Read The Garden of Unearthly Delights for Free Online Page B

to
Betjeman.
    A
bus-stop.
    With a
shelter.
    And, by
all the grace of the Goddess herself.
    With
people waiting in it!
    Maxwell’s
plod became a walk, his walk a stride, his stride a springing, joyous
goose-step prance.
    As he
drew nearer, Maxwell became aware that this was not just any old bus-stop with
a shelter. This was the mother of all old bus-stops with shelters. It was
painted in rich hues of orange, green and gold and decked all around and about
with garlands of gazania, olive branch and bulbous reticulata.
    Three
persons stood within this colourful bower of a shelter. Next to the stop
itself, which was adorned with yellow ribbons, stood an old dear clutching two
Budgen’s carrier-bags, next to her a grim-looking youth with a six-hair beard
sprouting from a flock of pubic chin-blossoms and next to him a lady of middle
years clutching the remnants of what once had been one of those
impossible-to-foldaway foldaway buggies. All looked sorely down at heel and all
looked towards Maxwell with expressions which could best be described as
doubtful.
    Maxwell
made a cheery face and approached with a waving hand. The three persons
acknowledged his waves with troubled twitchings of the shoulders and then
turned down their eyes.
    Maxwell
chanced to glance down and noted with no small degree of puzzlement that the
section of road which lay before the stop and shelter had been carefully
weeded, filled, restored, swept clean and painted over in a glossy black.
    Maxwell
shrugged. These folk obviously were hoping to gain a first in the Best Kept
Bus-Stop of the Year Competition. Thoughts of competitions and awards suddenly
drew Maxwell up short. He had all but forgotten about his Queen’s Award for
Industry Award (award). He had left it behind in Sir John’s now-vanished Hidden Tower . Maxwell gave his lip a curl. When he got home he would certainly
put things right. Phrases such as ‘his massive piles made his every waking
minute a hell on earth’ would be inserted into the paragraphs referring to the
ungrateful Mr Rimmer. Oh yes indeed!
    The
three persons had now returned their gaze to Maxwell, who hastily uncurled his
lip, resumed his cheersome grin and said, as he drew near, ‘I cannot tell you
just how happy it makes me to find this stop and shelter here.
    Two of
the three faces lit up like Swan Vestas. The youth, however, remained disposed
to gloom.
    ‘Then
you are of The Queue?’ asked the old dear.
    English
bus-stop, English speech — I’m in England ! thought Maxwell. ‘Praise be,’ he said aloud.
    ‘Praise
be indeed,’ said the old dear. ‘Welcome, brother.’
    ‘Thank
you,’ Maxwell stepped up to take his place behind the lady of middle years, who
clutched the non-foldaway foldaway.
    She
looked him up and down. ‘Make the sign then,’ she said.
    ‘Pardon
me?’ replied Maxwell.
    The
lady extended her arm, as one would when hailing a cab, or stopping a bus.
    ‘Oh I
see. Request stop, yes?’ Maxwell extended his arm in a likewise fashion, then
tucked both his hands into his trouser pockets.
    ‘Praise
be,’ said the old dear once more.
    Maxwell
offered her a smile. ‘Been waiting long?’ he asked.
    ‘We are
here for the afternoon wait, yes.’
    Maxwell
nodded. ‘I confess that I’m a stranger to these parts. Where do we go to from
here?’
    The
three persons now cast Maxwell mystified expressions. ‘To Terminus, of
course!’ spat the dour young man. ‘Where else?’
    ‘Where
else indeed. And in which town would the terminus be?’
    ‘Town?’
The young man looked long and hard at Maxwell. ‘Are you sure that you are of
The Queue?’
    ‘Here I
stand,’ said Maxwell, ‘as your eyes will testify.’
    ‘Then
where is your token of penance?’
    ‘I am
perplexed,’ said Maxwell. ‘Would you care to explain?’
    The
young man glared at Maxwell, then, as if resigning himself to the fact that he
was clearly addressing a simpleton, said, ‘None may travel to Terminus without
their token of