Racing the Moon to Mayrhofen
Olive F.
Everyone on the coach was docile, I supposed. It was something ridiculous like four in the morning, and we were on the second leg of our trip, coursing the urban dregs of Switzerland – probably. I couldn’t be sure. I was certain I’d slept through most of France, save for the pitstop somewhere near Reims where I’d asked for, with a poor accent, un pain au chocolat, s’il vous plait. There was a digital clock hanging above the driver’s seat, but instead of straining my neck to read the dimly lit figures, I had been watching the moon race us through the night. Plus, I was kind of comfortable – as comfortable as one can be in the stiff, crumb-infused cushions of a coach seat.
Fingerprints and nose-grease smeared the window-glass, bits of biscuits or crackers or lint stuck between the trim seal and the glass. The glass was so cold it almost felt wet, but I fidgeted for the thirty-seventh time that night and shifted my rolled-up Barbour into a different angle against the window, resuming my agreeable lean on it. I tried not to shoulder Rebecca, who was snoozing next to me with her seat tilted all the way back, head lolling on her Groovy Chick travelling pillow. Lucky her. Katherine, behind us, wouldn’t let me tilt my seat back to lie down, not even just a little bit, even though everyone else had. Why’d I have to get the seat in front of Katherine?
With my temple bumping the window and a curtain pulled over my head, I found myself transfixed entirely by the cat’s eyes flitting by on the highway and the lights of central Zurich – probably Zurich – in the distance. They were but faraway spheres, pulsing in the fogged glass and giving the effect of bokeh through a camera lens. Raindrops spluttered along the glass. It made me blink.
The mechanics of the coach groaned and we came to halt. Another jam. The traffic had been awful since the Channel! Brake lights and the orange, red and yellow icons of a Shell petrol station blitzed through the mist and vehicle fumes, reflecting in fragments in the dots of puddles across the asphalt. Out of nowhere, I felt homesick – wondered if it would take just as long to get out of this wretched coach and walk back to England as it would to get to the ski resort in Mayrhofen.
Another hour passed like this. When I opened my eyes, we were still in traffic, but the grey sky was streaked with the weak, coral pink of dawn. The moon was gone. I knew I hadn’t fallen asleep, because I could recall every single track that had played during my listen to Avril Lavigne’s The Best Damn Thing on my iPod Nano. My lime green one, gone warm where it had been tucked in my palm.
I yanked one earphone out of my ear and peeked out from under my curtain. People were waking up with the rustle of waterproof coats and crisp packets.
Lara Jessop, two rows behind, started whining. “Please, Miss. I really, really need to go!”
“Lara, I’ve told you. We’ll be stopping for breakfast at the border,” answered Miss Alvarado, the PE teacher. She was standing at the front of the aisle, juddering with the motion of the coach, and clinging onto the back of her seat. She checked her wristwatch, curled around her skin-tight, ivy-green sleeve. Her rounded spectacles dangled from her fingers. “We’re ahead of time, so I should think we’ll be in Austria in less than an hour.”
“Miss, I don’t think you understand. I’m seriously going to pee myself.”
“Look out the window or something. Distract yourself,” the teacher suggested. Then, she pointed: “Look! Over there. It’s Munich!”
“It’s Zurich, Nora,” said Mr Lee, who was sitting next to Miss Alvarado. “We’re in Switzerland, not Germany.”
“Oh. Well, I’m not a geography teacher, am I?”
“Thank goodness.”
Miss Alvarado roughed the fringe of her inky, pixie-style cut, and then shrunk back into her seat, embarrassed.
With the rising sun came the clamour of my hungry, fresh-faced classmates. Before long, Mr Lee stood up. Bruisy blue hung under his eyes, and his cheeks were swollen with sleep. Stubble on his jaw.
He adjusted the collar of his white shirt, and shouted out, “Oi! Miss and I are trying to have a conversation. Can we lower the volume, please, guys?”
The boys occupying the backseats were yawping. Sir! Sir, I think I’ve got a cramp in my arse. Can I please stretch my legs, sir? Sounded like Jason Warner.
“Language, Warner!”
“Oh, my days, sir.”
Mr Lee dipped his head for a moment, and I saw him pushing his tongue along the inside of his lower lip. “Like Miss said,” he started, “there’s not long to go, now. Can we all sit tight and try and at least pay some respect to driver Daren, alright?”
Next to me, Rebecca snorted, undisturbed by the commotion. I tugged my curtain over my head again and rested my forehead against the steamed glass. From this angle, I could see Katherine’s bleached head bobbing in the reflection. She was awake, and rummaging around in the net compartment on the back of my seat; she swore she had some Hubba Bubba, somewhere. I gritted my teeth and sat through the impact of her knees ramming into the back of my seat.
I focused on Switzerland’s scenery. Spectacular in the February glimmer. Snow-dusted mountains made up the horizon, and beyond – bursting with canary and orange and pink like the bubble-gum Katherine had uncovered, the sky carried the hues of morning. The moon – she was still nowhere to be seen. Props to her. I hoped to meet her in Mayrhofen’s frost-glittered night.
Lover of yellow, celestial beings and aspiring hedgehog mum, Olive F. is an English Lit & Creative Writing graduate and is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at the University of Lincoln, UK. She lives in the rural midlands with her parents, dogs and horses.
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