Questions on the Coach

It was December 1959 and the Greys were on their way home for Christmas from Germany. Just before leaving Victoria coach station for the bus trip up to Newcastle, Mrs. Grey took the children to the toilets. She waited outside the Gents while nine-year-old Thomas went inside. When he came out, she told him to wait at the door and took Jane, her six-year-old daughter with her into the Ladies.

No sooner had they taken their seats on the coach when young Thomas spoke up. “Mummy,” he said, “what’s VD?”

Mrs. Grey nearly fainted. Thomas repeated the question, but much louder this time. The bus fell suddenly quiet and it seemed as if all the other passengers were holding their breath in anticipation of the answer.

“It’s a sickness, dear,” she said and started opening a packet of toffees, hoping to distract her son from further questions. It was a futile attempt.

“Have I had it?” he asked.

“No, of course not,” she said. “Would you like a sweet?” He took two, and she hoped that her ploy had worked.

“Has Jane had it?” he asked, while he chewed one of the toffees.

“No,” she said, “Jane has not had it.”

He persisted: “Have you had it?” One of the sailors in the seat behind them chuckled.

“Of course not. Where did you hear about it anyway?”

“I read the notice in the toilet,” he said, “If you or Jane do get VD, you can go to the Whitechapel clinic on Tuesday or Thursday afternoon, because you’re female. If I get it, I can go on Monday, Wednesday or Friday.”

“Look,” said Mrs. Grey, “we’ll be crossing the river soon. You’ll be able to see the Houses of Parliament. Look, there they are.” She turned quickly and gave the sailor, who was laughing loudly now, a sharp look. He promptly stopped laughing.

Thomas turned his full attention to the Houses of Parliament, and his mother heaved a sigh of relief.

“Is this the first time I’ve seen the Houses of Parliament?” asked Thomas.

“Yes, it is,” said his mother, grateful that he had changed the topic.

“Is that where Harold Macmillan, the prime minister, works?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Grey.

“I wonder if he’s had VD,” said Thomas. “Perhaps I had better write a letter telling him about the Whitechapel Clinic.” The sailor started chuckling again.

“Will you stop talking about that disease!” said Mrs. Grey.

“Why?” he asked. “Daddy always tells me that I will learn quickly if I ask questions.”

“Yes,” she replied, “but not questions like that. It’s not a nice disease.”

“Nor is mumps,” he said. “But I’ve had mumps, so has Jane, and you didn’t tell me to stop talking about it. Why haven’t I had VD?”

“Because you’re not old enough to catch a disease like that,” whispered Mrs Grey.

“But the notice in the toilet says that anyone of any age can get it.”

“Not children of your age. Now don’t mention it again.”

Thomas fell silent, and before long most of the people on the bus started to doze off. The trip from Germany had been particularly tiring for Mrs. Grey and she was soon out for the count.
Thomas, on the other hand, could not sleep. All he could think about were the implications of the terrible new disease he had just learnt about. What could it be? He wondered what could be so bad that his mother would not talk about it, that she even got angry at the mention of it. He snapped out of his contemplation when someone tapped him gently on the shoulder. He turned around with a start and saw that it was the sailor who had been laughing.

The sailor cupped his hand to Thomas’ ear and whispered, “VD is a disease you get on your cock, son.”

Thomas gasped at the word ‘cock’. His father had once told him never to use the word, that it was vulgar, and that instead of using such coarse language he should call it ‘John Henry’.

“You mean John Henry,” whispered Thomas.

“Call it what you want, son” said the sailor, “knob, dick, prick, old bill, chopper, cock or John Henry, but that’s where you get it.”

“How do you get it?” asked Thomas.

“Ah,” said the sailor, “you get it when you are having fun.”

“But I had fun on the ferry from the Hook of Holland,” said Thomas, “and I didn’t get it.”

“That depends on what kind of fun you’re having,” said the sailor. “My mate here,” he nodded in the direction of the sailor snoring away beside him, “he’s got it. He got it in Amsterdam, when he was having a bit of fun.”

“What kind of fun was he having?” asked Thomas.
The sailor winked and lowered his voice so that Thomas had to strain his ears to hear him. “He gave a hooker a good banging.”

“What’s a hooker?” he asked.

“A hooker’s a cheap tart, a woman,” said the sailor.

Thomas was shocked. A man hitting a woman? That was, his father had told him, one of the worst and most cowardly things a man could do. “You friend’s a horrible man,” said Thomas. “Men who beat woman are cowards.”

“The sailor laughed quietly. “No, son, he wasn’t beating her; he was banging her. There’s a big difference.

“What’s the difference?” asked Thomas.

“Well,” continued the sailor, “when you bang a woman, you stick your, what do you call it, your John Henry into her and give her a good poking.”

Thomas could hardly believe his ears. “What do you mean?” he said.

“First you take her knickers off,” said the sailor, “then you stick your John Henry into her and move it in and out for a while. That’s what I call really having fun.”

“That’s impossible,” said Thomas.

