The Busconductor Hines (3 page)

I was in the middle of this dream Willie; fucking great so it was; I didnt have the heart to wake myself up.

Reilly struck a match to light a tipped cigarette. Then he nodded towards the garage office. Away and give it a bash.

Hines snorted.

You never know.

It's Campbell that's on.

Reilly shrugged. No harm fucking trying.

Right enough, they can only cut my balls off. Hines turned to go but he stopped: What bus we got?

183.

183 for fuck sake I might've known; the heaters've been blowing cold air for the last ten years.

Come on man, I'll wait a couple of minutes.

Right right, okay, very sorry sir.

In the garage Office the Deskclerk was gazing at a notice pinned to a board on the wall. He continued to gaze at it when Hines arrived at the counter. Eh . . . can I sign for my shift?

After a moment the Deskclerk turned to him. What was that?

My shift.

Your shift?

Aye, 6 duty.

6 duty; 6 duty's away.

Hines gestured in the direction of the street. My driver, he's waiting for me. Okay if I sign for it?

It's away. The spare man's got it.

Aye. Hines sniffed. I could tell him to come back.

Too late.

He's still there but, Reilly.

Then he's timewasting, muttered the Deskclerk. If Reilly's still there then he's bloody timewasting. He returned his attention to the notice.

Can I sign for my shift?

You're too late I'm telling you.

Hines had prised the lid off his tobacco tin. Once he had rolled the cigarette he altered his stance at the counter and inhaled deeply when he had lighted it. The Deskclerk left the notice and walked to sit on a high stool towards the far end of the counter. The large sign-on book lay there. He began to study its contents, his fingers drumming on the counter. Hines inhaled again and he blew a smoke ring. What will I do? he said. Want me to sign spare or what?

The Deskclerk didnt reply. Hines rubbed his eyes. He had placed his uniform hat on the table. He slung the cashbag off his shoulder. No, said the Deskclerk, I dont think so.

Have I just to go home then?

What d'you say?

Hines looked at him.

I've got a spare conductor sitting upstairs doing nothing as it is. The Deskclerk continued to study the sign-on book for a few moments. He raised his head abruptly: You were supposed to report for work at 5. What the hell use are you coming in at this bloody time?

Christ sake I missed the staffbus. I had to run the whole way here.

What's that got to do with it?

Hines looked at him. The boy, he said eventually, he's got the flu. I was up half the night cause of it.

What d'you think I'm stupid or something? You slept in the other morning as well and got away with it I mean what the hell d'you think it is at all! d'you think we're just here for your beck and call?

Hines sniffed.

The Deskclerk shook his head; he had resumed his study of the sign-on book. Then he reached into a side pocket of his dustcoat and got himself a cigarette. When he had it burning he inhaled and exhaled, and muttered, 6 o'clock spare. And he turned and walked away from the counter; but then he paused to add: Just dont bother showing your face next time it happens.

Hines coughed. He signed his name in the book. He went quickly outside onto the street and waved off Reilly. Back in the garage he walked upstairs to the bothy.

The boy fumbled on the door handle. Hines had pushed his fingers through the letter-box flap and was making groaning noises. It was Sandra who opened. He kissed her and stuck the uniform hat on the boy's head. Once into the kitchen he slumped on the armchair. Bad? she said.

O wh . . . Murder, these spreadovers. Heh . . . he got up from the chair: Want a hand with the spuds? When Sandra made a face at him he sat back down, and bent to untie his bootlaces. People go years on the sick and here's me, always beat, even for one miserable week, one lousy bastarn week. See Reilly too! he's just got to walk in the doctor's surgery and they're throwing lines at him.

Paul had come to him with a painting. Hines looked at it and nodded. I mean if I could just get on the sick now and again I could go conducting buses till the fucking cows come home. Heh . . . he glanced at Paul. This is a brilliant piece of work wee man.

Paul leaned to look at it.

Aye. Hines indicated the shapes: There you've got the wavy sea and that, the big sun shining – it's good, exact son, well done. Naw, really I mean it's a piece of nonsense the way some doctors are okay and others – him we've got, baldy bastard, I'm beginning to think he's a C.I.A. plant or some fucking thing.

Paul was watching him; he grinned and Hines ruffled his hair and gave him back the painting. Sandra mouthed something. Eventually she said, It's your language Rab, that's why he's laughing. I'm always expecting to be told he's swearing at the women in the nursery.

Serve them right.

I'm being serious. Sandra washed the peeled potatoes and dumped them into a pot, sprinkled the salt. How was work?

How was yours?

She smiled slightly.

Naw, mine was ebsilutely mervillous; a continual round of tactillian surprises, one minute I'm getting battered by shopping bags then barked at by mangy mongrels, attacked at by sexy office girls.

Away and steep your feet.

I dont have the energy; people have been standing on them all day. They're battered and bruised and sore. I keep explaining that to the doctor but he wont listen sir please sir they're battered and bruised and sore sir. Naw, I'm definitely looking for another job.

O that's a good idea.

I love sarcastic women.

She poked her tongue out at him.

How long till the grub's on the plate?

Twenty minutes at the latest.

What! Merciful heavens, think I'll go to bed to kill the time.

