The Busconductor Hines (23 page)

But he should have just fucking told her that instead of the nonsense, the lie. Why did he fucking lie to her about it: it would have been fine. It would have been more than fine. She hates these late late backshifts even more so than he does and she wouldnt have minded at all, his signing-off sick, in order to return home, to be with her.

He withdrew his hands from his face, they had been covering his face, the fingertips pressing into the corners of the eyes, the lids shut. At first he had covered them with the middle sections of the fingers and was using force, but then this had eased and
the fingers moved slowly down, as though he was just rubbing his face, and then the hands being withdrawn altogether.

Willie was saying eh . . . he lifted a cigarette from the ashtray and put it into his mouth, struck a match and lighted it . . . if we fancied going up to his place, for a meal, a kind of party I suppose, him and Isobel and that – if she's talking to me – I think they've invited a couple of folk from her college or something I'm no too sure. He said we were to bring Paul if we wanted, it'd be okay, if we cant get a babysitter, just to bring him.

O . . . she nodded. When is it?

Saturday I think, a week on Saturday. I'll check tomorrow.

Is it not your day-off tomorrow?

Naw. He sniffed and reached for the
Evening Times
, paused before opening its pages. He glanced across when she rose from the table, pushing her chair back and saying to Paul about not bothering to eat everything if he wasnt feeling up to doing so.

In the name of christ.

He shifted in his chair so that he was facing the fire, studying the shapes within it. Their voices in the background. It was like something or other, bad, it was like something bad.

The clock on the mantelpiece. And the fucking wallpaper: so shabby – even a coat of paint might have done the trick, making things that bit more cheery. He got up to switch on the television.

At some time in the future Paul would be elsewhere and involved in something totally removed from it all when for no reason whatsoever the memory of the babybath. There are bathrooms in Drumchapel; Hines was never bathed in front of the fire. This experience will remain with the boy for the rest of his days. Maybe of that very evening, the mother and father sitting
there and the silence – that tenement silence which encompasses vague bumps and bangs while cisterns empty and refill – and he might wonder about its cause. Had there been an actual row he couldnt quite remember. If not, what. And was this the usual state of affairs. No, for it wasnt always like this. In many respects it felt to have been a happy home. Is this true. Not untrue. Hines maybe a bit quick to strike at times, bad tempered on occasion, and probably inconsistent. But all in all not too bad.

And surely no worse than his own father; maybe even a bit better when it comes down to it, a deal more honest in many ways, a great many ways.

The flames are bluey grey. For each of the 3 sections there are 24 miniscule rectangles concealing hundreds and hundreds of toty wee pointed items of the colour white, and that toxic vapour, always seeping.

Sandra was looking at him. He grinned, then relaxed to be smiling, an encouraging kind of a smile. After a moment he raised the book.

It was time for his bed. He had an early rise. He had to go to work extremely early tomorrow morning. She could trip while carrying the huge soup-pot. She wouldnt; if she wants to have a bath while he's out on a backshift, she has to do it on her own and she never trips. He can wait until the thing has been filled. Then he can go to bed. Good christ. The words on the page are very fine, those little tails on individual letters, most pleasing to behold.

There's that instant a fraction before the alarm belts out and you've grabbed the thing and managing to shove down the stopper just at the warning click, knowing you're as fit as a fiddle and right up the lot of them; pushing out of bed and dressing in the black yet so swiftly, everything successful – the jersey in particular, seeming to pull itself on, settling round the trunk without even needing a tug. Pointless to eat; far better out on the road and walking. And the quick laying on the lips of lips for christ sake what does that mean—

kissing one's wife softly on the lips: that's what it fucking means. Then swallowing a half pint of milk prior to the silent farewell; an unknown moment of magical togetherness. Poor auld Sandra. Never to have felt these lips at that actual moment. Serves her right for being sound asleep. Women shouldnt go to sleep, it's a spoiler and we dont want that kind; what we do want is the fragrant aroma and soft flesh to be encircling one that one is pulled back beneath the sheets against one's will. Come on you I want to go to my work, stop it, stop it! let me get out into the harsh wintry wee hours of this my next moment of doom, that black black black of the

Jesus christ alfuckingmighty.

But it was almost halfway to the garage before the staffbus appeared he had been walking so quickly.

