Somewhere, a song plays

She showed her ticket to the driver, then progressed down the gangway of the bus with a style of walking that would best be described as ‘all arms and all legs’. It made me assume that she was just some gangling adolescent, but it was difficult to tell since she was wearing one of those huge parka coats with the furry hoods - just like kids used to (and maybe still do, for all I know) wear to school. The hood was pulled up, even though it wasn’t raining outside, so that only a little of her face could be seen. Approaching me, she sat on the seat opposite, then immediately changed her mind, jumped up and clambered noisily to the back of the bus.

I returned to staring out of the window at the dull suburban streets of north-west London, only to be jolted back out of my daydreams a few minutes later by a loud clatter as the hooded passenger lurched into the seat behind me.

“Dropped me radio.”

I looked down to see a small portable radio lying by my feet. If you’re of a certain age (in fact, probably about the same age as someone who wore a furry-hooded parka in the school playground as a child), you’ll know the particular example of cutting-edge technology to which I’m alluding. They used to be called transister radios. Just prior to the introduction of Walkmans, and when the iPod was still the stuff of science-fiction, music on the move consisted of one of these items clutched to your right ear - an absolute essential for listening to the thrilling countdown of the fabulous top forty.

I picked up the radio, plus the plastic cover of the battery compartment that had become detached as it hit the floor of the bus. Clicking the whole thing back together, I turned to hand it back to the woman. She still had her hood up.

“Thanks. Dropped me radio. Thought it was broken. I like me radio.”

“What are you listening to?” I asked, immediately cursing myself for starting a conversation with a complete stranger, thereby breaking the unwritten golden rule of travelling on public transport in London.

“I like The Beatles.”

“Oh, which station is playing them?”

There was no reply from under the hood. Maybe I’d gone a little too far with this particular conversation; maybe I was being too inquisitive. The woman’s right hand disappeared into her cavernous hood as she clasped the radio to her ear - which immediately ignited that distant memory of how kids all used to listen to them. Despite the noise of the bus, I could hear a voice quietly singing along to No Reply and A Hard Day’s Night.

After ten minutes or so, a pair of hands suddenly appeared over my right shoulder. It was followed by the hood, which leaned forward and began mumbling to me.

“Did you say you like The Beatles?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I like George Harrison. He’s my favourite Beatle. What’s your favourite album by The Beatles?”

“Um, I don’t know. Difficult to say, really. Revolver and The White Album are the two I listen to the most, I guess. What about you?”

No answer.

“Think me radio’s broken,” said the hood, turning the small plastic box over and over in her hands.

“Oh, I hope not. Maybe the battery just got dislodged when you dropped it?”

“Mmm, maybe.”

Still leaning forward, she idly dangled the radio from her left hand while twisting the strap around her fingers. I could feel the radio tapping against my arm.

“Would you like me to see if I can fix it?” I asked, half assuming that she had been waiting for my offer of help anyway.

There was a long pause. The hood continued to stare straight ahead. Then, without saying a word, she dropped the radio onto the seat beside me. I picked it up, opened the plastic compartment at the rear and discovered that the battery had been inserted the wrong way round. With positive and negative now matching, I tried switching on the radio, but there was still no sound.

“I think the battery must be dead,” I said, thereby displaying my expert technical grasp of the situation. I decided not to mention that the battery had obviously been the wrong way round for some time, because I was worried that I then wouldn’t be able to stop myself enquiring how she had managed to listen to any music in the first place.

“That’s OK,” replied the hood, as I gave back the radio. Once again, she turned it over and over in her hands, contemplating it. Then, with a quick tug, she pulled the coat’s furry hood from her head, revealing a messy, unbrushed ginger-blonde mop of hair that appeared to have come straight from the illustrations accompanying Richmal Crompton’s Just William stories. The tomboy look in adulthood, maybe.

With the hood now out of the way, she held the radio close to her face, narrowing her eyes and checking it over in careful detail.

“Favourite Beatles song?” she asked, without looking at me.

“Me? Er, that’s impossible to say.”

“Go on. If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine.”

“A Day in the Life, then. But it really is - ”

“Not In My Life?”

“It’s not bad, that one. But I prefer - ”

I was about to continue down some tiresome and well-worn path about preferring later Beatles’ material, but my conversational partner had already re-entered her own secret world. She placed the entirely noiseless radio back against her right ear, pulled up the hood of her parka and returned to her seat.

I got off the bus about twenty minutes later, almost sorry to leave the gentle sound of my new friend’s voice coming from beneath the hood, singing the repertoire of John, Paul, George and Ringo softly to herself.