The Busconductor Hines (9 page)

Across the yard Reilly had appeared from between the row of parked buses; he carried a watering-can which he used to top up the radiator in the engine section at the rear. Hines stepped round the blind side from him, to the front of the bus and he sat on the first seat there. 5 more minutes till they were due
out the garage. And Reilly waited until then before boarding and getting into the cabin; he switched on the engine at once and when they reached the 1st terminus he left it to idle, periodically depressing the accelerator pedal. It was dark outside and his reflection could be seen in the front window; he was reading a newspaper. Hines was on the rear seat, only moving when it was required by a passenger. Both this and the next journey were busy but the one following less so and Reilly switched off the engine at the terminus.

Fuck off: called Hines as he opened the tin. On his first drag on the cigarette he exhaled a large cloud of smoke and shouted: Good King Wenceslas is a daft bastard.

Reilly peered round the partition, then returned; the newspaper rustled.

Although I'm sorry I'm no really sorry. And I dont mean that I dont mean it cause I do, I do mean it. I apologise and do not apologise. The apologising takes precedence.

What I mean is I apologise because I've had to speak first since under normal circumstances you would've been yapping like fuck for the past 43 years; instead of that here you are finding yourself in the unnatural position of keeping the gub shut at all costs because of certain events of an unhappy nature which took place at a recent friendly gathering in the local hostelry ya bastard ye I'm sorry, honest. Honest. Hines sat upright on the seat, glanced out the back window. Hail was blowing across the street. Fuck it. He stood up and sat down. Look ya fucking bastard, if it makes it any better, the whole world's crumbling about my ears, the wife and the 38 weans are leaving, the building wherein I dwell is falling to fucking bits and I never emigrated to Australia when I should have; and that fucking doctor of mine, baldy cunt that he is, he's an unabashed card-carrying member of the C.B. bastarn I. I mean what fucking more d'you want?

The newspaper rustled.

Hines swivelled on the seat, to stretch along it, his boots resting on top of the framework of the one in front. Then he roared: Fuck off.

What d'you expect? shouted Reilly.

What do I expect! fucking farce: last time I'll ever be caught afuckingpologising.

That was never an apology.

Course it was.

Was it fuck.

It was fuck.

Shite.

Come off it man I mean what're you wanting at all? a hands and knees game! Away and give us peace ya Fenian bastard ye.

Leave politics out of it.

Hines sat upright, grinning: Okay ya cunt come on, read me a titbit on world exploifuckingtation from your bastarn
Star
; I think I can take it.

Reilly shifted on his seat so that the newspaper lay onto the cabin door.

Are matters up or down, that's what I want to know.

Up.

Ah, so questions're being rasied in the House are they!

Right, centre and right of centre.

Christ Reilly your patter's improving right enough; there may yet be hope.

Shut up ya cunt. Heh – did you notice that Inspector at the 2nd terminus there? 8 minutes sharp I left and he didnt bat a fucking eyelid. What d'you make of it? point for discussion?

Could be. A strange kettle of parsnips.

Exactly what I thought.

Maybe he was asleep standing up.

He was puffing a pipe.

Did the witness see the actual smoke?

No your honour.

Then he'd definitely given up the ghost and who can blame him! Imagine having to creep about at ungodly intervals just to check up on drivers leaving termini.

With blobs of snow dripping down your collar. And big fucking buses screeching past every 10 minutes. Eh, what a shitey job that must be!

Hines laughed. He got up to change the destination screen. It's your turn to buy the chips by the way.

Naw it's no.

Aye it is – my memory's no that fucking bad.

It must be.

You kidding?

Naw, fuck, I'm serious.

Serious? what d'you mean serious!

I mean I fucking bought them the last time. No mind? that spreadover we were on?

Hines shook his head. Everything's a fucking blur these days. No kidding you Willie I'm going to write to Any bastarn Questions about it. Outraged of Tunbridge fucking Drumchapel: how in the name of christ is a body to keep track of time when the world's crumbling about his fucking ears.

Reilly laughed as he folded away the newspaper. I'm starving as well, he said, think I'll get a fish-supper.

Aw christ naw, the poor auld cashbag.

Midway through the 2nd part of the shift an Inspector rapped the door. It was a different Inspector and they were at a different terminus. Reilly had left the cabin to go down the aisle checking for dropped coins beneath the seats. He muttered, O fuck, while returning to open the doors. Hello Inspector.

You're no due here for another 11 minutes driver I'll have to book you.

From the rear seat Hines cleared his throat. Glancing at him the Inspector turned to Reilly: Does your conductor always sit with his feet on seats? When Reilly didnt answer he continued: 11 minutes, how did you manage it?

To be honest with you I never knew we were sharp till we got here. We only lifted a half dozen punters since Union Street.

The Inspector snorted. And he brought a pencil out from where it had been wedged behind his ear and beneath his hat; he flicked through the pages of his notebook then looked at Reilly.

Reilly, William, 6214.

Hines coughed. The Inspector stared at him. I told you before son get your bloody feet off that seat – people have got to sit there for your information.

Hines swivelled round; his boots clattered onto the floor.

Come here.

Me you mean?

The Inspector continued to stare at him.

Hines rose, he walked up the aisle with his hands in his trouser pockets, and he stood closeby the Inspector.