The driver was an imbecile. To talk to such a being is often out of the hands of Hines. And yet it was miraculous to have been there as it slowed to just that point beyond where he was
standing that he had to be quickening to be jumping else no chance of getting aboard the thing. The public service omnibus is an amazing article. To be the driver of such a vehicle must certainly be a novel kettle of cabbage. Hines would have liked a buzz at it. Had his overall conduct been less abysmal he would easily have fulfilled the function quite as adequately as anyone.

He sat down.

Other members of the green were there. He greeted them cordially albeit with a concealed smile of supercilliousness at the thought of himself there sitting there at this exact moment in the eternal scheme of things. Consolation was his, however, deriving as it did, via his experience, oftimes verified via countless other mornings whence the ragings of a darkly brain had indeed given way to a calm but firm detachment. Had a mirror been handy he could have watched his face. It would have been interesting to witness the outward appearance.

The staffbus stopped in the garage yard and the greens strolled along into the office with Hines bringing up the rear in company with a driver by the name of Davis who has the fine habit of not talking for shifts at a stretch. It is astonishing how quickly the place could fill with smoke; Hines had been about to prise the lid off the tin but he returned it inside the pocket. An interesting observation: places used to smoke fill up with it more rapidly than other places. Take the topdeck of a bastarn bus where the eyes actually smart – although of course you've got the diesel fumes as well as the smoke, plus the extraordinary smells of the cunts farting, sorry jimmy, been on the guinness last night. Smoking is a malpractice. Consider the youthful Paul, how his lungs must resemble the inside of a fucking chimney, and him hardly 4½ years of age. Terrible. And the same goes for one's spouse. Although, having known of the habit prior to accepting the band of rolled gold, the question of an individual's freedom to form genuine decisions
of an autonomous nature must enter the reckoning. The Deskclerk.

Davis had just signed for his duty and was walking to look at the duty-sheet on the wall. The Office was almost empty. Hines had taken the pen to sign for his own duty but he kept from pulling the book towards him; at last he looked at the Deskclerk: What's up?

The Deskclerk was smiling in a friendly manner.

Hines grinned.

Naw. I'm just wondering what you're here for.

Eh?

I mean there's no point signing the book, it's your day-off.

Hines sniffed; raising his right hand he scratched his hair-line which seemed to be containing an enormous quantity of flaking skin nowadays. The Deskclerk continued to smile. He stopped the scratching, passed the hand over his forehead gently, as though not wanting to disturb the skin there lest it also flaked.

Honest Rab I mean that's what diaries were invented for; so folk can mark in their timetables!

Hh.

Anyway as it turns out, you've knocked it off, I'm short a couple of conductors this morning; you can switch days-off if you like.

Aw christ Harry ta.

16 duty; okay?

Great, aye, ta, thanks a lot.

The Deskclerk had pushed the book towards him and while Hines was signing he said, How's the stomach by the way?

Better.

The Deskclerk nodded, then he sniffed. Aye, I never heard till later on. You'd been stuck in the toilet for an hour because of it?

Well no quite . . . Hines grinned.

Look eh . . . I thought you were chancing it yesterday.

That's how I eh . . . He sniffed. I mean I didnt know it was genuine, when you came in to sign-off, otherwise I would-nt've eh . . .

No bother Harry.

The Deskclerk nodded. Right, day-off the morrow then – or Saturday? To be honest Rab it'd suit me better if you made it Saturday, you know what like Fridays are in this place!

Hangover day!

They both grinned.

Eh . . . Hines was rolling a cigarette.

Aye?

Naw, just wondering, I mean yesterday and that eh I dont suppose I mean, changing it; what I mean, to a day-off.

What?

Naw I mean yesterday and that, you know how I had to go sick; I was just wondering, if it could be changed to a day-off I mean, so I could work Saturday as well . . .

O Christ naw, naw Rab, that's no on, sorry I mean, it's just no on; it's through the books and that and you cant go back over it now.

Aw.

Aye, Christ, sorry.

Naw naw, okay Harry honest, no bother I mean I was just eh . . . He sniffed, signed at the space appropriate to 16 duty; he lighted the cigarette and coughed sharply, and added, Thanks again Harry.

Aye eh ... The Deskclerk was gazing at a sheet of paper lying in front of him on the counter; he raised his head briefly to nod.

