Chapter 1: The Barn
My wife and I were all excited. Despite the torrential rain drenching the beautiful Stirlingshire countryside (and ourselves) as we moved small items from our car to our new home. It was a new start in life, we had brought up our two sons and now they had a life of their own. I had just retired from my job as a regional manager of a supermarket chain. Mary and I decided to sell our house in Edinburgh and buy this old farmhouse just on the outskirts of Stirling, with a picturesque view of Stirling Castle in the distance.
So there we were, soaked to the skin trying to get our delicate flatscreeen TV from the car to the house with only a coat covering it. In truth, my wife had organised the move and did most of the physical work. Years of neglect on my part left me overweight.. Mary was still spritely at 68, still a fine tall woman with long grey hair. I had promised to exercise more and we both thought that the country air here would be more healthy than the busy Edinburgh street we used to live in.
We finally got things organised and settled down in the afternoon, walking around our new domain. We had bought this old farmhouse which was in really good condition, the previous owners had lavished loving attention on it and it was fit to move in to. We decided not to decorate until the summer, by which time we would have decided what decor would suit this place. We looked around the yard and walked towards the old empty barn which we had already decided that we would demolish when we first viewed this property. Mary walked up ahead and opened one of the doors of the barn and stepped back in shock.
I rushed up to her. “What is it Mary?”
She said nothing, just pointed to something. I looked inside the barn. It was no longer empty. I was staring at the front of a very old blue bus with the destination board displayed - Stirling. It looked like the bus had was still able to run, although the blue paintwork was grimy and the tyres were muddy, suggesting the bus had been driven recently.
“How the hell did that get here?”, I said.
Mary said, “Maybe the previous owners have allowed someone to store this bus in their barn. I’ve got their mobile number, I’ll give them a call.”
Mary walked to the center of the yard to try and get a better mobile phone signal, which can be patchy in this area, while she was doing that I went inside the barn and walked around the bus. It really needed a good wash. Having never driven a bus and since it was not my property, I did not attempt to open the passenger or driver’s door. I stood on an old crate and looked through the passenger window The floor was wet and dirty and , the passenger seats looked well worn.
Mary came into the barn.
“Harry, Mrs Stevenson said that she knows nothing about the bus and it had no right being there. She hasn’t a clue where it could have come from. As far as she knows, there is no one in this area that restores anything, let alone old buses.”
“I’ll go and check the registration with the DVLA,” I said, “then we can contact the police for them to get hold of the bus owner and get it removed.”
I went online and a quick check on the DVLA website revealed that number plate of the bus was not registered - no history at all. Then I went went to the AI site chatGPT and entered as many details of the bus that I could see
Registration: WG 7491
Fleet number: PA81
Destination board: Stirling
No tax disc or any other certificates displayed
Bus company: Alexander
Colour: Blue with cream stripes
Condition: Restored
ChatGPT went quiet for a while.
Then displayed this on my computer screen:
The vehicle in question—registration WG 7491, fleet number PA81 - was a Leyland PS1 single-deck coach bodied by Alexander, delivered to W. Alexander & Sons in July 1948. This model was part of the post-war PS1 series, a popular chassis for both bus and coach applications.
It was withdrawn from service and scrapped in 1965.
I came out of the house, turned left and headed for the barn. I heard Mary banging and pushing the passenger door and by the time I entered the barn, she was trying to open the driver’s cab door.
“Well, what did you find out, Harry?”
I handed her the printout of the computer screen, but said nothing.
She gasped and her left hand covered her mouth. She turned to me.
“Harry, is this one your silly pranks - because if it is, it’s not funny!”
“Mary, I swear, this is no joke.”
“But that’s impossible!”, she cried, “So what the hell is that thing in the barn?”
“I’m guessing it’s a replica and someone has used any old number plate and fleet number to make it look authentic. They probably got the number plate off some bus records, or an old photograph, but they haven’t managed to replicate the tax disc or the PSV certificate.”
“Well, whatever it is, we’ll have to phone the police, get it moved.”
“Hang on Mary”, I said, “let George have a look at it. I don’t want to cause unneccesarry fuss in case there is a logical explanation for this. Don’t forget, George is a volunteer a Bridgeton bus garage and they have plenty of old buses in that garage. I’m sure he’ll know at least how to get in the cab, maybe there’s documents in there. There’s got to be!”
“OK,” Mary said, “but if he can’t find out anything more, I’m phoning the police.”
My brother George was a driver for many years for Glasgow Corporation and in his retirement he has spent most of his time cleaning and painting the old buses at the garage. Although he wasn’t a mechanic, I felt sure he knew enough about buses to find out more about our unwelcome barn squatter.
I tried phoning George’s mobile but it went to voicemail, so I left a message telling him about the bus. I then took a photograph of the bus on my mobile phone and sent it by text to him with a message that I needed his opinion of where the old bus came from and who was likely to own it in this area. He was probably out drinking with his pals, so I didn’t expect him to return the call until the morning, or the afternoon, depending on how hung over he was.
All Mary and I wanted to do now was set up the television, open a bottle of wine and leave sorting the rest of the house until morning. She wanted to watch a horror movie that was starting at midnight, so we managed to get the aerial to finally work.
We settled in for the night and sat down to watch the movie that was just starting. Mary is slightly deaf, so to my sensitive ears, the television was quite loud - but I was sure I could hear the sound of an engine. I looked out the window, could see nothing in the dark. The shed was to the left of the house, out of sight. I could hear nothing outside. If there was anything, it was being drowned out by the noise from the television.
At 10am in the morning George called.
“What’s up bruv”, he cheerfully asked, “you and Mary celebrating too early? Why do you want me to look at an empty barn?”
“What!” I yelled, “what do you mean - don’t mess me about George, I’m too tired.”
“OK, just check the photo you sent me, that’s all I’m saying. Gina and I are coming round this afternoon to see you anyway. Give me your postcode.”
“OK George, I can assure you that this is no joke, Mary and I both saw the bus, but we’ll discuss it when you come over. I’m going to check the photo.”
Was I going senile? Mary and I both saw the bus. Did I take the photo of somewhere else in the barn? That was impossible, because I looked at the photo before I sent it to George.
I opened the photo gallery on my mobile phone and looked at the last photo I took. It was an empty barn, the photo was taken just outside the barn door and every corner of the barn could be seen. There was no bus.
I rushed out the house and ran as fast as I could towards the barn.
Mary was shouting behind me, “Harry, what’s going on? You’re scaring me!”
I got to the barn and opened both barn doors.
The bus had gone.
