Passenger on Board - short story over one week (or so)

3rd instalment - this nonsense first appeared in Issue 17 of Open Wide Magazine

…

“You visiting someone then?”

“Never you mind,” he barks, “just you keep your eyes on the road and let me worry about my health!”

  

*   *    *

  

When we get outside the hospital Benson speaks for the second time, urging to me to get as close to the entrance as possible, shouting , “Closer! Closer!”

“If I get any closer,” I tell him, “we’ll be in the fucking ambulance bay!”

Benson reluctantly counts out the fare, taking coins from this worn leather purse, before limping off towards the entrance. To be honest we tell the punters we wait but if a local job comes up we skip off, do it and return – that way you make two fares in the same time (perk of the job). Thing with this Benson bloke is he’s the kind of punter who’d complain to your boss or the licensing authority, so I just slide into my seat and go to sleep, figuring I won’t give the old bugger anything to whinge about.

*     *     *

  

Next thing I know Benson’s whacking the window. It takes a while to come round and then I can’t work out where I am or anything but he’s staring right at me through the window. Blinking awake he comes into focus and I can see close up he isn’t the old man I’d first thought. Don’t get me wrong I’m not saying he’s young or anything but he definitely isn’t someone in the last throws of life. Clatter! My teeth smack together again as he clambers into the back, slamming the door behind him.

“Everything alright?” I ask.

“Never say do they? I’m the last person they’ll tell if there’s anything wrong!” he murmurs. He’s speaking in a much softer tone – not exact encouraging conversation but at least making some sort of effort. Anyway I’d worked it out by now.

Our first lesson with him was like this pathetic attempt to explain the Lennon and McCartney song writing partnership. As it wasn’t the most stimulating of educational experiences I start chatting to Philpot. When Benson catches me he makes me stand in front of the whole class and sing this poxy hymn. My voice catches in my throat and my face burns red as I mumble my way through.

“Sing up Rutherford!” he shouts. Everyone’s laughing at me now. This other time he sends me out. When he comes after me he shakes me until my head spins. Over the years it got worse … he seemed hell bent on breaking me. Even as I progressed through the school, dropping music as an exam subject, the bastard took every available opportunity to humiliate me, gradually becoming almost paranoid about my very existence.

He knew that I knew his secret so he was keen to find any excuse to send me out when he was playing. He knew that he was unable to play his beloved piano in public without freezing. No bottle, glass jaw, a choker. Every open day or school orchestra performance at which Benson was required to play or conduct he’d blow it. A wrong note here, a dropped beat there, invariably sending his charges into a couple of bars of mangled confusion. Strange thing though … nobody ever mentioned it. A silent conspiracy of incompetence. But he could tell I knew that he lacked the big match temperament. To be honest I could’ve forgiven Benson for humiliating, embarrassing and hurting me but the one thing I found unforgivable was that he killed my enthusiasm and interest in music. They should make that a sackable offence.

tbc … don’t worry there’s not that much more

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