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The Spot Writers – “No Trolleys, Just Tramcars” by Tom Robson

Welcome to the Spot Writers’ weekly flash fiction post. This month’s prompt is “trolley car,” and today’s post comes from Tom Robson. Check out his book, Written While I Still Remember, available on Amazon  and   Smashwords

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No Trolleys, Just Tramcars

I spent my early years in the English industrial city where I was born. Once I was too large for the pram and after I responded to encouragements to walk rather than be pushed up Leeds hills in the pushchair, the tram became one means of getting around the city. The others of my first nine years were walking or riding my trike, firmly connected to my mother’s grip with an old trouser belt of my absent father. The family car was a war and many years away.

The city trams, like the later trolleys, were powered from overhead lines connected high above the main streets. Unlike trolleys, tram car routes were defined by steel tracks set in parallel rows on the main streets they shared with the sparse traffic of the thirties and early forties. The trams might well have been the smoothest vehicles in the city. The tramlines were often set in cobblestone streets

I have four childhood memories of trams. The first and worst was the return trip from the free dental clinic where I had a number of ‘first’ teeth extracted with the help of chloroform. On the return trip the side effect of chloroform and the trauma of tooth pulling, for which I was inadequately forewarned, caused me to project blood-flecked vomit on the tramseat, floor and crowded passengers.

We got off the tram two stops early and my mother carried her evil-smelling seven year old, up the steep Harehills Lane to grandma’s.

Prior to this, accompanied again by my mother, I took tram rides to St Jame’s Infirmary where I was subjected to exercise intended to stretch my neck. I was recovering from surgery to forestall torticollis, which if untreated led to the abominably descriptive condition of ‘Wryneck’. I hated the physiotherapy. Getting on the tram to the hospital turned me in to a whiner, impossible to placate for the trip there and the therapy. At home, my mother had to lift me by the head to repeat the unnatural exercises every day for over a year. And you think ‘tough love’ is a recent phenomenon?

By the time I was eight I was allowed to go with my friends,on Sundays, to Roundhay Park. It was at least a mile walk away, across the Soldier’s Field, to the back entrance at the top of Hill Sixty. At the park we could climb trees (if the wardens weren’t around), roll down the hill and paddle in either of two lakes, one of which fed water to the outdoor swimming baths to which we were occasionally treated. It was a full day of childhood freedom, enjoyment and exploration.

Occasionally, grandma would give me the penny fare to take the tram to the park. My friend Tim, one of seven kids in the family across the back ginnel, also got tram fare from my gran. Grown ups thought we would walk there and, in an exhausted state, take the tram home. Eight and ten year old boys did not get tired, given the opportunity of let’s-pretend games and freedom in a seven hundred acre park for a day. We wanted to get there so we took the quick way – by tram.

One bright and promising Sunday, as soon as I completed my choirboy duties at St. Wilfred’ and Tim had attended mass, we pocketed grandma’s penny and ran down the hill to Roundhay Road to take the tram to the park.

The park tram-stop was about 100 yards past the main gate.This was 1944 and there were very few cars on the roads in that era. It was safe to jump off the rapidely decelerating tramcar opposite the park gates. Tim had been taught the safe way to do this by his older brothers. He faced the way the tram was going and stepped off, running. I followed his advice to look behind and make sure no cars were there. None were there, so I stepped off in the logical-to-me-way, facing back to the gates we were headed for.

The bloody scraped knees and elbows added to the forlorn figure sat crying in the middle of the wide street. Damage was superficial and was quickly evaluated by the park gate warden and tram conductor, who admonished me with “ Tha daft bugger! Divn tha know that tha faces t’way ‘trams going if tha wants to jump off?” Once sat on the kerb, some lady gave me a cone from Granelli’s ice cream truck. I shared it with Tim.

Tim and the warden took me to the first aid station in the park. Ten year old Tim was given the responsibility of getting me home. We walked. Nobody asked if we had tram fare. That final steep climb up Harehills Lane, aggravated every bruise and scrape I’d got in my tumble from the tram. I told mum and gran I’d fallen off a swing in the park. Tim backed up the lie.

My father had lost his job shortly after his successful apprenticeship finished and just as the great depression climaxed. He worked where he could and eventually got a steady job as a Leeds City Tramcar driver, not too long after I was born.

If we were lucky, mum and I might catch his tram on the way into the city centre or to one of innumerable hospital appointments. It was all a matter of chance.

