus from the North London suburb of Stanmore quickly finds itself racing past rolling fields in the Hertfordshire countryside. The bus passes the occasional hamlet and country pub along the way, and the fresh air rushes through the open windows, creating a feeling of freedom as its passengers leave the bustling city behind them. As one might imagine, the route is best enjoyed on a lazy and sunny English summer day.

However, today was not one of those days. It was warm outside but raining heavily enough to make Winfred Wilson’s visit to his parents at his childhood home in the countryside feel like something of a chore. Nonetheless, Winfred wanted to make the journey. His parents had been good to him and his siblings growing up, and now in their old age they were wanton of company and needed help tending to their cottage garden. What savings they had were spent on Winfred’s education, leaving them on financially hard times in later life. Winfred was himself short of money to lend but did whatever he could for his parents. He had received a telegram on Thursday afternoon from his mother which read:

9 June 1955

Winfred, Charlie not able to visit this week-end. Stop.

Would you come and help with potting out our plants. Stop.

See you then, Mum. Stop.

When the bus arrived, Winfred took his favourite seat near the back, close to the open hop-on-hop-off rear entrance London double decker buses were famous for. There wasn’t a great number of people on the bus. Opposite Winfred sat a middle-aged man wearing a broadbrimmed hat casting a shadow which obscured the details of his face, and a tan overcoat which appeared to be of excellent quality. The hatted gentleman looked over briefly at Winfred as he took his seat. Winfred was a tall man with a certain gravity about him, such that his getting on a bus would usually draw some attention from passengers. Feeling the awkward gaze of the man, Winfred tipped his head towards him and smiled, saying, “Good day. Dreadful weather out.” The man turned his head to look forward, ignoring Winfred. He found this strange but not worth pursuing. A stranger on a bus wasn’t about to spoil his day.

Passing out into the countryside the weather began to clear, revealing hazy blue skies. As the bus slowed to a halt at the bus stop in a nameless hamlet, Winfred looked out of the window to his side and daydreamed at the quaint row of houses.

The sound of engine pistons letting off steam as the bus pulled away dragged Winfred back from his daydream. Looking forward he noticed the man was gone. All that was left on his seat was a little black notebook. As soon as he processed that this book belonged to the aloof, hatted gentleman he leaped forward, grabbed the book, and shouted to the bus driver “Hey, wait! This man’s left something here!”. The engine of the bus was letting out a gravelly noise which smothered Winfred’s voice. On the bus drove. Winfred walked briskly up to the driver, and raising the book in hand said, “The man who got off at the last stop, he left this book behind.”

The driver glanced briefly and replied, “You’ll have to wait for the next stop, mate. It’s only half another mile up the road and I’ll let you off.” The driver paused for a moment, and then continued, “He’s always leaving those bloody books on this route...” Winfred smiled politely but also slightly nervously, as the driver divided his gaze evenly between the road and Winfred. With a grin on his face the driver said, “I reckon he spends a bit too much time on the old battlecruiser.” The confusion on Winfred’s face was enough to prompt the driver further, “I mean, he likes a kitchen sink…”. The driver’s face became frank, “He likes his drink, mate.”.

The bus slowed to a halt again. “Well I’d better give it to him all the same. Cheers.”, Winfred said before stepping off. It had stopped raining, and the clouds had cleared, leaving behind a blazing sun. Arriving back at the bus stop the man was nowhere to be seen. Winfred suddenly felt a bit lost, and slightly guilty. He was holding this gentleman’s notebook, with no way or how to return it to him. There was hardly a soul about this idyllic hamlet built around a crossroads.

Suddenly, Winfred heard a small voice.

“He got in a car just down there at the crossroads”.

The voice belonged to a young boy sitting on a bench at the bus stop. Winfred didn’t quite know what to say or how to react. How did the boy know that was who he was looking for? Laughing as he spoke to soften the tone of his question, Winfred looked nervously to one side briefly and asked, “How did you know I was looking for him?”. The boy looked at the floor, shrugged, and said nothing more. Winfred didn’t want to interrogate the boy. He was only young after all, and in a country hamlet there is a strong feeling of omnipresent eyes gazing through the fine lace curtains in the windows. He didn’t want to be seen to be harassing the boy. After all, he was already in possession of someone else’s notebook.

Winfred sat on a low wall by the bus stop and pondered for a moment what should be done. As he opened the notebook an envelope fell out. The envelope was crisp but unsealed. Looking first from side to side, he glimpsed inside. Winfred’s heart began to beat slightly faster. For, inside there was what appeared to be a bank cheque. He gently parted the walls of the envelope with his thumbs and removed the cheque. There was an illegible signature on the bottom line, and the amount to be paid: $20,000. To whom it should be paid: left blank. Winfred’s mind began to race over thoughts of filling in his name and cashing the cheque. This would be a great sum of money for his struggling parents. Would it be so wrong to steal if it were for such a good cause? The man seemed wealthy, perhaps he wouldn’t miss the money, he reasoned. Suddenly Winfred felt a slight sickness come over him. He knew this wasn’t right at all. Shaking himself of the temptation he clumsily stuffed the cheque back in the envelope and walked briskly over to the boy. “Say, have you ever seen that man before?”, he inquired.