Your waybill conductor, I want to see it.

It's in the waybill holder. Hines gestured towards the luggage-compartment. Then he got the waybill when the Inspector nodded at it.

Okay son, read me the numbers from your machine. Better still, let me see them for myself.

Reilly coughed as Hines raised the machine so that the
Inspector could check the numbers there were corresponding to the last waybill entry. I'm not cheating the ratepayer if that's what you think.

I'm no saying you're doing anything. The Inspector sniffed and nodded before returning him the waybill. I dont see your hat.

Eh.

Where is it?

In fact I've not got it with me this evening; my child's fault: he spilled a tureen of chicken vindaloo all over it. The wife had to leave it to soak. Still no dry when I was coming to report this afternoon. Smell of curry everywhere too; the neighbours were in complaining.

Name and number? The Inspector turned a page in his notebook.

Hines Robert 4729. Am I being booked?

Incomplete uniform. What was your name again?

Hines Robert.

His mates call him Bobby, said Reilly.

Well, some of them call me Rabbie right enough; I blame the auld man, he was a great believer in Burns.

I like comics, said the Inspector.

Glad to hear it.

Look; I've a bloody job to do same as yous pair. If yous were doing it the way yous're supposed to I wouldnt be having to use my book.

Very sorry, muttered Reilly.

The Inspector glanced at him. Dont mention it . . . As he turned to exit he squinted in at the destination screen, and said to Hines: Mind and change it before leaving here now, else I'll be having to book you again.

When the doors were shut behind him Reilly laughed briefly. Fuck them all, that's what I say.

Hines didnt reply. He walked to the rear of the bus, shaking his head and occasionally snorting. He sat down. He sniffed. Naw, christ naw, no now, definitely, definitely not, bastards, the decision's made and that's it final; hh; fuck it; the bastards, them and their fucking promotion, all I wanted to be was a fucking the Busdriver Hines.

So you admit it! Reilly was laughing, having come halfway down the aisle.

Hines covered his face with both hands. Too bad to be true, too fucking bad, no kidding ye man bad, too fucking bad, really fucking bad man I'm no kidding ye.

And the door was being chapped. The Inspector. Reilly saying, It's that cunt back again.

Hines dropped his hands. They lay so that the wrists balanced on the edge of the seat, his head moving to rest against the rearmost panel of the bus.

Heh conductor. I want to see that destination screen changed right now.

I'll do it, said Reilly.

You're no the conductor. Heh. You. I want to see it getting changed, right now. So's I know you arent forgetting.

The doors had shut.

The bus was really swaying. Reilly could drive too fast; other times not fast enough. He was slowing it down now, for a queue of persons, having formed to file upstairs or down. Hines had got off the seat and was marching to the front as the bus moved away from the kerb. Stop again man I'm jacking it. Pull into the side. High fucking time I mean it's getting to the ridiculous stage. Come on for christ sake Willie stop the bus when I'm telling you.

Reilly's frown.

Christ sake man hurry up, I want to jack the bastarn thing, right now.

Fine ya cunt.

It's no fine at all; come on, pull into the fucking side. Reilly glancing at him.

I want to jack it I'm telling you come on.

Right then you can jack it, I dont have to stop the bus but.

Aye you do, I need to jack it; I want to have jacked it.

Well you've jacked it.

How can I have fucking jacked it if I'm standing here in the scabby bastarn transport green with machine and cashbag for christ sake!

Careful man, dont poke.

O very sorry sir please sir I'm poking. Hines was slinging the machine and cashbag up over his shoulder and off, lowering them to the floor that they lay upright against the bottom panel of the driver's cabin. He took off the uniform jacket and turned to be facing the lower-deck passengers: Any of yous got a spare pair of breeks?

Reilly hooting.

Honest, I cant absolve myself in these greenly yins I'm wearing. Come on now, a spare pair of breeks; who's got a spare pair of breeks? External condition irrelevant. Women's slacks'll do champion. Eh? come on, I've got to be having jacked this kettle of cabbage.

A middle-aged couple rising from their seat; the man first down and holding out money. The fare son.

I'll swop it for your trousers, and throw in a ticket-machine of a money-making nature.

The man smiling while placing the money onto the grooved top of the cabin door, and half turning his back to mutter, Just keep it for yourself – we're no needing any tickets.

And the woman grinning back to the other passengers.

Dear god. Naw, I beg your pardon sir please sir never let it be said sir if truth be told I've no fiddled a coin for nigh on 4 year sir honest, and such an item cannot be contemplated during one's penultimate conducting moments.

So you've no jacked it! Reilly laughing: I might've blooming known!

The bus slowed to a halt. The couple disembarked. Other three people came aboard. The doors shut.

You're a stabintheback cunt Willie did anybody ever tell you that?

Ssh. Reilly smiled. Away upstairs for a smoke.

Hines looked at him.

The tea was lukewarm; he gulped it down and replaced the cup on top of the television, then stretched out beneath the blankets. Sandra came in from the lobby dressed in her going-to-the-office clothes. She smiled: I thought you'd gone back to sleep.

Naw.

When she noticed him still watching her she said, I'm meeting mum in town remember – to do a bit of shopping. Christmas, she mouthed.