I must have been almost three when I had to have surgery and spend the accustomed week of recovery in hospital. I couldn’t understand what was happening. Why did my mother spend so little time with me? I had no understanding of the severe restrictions on visiting hours . They were both short and infrequent. I was in my cot surrounded by about twenty other beds in a men’s surgical ward. The hurses had to remain formal, though I wondered how they could resist my crying and histrionics as my mother and, sometimes, my father left after afternoon and evening visits.

My mother carried me to the tram stop when I was sent home.We didn’t take the first tram that came. The conductor told us, “Vera! Fred’s on the one reet behind. He’ll want to see t’ bairn.”

As the next tram slid to a stop, the driver, My father pulled repeatedly on the cord that rang the alert bell. Clang! Clang! Clang! His conductor explained to the other passengers, as his driver got off to hug his son and wife. My mother was given the seat closest to the driver while I sat up, proud and once again interested in life after recovery.

Soon after my father changed uniform from Leeds City Transport employee to soldier as the war loomed. I was almost as proud of this new uniform.

But my feelings never exceeded those on that day when my father, the tram driver, took me home from the dreaded hospital.

***

The Spot Writers—Our Members:

RC Bonitz: http://www.rcbonitz.com

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Tom Robson: https://robsonswritings.wordpress.com

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Have you read The Spot Writers’ new book? Check out the just-released Remy’s Choice, a novella based on a story we wrote a while back. It’s available at Amazon  for only $1.99 e-book and $5.99 print.

Remy, just out of a relationship gone wrong, meets handsome Jeremy, the boy next door. Jeremy exudes an air of mystery, and he seems to be everything she’s looking for. While Remy allows herself to indulge in the idea of love at first site, she realizes she’s the girl next door according to her boss, Dr. Samuel Kendrick.

 

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Don’t Send a Woman to do a Man’s Job!

“But I’m not going to Canadian Tire,” I said after Hubby informed me I had to buy wiper blades since he just broke one on the car.

“You said you were going to Walmart. It’s right across the street.”

“But I changed my mind. I’m going to Bedford Place Mall instead.”

“You can take the truck if you want, and I’ll take the car.”

I didn’t want to take the truck. “Never mind, I’ll go.”

I should have been grateful, I guess. Hubby had left for work that morning, forgetting to clear the snow off the car and turn it around in our awkward driveway as he had promised. He had actually gotten all the way to work before he remembered, not that his office is that far. Yes, I should have been grateful he returned to ready the car for me.  But dammit, I hate buying car stuff. And he was the one who broke it!

“What size do I get?”

Hubby recited the info I would need: make, model, etc. “And get them to install it. You don’t want to ruin the windshield.  If they can’t do it, come to the office and I’ll do it.”

It should be a simple matter to buy a wiper blade, right? I drove to Canadian Tire, careful to not turn on the wipers while I drove, and stood in line for fifteen minutes before remembering I could look up the blades myself. I was not surprised to see a computerized gadget instead of numerous plastic pages, which is what I had used the last time I bought blades. I inputted the specs and scrolled through endless blades, all different sizes and prices. Hubby would be mad if I bought the cheapest at $9.99, but I wasn’t about to spend $50 or more. After debating between $14.95 and $19.99, I selected the $19.99, just to keep him happy.

Then I realized blades are sold singly. Why? Of course, Hubby hadn’t told me which side was broken. I charged outside. After several minutes, I determined the passenger side, which seemed to be bent at an odd angle, was the culprit.

After twenty minutes searching for the correct number of the blade I had selected, I finally found it, paid, and left. I wasn’t waiting an hour for automotive service to replace the blade.

As luck would have it, it was raining when I exited. There went the rest of my shopping spree. Hubby wouldn’t be happy if I landed at his office, expecting him to install the blade in the rain. And I wasn’t about to drive with rain pelting the windshield. I went home.

When hubby returned home that evening, he looked at the package and informed me it was the driver’s side that was broken.

“Sure didn’t look it,” I said. “Thanks for telling me.”

“I didn’t know they were sold singly,” he said.

What?  A car buff like him doesn’t know that?

“Okay, I’ll have to go back tomorrow,” I said.

***

 

car

 

Today (tomorrow) looks like a Christmas wonderland, with a couple of feet of snow. The car is covered. Hubby didn’t clean it off or turn it around.

Hubby has sent me to do a man’s job several times in the past, never with pleasant results. I’m not a man; I’m a woman. I don’t know the first thing about car parts; I don’t want to know, truth be known. However, time passes and one forgets past horrid experiences—until episodes are re-lived.

“Don’t send a woman to do a man’s job” is going to be my mantra in the future.

I sent Hubby an email: “Since I can’t get out today, can you pick up a wiper blade at Canadian Tire? (Driver’s side!)”

 

 

 

 

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