You dare. Anyway, you should be thankful you're getting it cooked for you. If I remember rightly it's my week off.

Hines had closed his eyelids. I cant last it out. Dear god up there in the nether regions please make me unconscious; I'll be yours forever and ever sir, honest.

Turn on the telly.

I refuse.

O by the way Rab, they were talking in the office this afternoon, that part-timer from the agency, she never turned up again.

Brainy lassie.

It's hopeless though. It just means we're having to do her work as well as our own. We're managing right enough but it's a push.

Hh; typical capitalist strategy, next thing you know auld Bufuckingcanan'll turn round and tell you the part-timer's services are no longer required.

Seriously though Rab, I was wondering, whether to think about going full-time.

Were you.

Yes.

Hh.

We could manage it.

Aye.

We could.

Smashing, when you thinking of starting? got time to wait for the spuds to boil?

O god.

I'm joking Sandra, sorry, honest I mean I was just . . . He shrugged.

After a pause she got up; taking a cloth from the draining board she wiped the pull-down section of the kitchen-cabinet. Are you really against the idea?

Course not.

If we had Paul in a full-time nursery we'd manage quite easy. And it'd only be till the summer, till he starts school.

Hines raised his right foot to take off the boot; the tobacco tin toppled off the arm of the chair, the lid had been lying off. He picked up the tobacco and put it back inside. Sandra was looking at him. Naw, he said, of course I dont mind you going full-time – the wages I'm earning you'd have to sooner or later. Be better off on the bloody broo so I would. At least till the O.T. picks up again. I heard a whisper right enough, a couple of conductors're supposed to have got working their days-off this week.

Sandra nodded.

Big deal eh!

We could do with the extra money Rab.

I know . . . aye. Heh, he smiled, maybe save a few quid for a holiday or something.

Sandra had her arms folded; she stepped to his chair. We could though. I was thinking if we managed to live on your wages then we'd be able to put most of mine into the bank. God it'd be great. And instead of a holiday . . . we could maybe start thinking about saving for a house. She unfolded her arms and bent to put her hand on his arm. We could, there's no reason why not.

Hines snorted. And she rose away from him, avoiding his gaze. Naw, he said, that's a good idea I mean . . . He sniffed and reached for the tobacco tin.

A long queue had formed at the stop. The newdriver was gazing into the display window of a nearby jeweller's shop. Their bus was late. When it finally arrived a great many folk got off but all of the queue climbed aboard. Hines waited until the other driver and conductor had stepped down, opening his case and preparing his ticket-machine. The driver was muttering. Fucking murder out there so it is . . . His forehead glistened with sweat.

While Hines adjusted the strap of his cashbag the newdriver settled onto his seat in the cabin, and arranged his rear-view mirror. The doors were still open. A few latecomers came rushing up and jumped on. Hines looked at them.

Eh can you fix that mirror for me . . . ?

What?

The newdriver was pointing to the wing mirror just outside the doors. Hines leaned to fix it for him.

A wee bit more to the left.

Hines adjusted it and returned inside immediately, and stood with his back to the cabin. At least 10 people were standing along the aisle. He gazed at them; then climbed to the topdeck and found some seats to be empty. Back down the stairs he said: 5 only inside now and the rest of yous up the stair.

As the first of them moved to the staircase the newdriver released the handbrake while depressing the accelerator and the bus jerked into motion; a woman fell against Hines. The man she was with stared at him, and grasping her arm he said: You okay love?

She nodded. She frowned at Hines before going upstairs, followed by the man. Once the correct number had gone up he called: Fares please, and set off down the aisle.

At the terminus the bus stopped and the engine was switched off. The queue waiting there had filed aboard. Hines scribbled the numbers into his waybill and returned it to the holder in the luggage-compartment beneath the staircase. He glanced round the partition into the cabin: What's up?

How d'you mean?

What're we waiting here for?

The newdriver reached for the timeboard and indicated the times: According to this we're allowed 8 minutes here.

What?

The terminus, when we get here it's 8 minutes till we leave.

For fuck's sake man that only applies when you arrive on time. Come on, let's go, we're half an hour late.

The newdriver turned away and switched on the engine. As the bus pulled out from the terminus two more buses arrived in, and came out immediately behind it. Hines shook his head and strode down to the rear, and gazed through the window at the driver of the one following.

Queues had formed at almost every stop and it was standing room only. A fair proportion of people were heading out to
the match at Parkhead but many others travelled short distances only and Hines had to move quickly to collect their fares. By the time he reached the rear of the upperdeck he turned to find about 8 people standing. He looked at them. Right, he said, down the stair.

Heh wait a minute, began a man wearing a clubscarf and carrying an open can of lager. It was the driver told us to come up.

Aye right enough jimmy, said another.

A few others nodded.

Out my road . . . He squeezed between them and clumped down the stairs. The lowerdeck was mobbed. A large alsatian dog wagged its tail at the spot next to the luggage-compartment. Hines scratched his head and moved to the cabin but the newdriver was gripping the steering wheel with one hand while reaching to switch on the indicator with the other. Hines stepped back and turned to manoeuvre past the alsatian but the foot-brake was applied and he staggered forwards and grabbed for the wrist of the animal's owner. The man took the pressure and pushed to aid Hines' recovery.