I COULDN'T believe that my last bus home was already pulling out as I got off the ferry from Portsmouth. Yelling and waving my arms I ran to the junction almost going under the bus’s wheel, as it screeched to a halt. Little did I know that by the end of the night I wouldn’t be the only one cursing that the driver had ever let me on board.

“Thanks a million,” I gasped as the doors opened. I caught the heel of my new white P.V.C. boots on the step and fell into the bus. I looked into the leering bus driver’s face and realised that my bright red mini skirt had ridden up my thighs. A cacophony of wolf whistles and shouts went up from the back where half a dozen sailors were ensconced, somewhat the worse for wear having spent an evening in the pubs of Portsmouth.

The driver was aged about fifty, overweight and balding with a grubby plaster on his neck and a large boil on one cheek.

“How far do yer wanna go darlin’?” he said with a ghastly smile that revealed yellowing teeth.

“A single to the Green,” I said haughtily.

“I’ve always liked a woman in boots,” he replied holding onto the ticket for a fraction longer than was necessary.

“Could we get on with it please?” said a middle-aged woman at the front.

“Sorry, sorry,” I apologised to the bus in general, grabbing my ticket red-faced, as with an asthmatic wheeze the driver finally turned the wheel and pulled out.

I squeezed through the passengers to a seat near the back. It was August 1970, and noise permeated through the bus like litter being swirled around on a windy day. Upstairs two drunks were singing, “We’re all going on a summer holiday,” the sailors were talking loudly about “The ‘birds’ in Hong Kong.” Two middle aged women in sequined blue and yellow nylon blouses sat in front of their shiny suited husbands, complaining loudly about that their numbers hadn’t come up on the bingo. Further up the bus a young couple oblivious to all were sat snogging. A man aged about twenty-five in a dirty white mac’ turned around and looked at me twice. He didn’t look like someone who’d enjoyed the ‘swinging sixties’ or any other era for that matter. I’d never seen him on this bus before and he made me feel uneasy, I hoped he wouldn’t be getting off at my stop.

I was enveloped in a fug of cigarette smoke and the smell of stale fish and chips. To reach the fresher air near the door as people got off I worked my way forward. I ended up sitting in front of two men in their twenties wearing jeans and dark jackets talking quietly.

When we pulled up at a stop I recognised their Irish brogue and snatches of conversation drifted back to me.

“Oh aye, Belfast’s the place to be….”

“English oppression for centuries…”

“We’ll be back as soon as the job’s done anyway.”

I was now sat across the aisle from the man in the dirty mac’. When I glanced at him he turned away quickly, I wondered if he’d been watching me. He was drumming nicotine stained fingers on the seat in front of him and his right leg was constantly tapping. When the Irish men got off I moved back to their seats so that he couldn’t see me.

The sailors were still pretty loud and I was thinking thank goodness the next stops the naval base and they’ll all be getting off. I’d been dancing to ‘The Four Tops’ at ‘The Mecca’ and my legs were aching. Moving them around I kicked a package under the seat. I pulled it out, it was heavy about twelve inches square and wrapped in brown paper. A piece of wire poked through a hole in one corner, being curious I thought I’d enlarge it a tiny bit with my fingernail. We swung around a sharp bend and the paper ripped. Out fell a whole lot of nails and a fuse wire was exposed. Just then we stopped at the naval base.

The overheard snatches of conversation came back to me in a muddle. What had they said? Something about English oppression, a job and Belfast…..Ridiculous, what was I thinking, surely? I held it close to my ear. God above it was ticking!

I panicked. I really, really panicked! I dropped the package onto the seat screaming, “A bomb, a bomb, it’s a bomb!” The sailors were just getting off and turned back to look at me in amazement. I yelled at them incoherently, “It’s a bomb” Men! Irish! They’ve left it here!”

The man in the mac’ stood up looking ominous fishing around in his inside pocket. I thought he was going to pull out a gun and took several steps backwards colliding with the women from the bingo.

“Get out of the way you silly cow!” yelled one of them.

The man produced a wallet yelling, “C.I.D., C.I.D., women and children first, keep calm, keep calm.” This galvanised everyone into total panic.

There was a scramble for the exit. The sailors were off first. The women elbowed their way past forcing me onto a seat. The drunks fell down the stairs from the top deck still singing. The driver lumbered out of his seat, his wheeze considerably worse and his face previously flushed now grey.

I seemed to have gone into shock. I found I couldn’t move. The man in the mac’ came back and grabbed me, “Come on love, it’s all right,” he said and pulled me off.

Once outside everyone ran into the base with the sailors. The admiralty police and the bomb disposal squad were alerted. An ambulance was obtained for the bus driver.

The man in the mac’ took me to the police station.” What a perfect end to a perfect day,” he said. “On duty since 7 a.m., then my car wouldn’t start to go home, some idiot splashed me getting my mac’ filthy and into the bargain I’ve just given up the fags and I’m gasping. Sorry, it’s not your fault love,” he said and smiled at me. His face was transformed and now I’d got closer I saw he had the loveliest green eyes.

Inside the station he got me some coffee whilst we looked at pictures of Irish terrorists. Meantime everyone in a five-mile radius was evacuated from their homes and the package and the bus with it was blown up.

I discovered his name was Terry and he was actually really nice. He got a squad car and drove me home about 3 a.m. My mum rushed to the door in curlers and a pink bri-nylon nightie.

“Where the hell have you been? I’ve been worried to death. What are the police doing here? Oh my god what’s happened? Are you all right? Come in all the neighbours will be looking.”

“If you stop for a minute Mum I’ll explain.”

My little brother came downstairs whistling the theme tune from ‘Z Cars.’ “What yer been up to sis’? Got into trouble with a sailor I bet.”

“Shut up Kenneth and go back to bed,” said my Mum “Tell me what’s happened?”

So I did and she hugged me and said I was a heroine and made me a cup of tea. Terry said he had to go but he’d call back tomorrow, I thought things had turned out quite well really.

The next evening the local paper was delivered.

“Bomb disposal squad blow up carriage clock and three oil paintings on bus,” was the headline. Beneath it was a picture of a destroyed bus, the driver who was recovering in hospital from a severe asthma attack, and two hundred residents who’d spent the night in the Town Hall.

It seems that two Irish lads had been to visit their aunty. She’d given them three pictures to brighten up their digs, some wire and nails to hang them up with and in exchange they were going to repair her carriage clock.

I’ve never lived it down locally and my brother is still talking in an irritating Irish accent. Terry says that meeting me was the most exciting night of his life. I’ve never caught the last bus again but luckily since Terry got his car repaired – I haven’t needed to.