The wheels on the bus stay still

The atmosphere in the car was tense. Tommy, aged 2, was screaming; his chubby cheeks flushed with overheating and over-tiredness. Anchored in his car seat, the straps on his pastel checked dungarees were twisting out of place over his grubby white t-shirt as he tried to wriggle himself into a comfortable sleeping position. Felix was enduring this ear-piercing noise but I could see he was irritable and bored and his patience would soon run out. In the front, Grandma still looking immaculate, blouse and skirt clean and uncrumpled despite the exertions of an afternoon shopping with her grandchildren, was anxiously twirling her wedding ring round her finger.

I had just negotiated 13 clockwise down ramps to exit the multi-storey car park in my husband’s large left-hand drive car, experiencing the sensation of dropping over a blind summit at each one. The relief and tranquil river view as I drove over Kingston Bridge was short-lived - now quashed as I turned left at the roundabout and hit the back of a traffic jam. A large red bus in front obscured my view but I suspected the worst.

“Let’s listen to this CD” sooths grandma, recognising our Chansons Maternelle as a favourite, but not even attempting to pronounce the French name. Result! Within seconds of the disc gliding into the state of the art audio system and the familiar notes beginning to dance round the car, the screaming stopped and grandma’s hands relaxed and rested calmly in her lap. I glance in my rear-view mirror; Tommy looks so beautiful when his intricately detailed lips are still and his long lashes are shut. Felix, being very grown up on his booster seat, starting singing along in fluent French. His eyes - as blue as his T-shirt - were twinkling, revealing how he so enjoyed a stimulating challenge to occupy his busy brain. “Is that big red bus in front the one in the wheels on the bus, mummy?” he asked in a gap between tracks.

Visiting Kingston, with its shops full of English books and games was a real treat for us. Living in mainland Europe, our children were deprived of the Early Learning Centre. Our continental term times meant that we could come and stay with family in early July before the English schools broke up and have the opportunity to do kids things without the crowds. Hence the trip to Kingston.

After a long afternoon in the Bentall Centre with 2 excited children and their grandma to supervise, I was sticky, thirsty and very weary. But if the rest of the occupants of this car were calm and quiet I was quite prepared to sit in the queue and nudge slowly back to grandma’s house the other side of Hampton Court. I didn’t even mind that Tommy’s nap would cause him to be awake late into the evening; that was a tiny price to pay for peace now!

In a flash of a radio signal, our charming, calming chansons cease and are replaced by talking voices. An indignant yell from Felix causes his brother to open his eyes and stretch in an ominous preparation for awakening. The prospect of returning to a noisy, awake toddler, a frustrated little boy and a stressed grandma focuses my attention instantly. I stab, frantically but randomly at the flight-console of radio buttons in a futile attempt to bring back our music.

“…… and for cars on the A208 near Kingston warnings of long queues caused by visitors leaving the Hampton Court Flower Show. That’s the only traffic warning for …. ”. Then, as abruptly and automatically as it had started, the message ceased and our music returned in mid-song. Our tranquillity interrupted by technology – assaulting me with the news of the traffic jam in which we are currently trapped.

To my enormous relief Tommy stretches, sighs, turns his head revealing a clammy red patch where he has been resting, and closes his eyes again. I lean back in my seat, bracing myself for the long wait and as I look up, the sign on the bus in front reads “Private Hire; Flower Show Special”!