It has never been acutely necessary to think. Hines can board the bus and all will transpire. Nor does he have to explain to a driver how the bus is to be manoeuvred. Nor need he dash
out into the street to pressgang pedestrians. Of its own accord comes everything. Not only are the passengers to be congratulated, so too must the creators and current administrators of the Public Transport System. It is all superb. Hines simply has to stand with his back to the safety rail beneath the front window and await the jerk of gear or brake to effect his descent to the rear and, with machine at the ready and right hand palm outwards to take in the dough, the left hand is extracting a ticket and dishing it up to the smiling person. Then though it be busy a lull always arrives, during which he can return to the front for a fly puff at a relaxing roll-up and, if of a mind, he can engage such as a Reilly in conversation. But a driver can be new. The Newdriver is a problem. One should tread warily in gabbing to such a being lest a lapse in concentration causes the bus to crash. Hines seems to get more Newdrivers than is his fair share. It is as though the Higher-ups view him as the ‘deep-end' and thus they toss him the Newdrivers whenever available. They say to themselves: This Busconductor Hines is a difficult kettle of fish; should the Newdriver survive a shift alongside him then this Newdriver is indeed the man for us. Hines will show them that which is the ropes. He will advise them what is the what. Let us continue to ensure that he remains the busconductor as opposed to a busdriver that we may continue to toss him the Newdrivers whenever he and his own driver are not on together. And gentlemen, let us also take pains to ensure that he and his own driver are not always on together.

Fucking shite.

But it's funny how he always seems to get lumbered with the cunts when Reilly's on the panel or whatever. They're all fucking idiots as well, this is the thing. 90% of their naivety is not connected with being Newdrivers; it is connected with being alive as persons. Hines cannot fucking understand how they have survived to the present. He signs for a shift and senses the
proximity of a starched collar and tightly knotted black tie and there, in a quiet part of the Office, lurks the graduate, rocking back and forth on his heels while pretending fascination with the duty-sheets. What is the fucking point of such a carry-on. Useless talking. Hines leaves them to get on with it – which is no doubt why they get tossed aboard his bus. Some of them are cheery and some of them are not cheery, they chat and dont chat, but as the day progresses the latter always takes precedence. Because Hines doesnt fucking chat back! You think he wants to fucking die! Jesus christ!

Never disturb Newdrivers.

Even experienced drivers should not be disturbed. Back during the 1st term of transport Hines was feart to glance suddenly at the driver in case he caused a draught which might interfere with the steering mechanism. Absolute nonsense. But the quick glance into the cabin could have the driver reacting hastily that the possibility of disaster as reality. Hines tries never to speak without firstly having made his presence known. People can be deep in reverie. Some drivers have no idea where they are at certain points on the road. They say, Christ I dont even remember driving the last couple of miles! And these miles can embrace peak-hour city centre streets. It makes you quite jumpy to consider. Imagine a bus crowded with punters, standing room only both upstairs and down, all giving each other the time of day under the mistaken apprehension their lives are in a safe pair of hands. Now, these fucking hands might only be 2 days out the Training School for Busdrivers and some of them never sat behind a wheel in their lives before arriving there for fuck sake. Hines is sick of it. Apparently it isnt the fault of the Newdrivers themselves. But the poor auld conductors are having to carry the burden. No wonder certain shoulders will wilt. One pair should not have to support that kind of thing.

Weans are the main hazard. Newdrivers feel able to be at
home with them. It is an error. They drive folk crazy. Newdrivers are simply misjudging the situation. Experienced conductors have no truck with weans. Weans are to be avoided at all costs. The most hair-raising journeys involve them. On they pile maybe 6 to 8 at a time so that they wind up getting jammed in the doorway and you have to be there to poke here and pull there. And they are out to con you into losing your temper. One must tread warily. Three years ago a conductor by the name of McManus had a stand-up fight with a team of them because they were drinking wine on the rear seat of the topdeck. The full facts have never come to light – although Hines has a hunch it concerned moral outrage. McManus was an alcoholic. He always carried a half-bottle which he wrapped in layers of toilet paper and stowed in his machine-case. According to garage rumour he lost his temper because they refused him a gargle but McManus was a whisky drinker and it was a bottle of wine the weans had. Far more likely he wanted to warn them off the wayward track. Anyway, whatever it was he was out of order and the weans were right to object. So poor auld fucking McManus suffered a beating, then lost his job into the bargain. The Department of Transport is opposed to the boxing games where members of the green are involved. There is no excuse. No circumstances are singular enough to warrant such action. But obviously the beating was sufficient; he shouldnt have lost his job into the bargain. And he wouldnt, had the Union sorted it out properly. But the Union is not for discussing. Hines cannot discuss the Union. Yes he can. No he cant. Best leaving such a carry-on to the likes of Reilly who is able to attend meetings and even get involved in the proceedings. Life is too elongated.