Over the hill

Over the hill
Standing at the back of the line, I stare rather glumly across the main road to where Ranui Crescent appears to fall out of sight into the sea. I will try to make it a good day though. I pull the maroon school jacket around my arms tightly, only to let go again to pull up my uneven socks.
My collar done properly and the jacket tight around me again, I breathe in the early seven-thirty air. Crisp. A car rushes by. Not even sure what colour it is in this light. I look away and turn to the row of boys ahead of me on the footpath. Mostly Lincoln kids. Green uniform and foul-smelling of aerosol deodorant and hair gel - wax or whatever it is they have glued in their hair.
Phones out and they’re joking about something. Another car rushes by and the blonde one with excessive hair wax spits. I flinch and hold my breath as if I will catch something of his foul manner.
I move my eyes from him and subtly observe the line we stand in. We are near the bank covered in ice plant now. We seem to inch further up the path every morning. I turn away again and look past the dark power lines; a few early-rising blackbirds perched on them, and notice the lights turning on at the garage. The only petrol station left in the whole harbour. It won’t be open for long though. This afternoon there will be a sign plastered out there on the petrol pumps. ‘SOLD OUT’ is what it will say.
I hear the grumble of the bus three corners away. My legs are freezing in this kilt. I silently urge the bus to come. It’s warm in the bus. I think about the ngaio trees at the bottom of our road. I could make a run for it before the bus comes, hide there till it goes by and then walk home. My feet won’t move. I have to hand in my geography assessment today. Science test today. Bloody conscience stopping me from running.
The bus turns the corner surprisingly smoothly for these rough dippy roads. Indicator ticks orange through the cold. Sliding to a stop the doors fold open, slamming aside. One after the other the boys leap up the metal clad steps. I step over the spit staining the concrete and tread up the steps too. I raise my head to see the bus driver.
“Good morning Ken.” I say with a smile.
“Morning.” he replies, smiling back. But I can see his tired eyes as I move towards the seat behind his.
Makaela moves her bag from the space next to her and I slump down beside her. The bus grunts forward.
“Good morning.” She says kindly.
“Good morning.” I turn to her, “How are you?”
“I’m good. You?”
I tell her I am alright this morning and she tells me about her latest writing folio developments. As we pass the macrocarpa hedges and turn the corner, our conversation withers. The pine trees line the frosty road down into the gully. I hardly notice the bridge on the corner as we cross it. I am concentrating on something else.
I can hear the quiet whistling coming from the driver’s seat. I can only just hear it over the noise of the engine. And all I can think about is how tired he must be, driving back and forwards around the bays, school kids bickering and carrying on…
We turn the corner that takes us down into Charteris Bay. No sunlight on the water yet. No waves, the water only a stretch of glad wrap splashed with muddy food colouring and folded around the islands. The straggly Pohutukawa trees line the cold beachfront. No crimson flowers yet. We pass the jetty, seagull droppings caked on the weathered timber. Around the corner, past the house with the grey donkey and the pear trees, the bus pulls in at the willow tree, a lone Cashmere kid underneath it.
Doors open.
“‘Morning Ken,” and she brushes past me. Doors shut, a wipe of the fogged windscreen, and we’re off again.
We pass the golf course. Frosty grounds but the green still shines through. I could get off the bus and walk home. Not far. Eleven kilometres, wouldn’t take long. I’ve walked here many times. I stop these thoughts. I know I would never do it. Too many questions would be asked over my actions.
The bus pulls in at the last stop before Teddington. Doors open. Cold air seeps through my socks. Two more brush past me. Doors shut and the bus trudges up the next hill, new corners and twisting roads. Then we slow on the other side of the hill and cars rush to overtake. I gaze down at the steep hill of the deer farm below. No deer.
‘SUDDEN DIP’ screams an orange sign before the next corner. I grip the seat as to not fall off. Blue gums shredding bark on the roadside tower above, their roots pushing up the road. Bumpy. Then pine trees. The bus goes faster under the shadows of the pine trees. Another corner and then we reach the newly sealed road, cones still littering the gutters.
‘AKAROA, MOTUKARARA’ says the next sign and then a turn off. We continue along and turn in at the Wheatsheaf Tavern. Big shingle car park. We pull up next to the other, smaller bus that Mark sits in. I almost forget that I’m sitting next to Makaela until I shuffle along towards her so the ‘Lincolners’ won’t brush against me.
The line of green uniformed high school kids shuffle off our bus and onto theirs. Ken waits patiently for the last of them to go down the steps and then stands and turns to Makaela and me.
“See ya girls,” he smiles his great Australian smile.
“See ya Ken,” we say, “have a good day.”
He reaches for the pencil case that he always has with him and goes down the steps to talk with the other bus driver, Mark.
“He looks tired, ay…?”
Makaela nods in agreement.
Swapping places, Mark comes aboard and plonks himself in the driver’s seat. The Lincoln bus heads off towards Motukarara.
“Morning,” he greets us in a humorously grave tone. He starts up the bus and soon we are zipping across Teddington Straight. He drives fast as if eager to get us to school quickly. He whips around the first corner which forces us to hold on tightly to the seat. There is a pile of branches and stones burning at the quarry. We rush past and up the hill, around a bend with double yellow lines. I wipe away the condensation on the window to see. The sun is rising at the out at the heads, and spreading pink light over Quail Island.
Around what we believe to be the longest corner in the harbour, I look down at the beach of Allandale, the sun’s fingertips just reaching its shore. I lean on the metal barrier and talk to Mark. He’s wearing a different hat today I enquire. He explains that his other one broke and that this one is only temporary don’t worry.
The bus screams to a stop at the first stop from Teddington. Doors open and they trudge up the steps.
“Smile,” Mark tells them, “it’s Wednesday.”
The ride through Governors Bay goes quickly, the seats filling up completely. Three topics later, holding up seven cars, two vans and a Ute we reach the Sign of the Kiwi. Mark pulls over to let them by. Most of them toot with appreciation. I look back desperately at the harbour, spotting our house far, far away across the water.
The bus lurches forward and my eyes are wrenched from the view. I close my eyes, trying to see the harbour in my mind. I turn, knowing what awaits my eyes when they open again.
I see the Alps, frozen and wonderful on the horizon. I look at what comes before that and I swallow. Grey blankets over the streets, over the buildings, and the threads of the blankets fading up into the sky.
We pass the first house since Governor’s Bay and then we plunge into the grey. Turn the sharp corner, down, diving deeper. Nearly at the bottom. We join the queue of vehicles at the stop sign. Then inching our way forward, the bus turns into the lane and turns again, over the bridge. I look left. Willow branches compelled to touch the water.
Fairview Street. Turn. Rose Street. Cashmere kids early to school wander along the paths either side. In the school gates.
‘CASHMERE HIGH’ informs the big engraved blocks. In we go. Over the speed bumps. Large classroom blocks, newly painted for the open night last week. We curve around the drive, birch trees on the field and the bus stops. Doors open. The line of maroon uniformed high school kids shuffle off the bus.
I hold my breath, savouring the last of the fresh air. I step off the bus.
“Thanks Mark.” I say.
We wave goodbye gloomily. Doors shut. Indicator ticks orange through the cold and he pulls away. I breathe in the early morning smog. Foul. Foul like the blonde boy with excessive hair gel spitting. I look up over the school buildings and see the hills from where we had just come and wonder if I might start walking back. Not far. 35 kilometres. That’s all.