The Busconductor Hines (14 page)

He watched the boy staring at the television from his usual kneeling position, the thumb in the mouth, that incredible concentration. How can weans do wrong. Such a power; just kneeling and staring at the television. Unless somebody had interrupted what he was doing – if he was in the middle of doing a jigsaw or something, painting a picture maybe – then okay, he was entitled to get upset, to go in a huff, to give the Supervisor a mouthful perhaps.

Nor did he seem to have any pals. At first he did have and it was good to see because he was an only child. Maybe he
would turn out to be a genius. A lot of geniuses have lonely childhoods. Name one. Jesus. That's cheating. Are football players allowed.

The bacco son, seen my bacco?

Paul rose from the floor with his thumb still in his mouth, his gaze shifting a moment to capture the tin; and he was passing it to Hines without any sign of resentment; just a thing to be done, you pass tobacco tins to the auld man.

Heh wee man what happened in that nursery? did you kick one of the ladies or what?

Paul glanced at him but that was all, he didnt smile and nor did he signify one solitary item – not even that he was at home in a particular situation.

What had to be done was educate him properly. Fill him full of milk and apples. Cram that fucking protein into him, making sure he grew into a different size. And no more getting called Big Yin because you're a magnificent 5 foot fucking 9 and a ½. The wee man could become a big man, broad chested, built like a barrel, with an educated brain, a head full of his auld man's teachings. Come with me son and I'll show you the ropes. How d'you fancy a potted history of this grey but gold city, a once mighty bastion of the Imperial Mejisteh son a centre of Worldly Enterprise. The auld man can tell you all about it. Into the libraries you shall go. And he'll dig out the stuff, the real mccoy but son the real mccoy, then the art galleries and museums son the palaces of the people, the subways and the grave-yards and the fucking necropolises, the football parks then the barrows on Sunday morning you'll be digging out the old books and clothes and that and not forgetting the paddy's by christ for a slab of last year's tablet son plus the secondhand pair of false teeth right enough, aye, very useful indeed though it's a pity about the ferries of course cause he would've liked to take you on one before they shut down son and it's
too late now though you'd have thought it was good son the carry on backwards and forwards from one shore to the other but never mind never mind you've got your parks with the paddle boats and the swimming baths by christ he keeps meaning to take you there he keeps forgetting son and he's always fucking promising son, it's these bastarn shifts that fuck you up and it's good too, the swimming, hell of a good for you, the shoulders and that it makes you grow big yins and strong as fuck you'll be able to take care of yourself anywhere anytime anyfuckingbody you'll be able to do it son, control, take control, of the situation, standing back, clear sighted, the perspective truly precise and into the nub of things, no tangents, just straight in with an understanding already shaped that that which transpires shall do so as an effect of the conditions presented; there will be no other course available; you shall know what to do and go and fucking do it, with none of that backsliding shite. The backsliding shite; there can be reasons for it. Things arent always as clear as they sometimes appear. You can have a way of moving which you reckon has to be ahead in a definite sense and then for some reason, for some reason what happens is fuck all really, nothing, nothing at all, nothing at all is happening yet there you are in strangely geometric patterns wherein points are arranged, have been arranged, in a weird display of fuck knows what except it is always vaguely familiar, whatever that means, though this is what it seems like, the carry on backwards and forwards to your work each morning so early it is still nighttime and the streetcleaners just about ¾ way through their quota and maybe stopping off for a quiet chat and a smoke when sure the coast is clear that their gaffer isnt in the vicinity to surprise them at it, the smoking, the fly wee puff for christ sake son I mind when your auld man was up at that School for Busconductors on his second time round there was this exIndisputable acting as teacher and he spotted him one
morning having a fly wee puff at whatever the fuck age he was the old exIndisputable with the thin moustachio, the short back and sides and his You there Hines Robert 4729 I hope to hell you'll wear a shirt and tie once you leave here to take charge of a blooming bus the poor auld cunt that he was, North fucking Africa with Monty or something son your da'll never ever be like that – you kidding! these fucking books son, papped right into you, he'll show you what's what, the whole A to B that the C is a map of the world, the Beginning of Time son, your ancestors and the rest of it, you had them forging a path along the riverbed way back before Wallace got stuck on the iron gates of old London Town the bastards they were at it even then with each other and long long before it as well you had them fucking every cunt about in the name of the father and the son they were robbing you blind with their kings and their queens and the rest of the shite the chiefs and so on making it to the top in their entrempeneurial mejisteh son they were stealing the bread out your mouth and if they couldnt reach it you were opening the mouth wider son the eyelids shut that you didnt offend son that you didnt see son in case you actually saw son that you had to actually do, because one thing you didnt want was to do son so the eyelids shut you put forward the mouth with head lowered while the slight stoop or curtsey and forefinger to eyebrow the sign of the dross, we do beg ye kindly sir we do beg ye kindly, for a remaindered crust of the bread we baked thank 'ee kindly y'r 'onour an' only 'ope as we might bake 'em more sweetly for 'ee t' nex' time 'appen y'r 'onour as'll do us t' privilege o' robbin' again sir please sir kick us one up the arse sir thanks very much ya bunch of imbecilic fucking bastarn imbeciles.

Heh were you kissing the girls! is that what it was!

Good christ, maybe he was kissing the boys. Hines got up and grabbed him, raising him as high above his head as he could, and laughed. Ya wee mug ye, you and me are going to the fucking swimming baths tomorrow – like it or lump it.

Paul grinned but then was glad to get put back down on the floor, and he was definitely not comfortable as he knelt there. It was the unpredictability. That is how he was uncomfortable. Hines was well aware of this.