“No it isn’t, son,” said the sailor. “Not only is it possible, but it’s also very pleasurable. You should try it, but be careful. You don’t want to end up like him.” He nodded again in the direction of his sleeping companion. “His John Henry is so rotten that it’s only a matter of time before it drops off. You should have told him about that clinic before he got on the bus. You could have saved his John Henry. Now it looks as if he is going to lose it.”

Mrs. Grey stirred and Thomas turned round quickly. “Did I hear you talking to anyone?” she asked Thomas. He shook his head in denial. She looked at her watch and said, “We should be making our first scheduled stop soon. Are you hungry?” he nodded. “What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “Has the cat got your tongue?” Again he shook his head. “Then answer properly.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he managed to croak in a whisper that was barely audible.

“You must have caught a cold. I told you not to run around on the deck of the ferry. When we stop for refreshments, you can have a cup of hot cocoa, then you’ll feel better.”

“Thanks,” he croaked and fell silent again. For the next twenty minutes, until the bus reached the scheduled stop at the motorway café, Thomas remained silent, his heart heavy with guilt for not informing the sailor behind him how to save his John Henry.

As soon as the bus stopped, the driver announced that they had thirty minutes to get a bite to eat and freshen up before they started again. He had a timetable to stick to and would not wait for anyone who did not arrive back on time.

The two sailors behind rushed past Thomas and ran over to the café. When the Greys reached the café, the sailors were already eating bacon sandwiches and drinking mugs of steaming tea. Mrs. Grey took the children to the table next to the sailors, sat with her back to them and, when the waitress eventually came over, ordered tea for herself and cocoa for the children. She also ordered a selection of sandwiches.

Their refreshments arrived and Thomas was just about to take a sip of cocoa when one of the sailors, the one who had been sleeping, stood up and walked towards the toilet. The other sailor looked at Thomas, nodded towards the toilet, picked up a teaspoon, placed it between his legs and let it fall to the floor. Then he winked at Thomas and nodded again towards the toilet.

A tear rolled down Thomas’ face and he dropped his cup of cocoa.

“What’s wrong, dear?” asked Mrs. Grey. “Are you tired? Do you want to go back on the bus and have a sleep?”

He shook his head and started sobbing. Everyone in the café stopped talking and turned towards Thomas.

“Poor little bugger,” said someone. “His mother’s been at him again.”

Mrs. Grey turned sharply towards the person who had spoken.

“How dare you!” she snapped. “I have not said a word to him. He’s either got a cold or he’s tired. And anyway, it’s none of your business.”

The toiled door opened and the sailor walked out, whistling. Thomas started crying even louder.

“What’s up with him?” the sailor asked his friend as he sat down.

Mrs. Grey went round the table in an attempt to soothe Thomas. “Come on, dear,” she said. “Tell mama what’s wrong.”

Thomas pointed at the sailor and blurted out, “That man, mama, he’s got VD.”

Everyone in the café looked at the sailor, who turned scarlet. “Who? Me?” asked the astonished sailor.

“Yes,” said Thomas. “That man. And his John Henry is going to drop off. And it’s my fault. I should have told him about the clinic before we got on the bus. He could have saved his John Henry, but now it’s too late.”

Everybody in the café burst out laughing except for the Greys and the sailor. Thomas cried even more while the sailor stood up and began shouting, “I haven’t got the pox. There’s nothing wrong with my knob. It’s not going to drop off.”

That caused even more amusement. Even the kitchen staff were out front, and they were laughing as heartily as everyone else.

“He caught it in Amsterdam,” blurted out Thomas between sobs. “He took a woman’s knickers off and stuck his John Henry into her and moved it in and out. That’s how he caught it.”

Mrs. Grey fainted, and Jane started crying, too.
The manager of the café suddenly demonstrated his managerial skills when he banged a frying pan on the counter and demanded order. Then he produced a bottle of smelling salts and promptly revived Mrs. Grey and helped her back into her chair.

Then the uproar started again. The sailor who was supposed to be sick pointed his finger at the distraught Mrs. Grey and said: “You had better teach your little brat to keep his mouth shut and not to spread frigging lies about people.”

“It’s not a lie,” said Thomas defiantly. “It’s the truth. He told me,” said Thomas pointing at the other sailor.

Everybody in the café turned to the other sailor, who stood there looking shocked. What had started off as a little joke was now completely out of control.

His friend, the one he had accused of having VD, screamed, “You fucking cunt,” and smashed him on the nose sending him sprawling across the table.

Before things got worse the manager intervened again, and twenty minutes later they were all back on the bus in their original seats.

The two sailors were friends again and both saw the funny side of the situation. The other passengers were all satisfied with the entertainment they had enjoyed at no extra cost, and Mrs. Grey was just starting to calm down when, suddenly, Thomas said: Mummy what’s a ‘fucking cunt?”

This time, however, before the question could develop any further, Mrs. Grey said: “you’ve asked enough questions for one day. Save that for tomorrow.” So Thomas locked the question away in his memory, relaxed and promptly fell asleep.