I had been waiting at the bus stop for fifteen minutes before it was due. It didn’t matter that the rain was sheeting down like stair rods or that my hair was plastered in strands around my face, I had to be on time, he was depending on me…my precious boy.
It wasn’t enough that he had fought for King and country, taken shrapnel and was haunted day and night. But to be accused of murder, now, when he should be getting back on his feet. All because he’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I know my boy. Inside out I know him, and he wouldn’t do such a thing. I tried telling the police but they wouldn’t listen. They’d got evidence they said, and his fingerprints were on the gun. I don’t know why he brought that stupid gun back with him, a souvenir he’d said, to remind him that he’d got through it all. I told him to get rid of it, that no good would come of it. But he didn’t listen to me.
They let me see him last week. My heart could have broke at the sight of him. His cheeks were all hollow and he was deathly pale except for a nasty patch on his forehead. His eczema allus broke out when he was het up.
I didn’t do it Mam, he said. I swear I didn’t do it.
I told him I believed him and I did. He started crying and then I started crying. It’s an awful thing to see your grown son crying. He was wringing his hands and begging me to help him. There was this fella called Ken Milson, he sobbed, who could clear his name but the police weren’t interested. My boy told me where he lived.
It took me hours to find the house, but that didn’t matter I would have walked over hot coals for my boy, given my life I would.
Ken wasn’t in but I spoke to his pretty wife who seemed very nice. She assured me that her Ken would go to the police and vouch for my boy. That night I slept better than I had done for weeks.
My heart sank when I saw the bus arrive, at last the time had come. It might as well be me in the dock waiting to be sentenced.
I looked around at my fellow passengers, mainly housewives in headscarves carrying shopping baskets. I was wearing my best hat, he liked it did my boy, said that I looked like Princess Elizabeth.
The windows were steaming up and I rubbed a little space so that I could see out. I heard the conductor call all aboard and the bus gave a sudden jolt as it started to pull away from the kerb. Then there he was, a man whose face was alongside mine. He was walking so fast trying to keep up with the bus I could tell he was panicking and he was panting trying to get his breath as he started to run…faster and faster. Then his eyes locked with mine. If ever a man was pleading, it was him. Instinct told me to shout the conductor or even the driver and beg him to stop. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t be late, not for my boy.
Then he was gone and the bus had picked up speed. I tried looking out of the corner of my eye to see if anyone else had seen him. I felt so guilty.
‘Any fares?’ The conductor’s voice startled me and I fumbled in my purse for a threepenny bit.
The courtroom was silent as my boy was brought in. He was wearing handcuffs. There was no need for that. He looked up at me and smiled, he knew that I’d done good and got Ken. I nodded and smiled back at him. I didn’t listen in much, to all the legal stuff; I knew it would be all right. I just watched him, my boy. I tried counting every little curl on the back of his neck I’d just get half-way across and lose count then I’d start again.
Then my boy’s head dropped forward and I heard the people behind me mumbling and when I looked up the judge was putting a black cover on his head.
I never saw my boy leave the courtroom. Someone had brought me round with smelling salts and people were trying to sit me back up onto my seat. I was sick all over the floor and I felt them move away.
It was still raining when I waited at the stop for my bus home, too numb to weep too numb to feel the rain and the cold. I got a seat by the window and cleared a patch on the steamed up pane and I listened to the voices behind me
Poor boy. It’s such a shame, they say Ken Milson could have got him off if he’d turned up. But his car wouldn’t start and he had to catch a bus.
(c) 2024 Lillian Bradbury.
“Every Second Counts” is a gripping tale of moral conflict and maternal love set in post-war Britain. The story follows a mother’s heartbreaking journey as she rides a bus to her son’s trial, where he faces murder charges. Despite his military service and the trauma of war, her son has been accused based on fingerprints found on a gun he brought back as a war souvenir. The narrative reaches its climactic moment when the mother, desperately trying to reach the courthouse on time, witnesses a man frantically running alongside the bus – a man who could potentially save her son, but she chooses not to stop the bus, prioritising her punctual arrival at court.
Lillian Bradbury crafts this poignant story with masterful precision, weaving together themes of loyalty, sacrifice, and the devastating consequences of split-second decisions. Her writing style captures the raw emotion and internal struggle of a mother’s love against the backdrop of post-war society. This story is part of her collection that showcases her talent for exploring the depths of human nature through compelling narrative. If you enjoy stories that challenge moral perspectives and appreciate carefully crafted historical fiction, you’ll find this collection a worthy addition to your library.
