The Nanny Bus by Joe Greco

“I don’t like this,” I said, craning my neck around the high-backed seat in front of me and peering down the aisle of the bus that was heading to Edinburgh. I focused on our tour guide, Harold, a diminutive, fortyish English fellow with a receding hairline, a high-pitched voice, and a rather dour disposition. He was engaged in a heated conversation with the bus driver. Sitting a good seven or eight rows behind the driver, I couldn’t make out their words, but the tone of voice and body language provided ample evidence that the two were not exchanging terms of endearment.

I leaned back and turned toward my wife, who was looking out the window. “Ella, they’re arguing. Something’s wrong.”

She shrugged and kept looking out the window. “What’s new about that? It’s probably nothing. We should be at the hotel in less than an hour.”

She had a point. Our bus driver, Angus, was a tall, muscular Scotsman with a full mane of salt-and-pepper hair who appeared to be in his late fifties. He had a charming gap-toothed smile and a booming laugh. On the multi-day trip that had started in London, he’d often mingled and traded jokes with us, a group of about forty American, Canadian, and Australian tourists. He seemed to truly like and enjoy everyone on the bus—except Harold.

Those who’d sat near the front of the bus—or “the coach,” the name Harold kept telling us was the only proper way to refer to our mode of transportation—overheard prior squabbles. They’d reported that Angus was always quite sure that he knew the best way to get from Point A to Point B, especially when there was significant traffic. They’d also reported that Harold was always quite sure that he was in charge of the routes his “coach” should take and that if Angus didn’t like it, the travel company would replace him with a driver who would obey.

I feared that while Agnus may’ve reluctantly bent the proverbial knee on routes to be taken while we were in Harold’s homeland, once we’d crossed the border into Scotland, Angus may’ve decided that now was the time to stand his ground and to fight this arrogant Englishman on the soil of auld Caledonia. But that was not it; that was not it all. It was worse.

Harold turned away from Angus and faced us. His look was even more dour than usual. He cleared his throat. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his squeaky voice cracking. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. This coach has an on-board computer that monitors the timing and length of breaks the driver must take under applicable UK and EU regulations.” (The trip took place pre-Brexit.) He cleared his throat again. “And, well, it’s informing us that our driver’s prior breaks were insufficient and that a proper one is now necessary.” He paused. We stared at him. It got even worse.

He took a deep breath. “And, well, because the authorities inspect the computer’s driving logs and will levy stiff fines if we don’t comply—and could even ground the coach for a day—we will have to pull over and stop on the side of the road for a break.” 

An incredulous “What?” rose in unison from the multitude, followed by scatterings of “You’ve got to be kidding” and invectives that won’t be repeated here.

“How long?” someone shouted. 

Harold looked down. “It’ll be forty-five minutes,” he stammered.

Again, in unison came the hue and cry: “What?”

“I’m very sorry,” Harold continued. “But it must be done. I know that we’ve already been delayed due to the traffic we’ve encountered, and some of you may be concerned that we’ll miss the Scottish dinner and show tonight, but,” he said, as he stared at his watch, “I think we’ll probably make it on time.” He paused. “If all else goes well.”

As Angus pulled the bus off the road, Harold stood in the aisle, holding up his hand to try to calm the cacophony of complaints. “Listen, everyone. You may exit the coach, but please stay well off the road.”

I’ve learned as a traveler that setbacks and obstacles such as these often teach us a lot about ourselves and others. And that certainly was true here. Because as we milled around outside the slumbering bus, watching vehicles whiz by toward Edinburgh and wondering whether our dinner show was to be or not to be, we Americans wanted everyone to know that this was the epitome of the nanny state, big government run amuck, strictly regulating the nap time of a strapping driver who probably could’ve driven another eight hours straight and then cold-cocked any human bureaucrat who might suggest that he hadn’t been fit to do so. And now we would all have to suffer for this nonsense.

Now the Canadians were saddened by the turn of events, but it soon became quite clear that what they wanted everyone to know was that they weren’t Americans.

And the Aussies? They wanted everyone to know that they’d noticed a pub less than a kilometer up the road and that if we were quick about it, we could get in a pint, or maybe even two, before the bus was resurrected and it was time to shove off.

Molly and Nigel, a stout and hardy couple in their early fifties from Perth, began organizing a thirsty travel contingent. They already were well known to everyone for their joke telling, back slapping—Molly slapped harder than Nigel—and proclivity to break into a loud rendition of “Waltzing Matilda” when things seemed to get too quiet on the bus. I readily volunteered for their excursion, partly because I admired their resilience and optimism, but also because I thought a creamy-topped Guinness might dampen my anger. 

It was not to be, however. Harold, having gotten wind of the planned adventure, appeared waving his arms and telling us that walking up that road was every bit as much of a no-no as Angus’s failure to spend sufficient time catching forty winks.

To say the least, no one was happy. Molly and Nigel did their best to cheer us, including raising their voices above the din of the adjacent traffic for another rendition of their favorite song. But the time passed, Harold called us back onto the bus, and we headed off to Edinburgh.

And, as they say, “All’s well that ends well.” We made the dinner show in the nick of time and watched marvelously talented young Scots perform traditional songs and dances. We enjoyed a delicious meal, including haggis, which everyone should try in his or her lifetime—but only once. After dinner, a lovely Highlands single malt was available for purchase. After I finished my second dram, Ella and I went over to visit with Molly and Nigel.

“I really admire you Aussies,” I said, the glow of the Scotch making me particularly effusive. “You just always seem to roll with the punches.”

Molly, sitting next to me, laughed and slapped me on the back (hard). “Ah, well, you know we have to travel so bloody far to go on holiday that we’re used to dealing with our share of problems.”

Nigel grinned. “Yeah, mate, this wasn’t a major one in our book,” he said, laughing. “Our biggest worry was that some of you Yanks were going to have coronaries over it.”

Molly joined in the laughter and slapped me on the back again (even harder).

Soon it was time to leave for the hotel. We filed out of the restaurant toward the bus, much happier than we’d been earlier in the day. We took our seats as Harold faced us, counting heads to make sure all were on board.

As Angus fired up the engine, Molly got up from her seat near the rear of the bus. “Hey, Harry,” she boomed, using the nickname that the little guide had distinctly told us he did not use. “We just wanted to tell you that we’ve decided never again to call this vehicle ‘the bus,’ as you’ve asked us not to do.”

Harold knitted his brow, apparently wondering why she was telling him this now after so many of his admonitions.

“Yes,” she continued. “No more ‘bus.’ After today and in honor of our Yank friends, we’re now going to call her ‘The Nanny.’”

A roar of approval and laughter arose from the group (well, maybe not from the Canadians).

And so it went for the rest of the journey through Scotland and Wales and eventually back to London—we traveled on The Nanny and referred to her as such. She didn’t seem to mind. (In fact, she didn’t require any more 45-minute stops on the side of the road.) Harold, not so much. He winced and scowled when he heard the new name of his beloved “coach.”

At the end of the trip, Ella and I discussed Harold’s tip. “He certainly was a surly little guy,” she said.

“That he was,” I replied. “But you know, I’ve somehow appreciated him as an interesting character in the way things played out. And who knows? I may want to write about this someday.”

We decided on a generous gratuity. But in tribute to Molly, we did write “Harry” on the envelope in which we delivered it.