Golliwog

At the bus-stop this morning, there was a man muttering under his breath.

This man is there most mornings. He talks to himself continously. Generally what he says is not of much interest. I think once or twice when it has been about the lateness of the bus I have spoken back to him.

This morning, he was talking about the bus driver.

I hope its not a golliwog, he said. Can't stand them, no. No golliwog drivers on my bus.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I glanced around to see whether the other commuters had noticed. I wondered about talking to him, but hesitated. The bus was coming into view. I was fairly sure this man had a learning disability, and I knew from experience it would be difficult, especially as a stranger, to really talk to him. Or not talk to him, but to - what? Change his mind?

I sat down, still arguing with myself. I wondered where he had heard those words before.

I remembered a book I had as a child. It was about nursery toys that came alive at night and had adventures. One of the toys was a Golliwog. He would take things on the others, or persuade them to do bad things.

I don't think my mum ever read me that book, as I tended to read on my own a lot at an early age, but perhaps she did. I've never asked her what she thought of it, or who we got it from. I've never checked to see whether we still have it, in the cupboard with all the other children's books that no-one reads any more.

I have wondered when they stopped printing books like that. Whether they burned the ones left in warehouses, unsold.

When I get off at my stop, I see a slim young woman in a light summer dress walking towards me. I know from her expression that she is looking for directions, so I slow down as she approaches.

Can you tell me where the sports centre is? she asks.

Her accent is French, and she is gorgeous in a way that makes me temporarily lose my voice. I notice the arc of her lips, the shape of her eyebrows raised to ask the question, then I point her in the right direction and she is gone.

I am several hundred yards down the path before something clicks and I think about her coffee-coloured skin, and what the man said about golliwogs. I turn it over in my head as I cross the road. He meant her.

I look back to watch her go, long coltish legs and chiffon summer dress. She is so slender, so outrageously unprepared for the world that awaits her.

I hope that woman never reads a book like that.