“Yes, he gets off the bus around this time every week. He usually forgets his book, and a man usually comes asking after him. He lives at Appleworth Manor.”

“Do you know how I’d find that?...I’m not from around here”, replied Winfred.

The boy stood up from the bench and began pointing again to the crossroads, saying “Take a right up at the cross-roads and follow the path for about a mile. It’s the big house on the right side.”

“OK, thank you. Have any of the men said anything about him?” asked Winfred.

Shaking his head, the boy replied “None of the men who went looking for the house came back this way. A few of them kept the book, said they’d hand it in to a policeman.”

Winfred felt uneasy, but the longer he held on to the notebook the more he felt the need to adventure.

Jogging and then stopping and walking briskly and then jogging again, Winfred made pace to Appleworth Manor in the midday sun, sweat tightly holding his crisp white shirt against his body. The road ahead was long and inclined, and his legs began to feel weak and useless as he watched the occasional car race up the hill with ease. Finally, a grand gate flanked by stone pillars appeared over the horizon. To its side was a gate house with smoke rising from its chimney, as though its dweller had hunkered down for a long wait.

Winfred knocked at the window, prompting a shadowy figure inside to come to the door. “Hello, a gentleman left this book on the bus I was on. I was told he lives here…is this Appleworth Manor?”, Winfred said hurriedly.

The figure replied, “Ah yes, his lordship has been expec–”

Winfred, on-edge, interjected, “Expecting me? I don’t know h–” But before Winfred could finish, the figure had disappeared inside and interrupted firmly, “The gate is open, please go through sir.”

Arriving at the door, Winfred knocked firmly. He could hear the sound of his knocks echoing through what he imagined to be a grand entrance hall on the other side of the door. The faint sound of footsteps became louder until it stopped, and the door made a fiddling sound, and opened. Standing in front of Winfred was the hatted man from the bus, now a more imposing figure than before. “Sorry, I think you left your book on the bus earlier. The 142. A boy at the bus stop told me I’d find you here.”, Winfred rushed to say.

“Yes, that’s quite right. Thank you for coming. Please step inside.”, the man replied calmly. Winfred followed politely. As his eyes adjusted to the interior lighting, his imaginings were confirmed. He was standing on a marble floor, with a turning staircase either side of him, and illuminated by a dazzling chandelier.

The man turned and looked intently at Winfred. “Mr…sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”, the man said. Winfred felt a great desire to exit the house, but the man’s gravity drew him forward towards a pair of gilded doors at the other side of the entrance room.

“Wilson. W-Winfred Wilson.” He replied swiftly, still in possession of the book and growing more desperate to shove it on to the man and run.

“Mr Wilson. As you will have gathered from young Samuel at the bus stop, it’s not the first time I’ve left a book on a bus. It…won’t be the last, either. You see, that’s no accident. In fact it’s quite purposeful really…”, the man said letting out a slight chuckle. “Oh you’re probably getting all worried now. There’s nothing to be frightened of. I’d like you to join a club of mine.”

Feeling slightly embarrassed, Winfred protested “Look I’ve only come to give you your book back.”

The man seemed disinterested in Winfred’s reply. “We only let men who return the book join. You could have done anything with that cheque. I can assure you a good number of men have, but we’re not interested in them.” The man gazed at Winfred, seemingly expecting an answer.

Winfred, taken off guard, stuttered “U-uh…so what sort of club is it?”.

“I’m afraid you can’t know anything more on this side of these doors. If you agree to go through, you must swear to speak nothing of what you learn. What do you say?”

Winfred was tempted. He now had vastly many more questions unanswered than when he got on the bus in the morning. Momentary thoughts of wealth and influence flashed across his mind. After all, it seemed he was in the house of a rich and powerful man. Any club he’d join would benefit a young, upstanding man, wouldn’t it? Then he began to miss the innocence of his infancy, pruning roses with his parents in their garden. Overwhelmed with a sudden nostalgia, and a certain sadness in considering the contrast before him, he retorted “No, I think I’d better not.”

“Are you sure? It would be…worth your while. Men’s lives are greatly improved by the very thing I’m offering you. We’d be delighted if you joined us.” The man replied in a slightly more impatient tone, his words becoming sharper and now lacking jollity.

Winfred placed the book on a pillar by one side of the doors and said “No, some things are best left unknown.”