After 6 p.m. and the food being ready but still no Sandra so he had to switch off the gasrings. She could have been late. She was late. Sometimes she did come home late, because of the office, having to stay on to work an extra wee bit – which for some reason seems acceptable to office workers though Sandra receives no extra cash as far as Hines is aware. Office workers may believe unpaid hours are an entry fee into the Big Time. Sandra shrugs. She says Mr Buchanan never minds about her showing up a few minutes late and is always ready to let her off or whatever if there's a problem about Paul so why should she mind staying on late if ever there's a rush job needing doing. It is reasonable. And if she is off sick she will get paid as though she is not off sick but simply there at the office instead of not being there at the office. What a fine relationship between boss and worker. Hines is in favour of such keech. It is really good for the thing. And anyway, all this office stuff has been gone over time and time again since from way back even before they got married. But what he still has difficulty in comprehending is the way an office can be in existence when nothing else seems to. There is an office and there is a staff for that office, and they do office work for which they get paid office salaries with the usual office
perks. But the money. The actual fucking money. Where does it come from. Private commerce is rumoured the source but can it be likely the Patrons of the People are responsible! That the outfit is a secret body being funded as a sly branch of the M.I.'s! Sandra having been recruited through her carnal knowledge of the Militant Latencies – they have wiretapped his prick, tuning into his fantasies – at the first sexual stroke the line

sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. Really and truly. How could anybody even think such a thing. He definitely doesnt mean it. Not at all, honest to christ he doesnt, he just has a bad tongue, things come out, they do sir sorry sir please sir – although the problem is one a body becomes accustomed to over the years, the past 5 sir, the through thick and thin yins you see sir him and the Sandra lassie and the Paul fellow – that's the wee man – the 3 of them, the trio of persons sir the 1, the unit, that impetus for continued survival viz the bastarn grub in the pot, howsomever it be better known as the loaves and the fishes sir the poor auld starving multitudes you see they are gathering about the plates of meat sir I mean your fucking tootsies and what is to be done what is to be done you see they are to be pulling the house down about his ears sir the poor auld fucking lugs I mean you've got it being shattered all round them sir the falling bricks and mortar, the layers and layers of wallpaper for christ sake right onto their very heads sir, the respectable blooming classes sir I do beg your pardon though it should be said at this stage of the game that, yes, that eh

Although predisposed toward speculative musings the Busconductor Hines cannot be described as a dreamer. Yet certain items do not always register. That itchiness for example:
the material of standard issue uniform breeks is thick and reminiscent of wool; it probably isnt wool a 100% but it seems as if this is all it can be, because of the itchiness – the coarseness of the cloth somehow making you think of the fleecy coat of a wee sheep, the straggly bits left on the barbed wire fence you can picture as hell of an itchy if dangled against the skin. Now: towards the latter stages of his last spell on the broo a certain husband and father's marked aversion to nought led him into what can authentically be called a pragmatic assessment of life, the outcome of which was his renewed determination to become a the Busdriver Hines.

Upon fulfilment of particular conditions of a positive nature the Department of Transport will allow the busconductor/busconductress to take up a position within its Training School for Busdrivers. It was the intention of Hines Robert to fulfil those conditions. Besides acquiring a licence to drive he was also expecting to realise a certain sum of money which while of unknown extension was nevertheless fixed inasmuch as he appears to have thought to recognise the sum once it had accrued.

Beyond all of that lay a future. But hazy visions of distant travel did recur. Upon receipt of his twofold objective the wild blue yonder could be vanished into, the sunbaked shores of Australasia perhaps for an open outlook, bright scapes; where one can stand on one's tiptoes and glimpse at a stretch, unlike bloody dumps where one can be lucky to get glimpsing such a thing from the topdeck of an omnibus. Take weans for instance: plant them down under and one can watch them sprout, plenty of milk and apples, vigorous limbs and sturdy bodies; where one can send them out to play and forget about everything else, unlike certain squares wherein one is obliged to think twice in case of dire imaginings one cannot hardly name lest one's head caves in.

It can scarcely be wondered at that some mothers remain so
staunchly opposed to allowing their children alone out of doors – although one's upbringing can be a major factor, plenty of grass and the rest of it. The District of D. was bad enough, especially during warmer weather, seeing the green hills faraway in the knowledge one could go a lengthy walk right out to them with maybe an invigorating dip in a brackeny loch to follow. Hines knows the place inside out. During the formative years he resided there with his grey but gold family. It is a district where vacancies readily occur in most sections whereas in other sections they always occur. But Hines would flit to there. He would flit to anyfuckingwhere. Yet he will not advise Sandra of this, at least not outright, for it is of consequence to her where they flit. Her faith in specific vagaries is deeply rooted. Her parents have much to answer for.

It was their expectation she should one day meet her match in the Higher Realms. Their only son, having secured a fine situation within an established group of civil engineers and married an upstanding young lady, has now contrived to appropriate a variety of snug objects. Little wonder they should be so dumbfounded to learn of their only daughter's curious infatuation with a lowly member of the transport experience. Here they had been having a lovely young wench of a golden-haired lass whose space they assumed as a logical second step on a nailed-to-the-floor ladder. Not only was she not now moving forwards, she was falling backwards, into the lusting arms of a uniformed ne'er-do-well.

Arguments there were plenty.

But finally the day was saved by the prospective young suitor himself. And the girl had had faith in this. She knew it would happen! How in the name of christ could her parents fail to pay heed to such a vision! Did he not have a great way with Planets! Was not his perception of the Universe of an expanding and technicoloured Insistence!

If truth be told he was displaying the manifold characteristics of the Imminent Go-gettor. On subjects of a metaphysical nature he provided the family with a few stimulating evenings. Sandra had already informed them of the plethora of books to be found in his rectangle. Little wonder, therefore, that they soon gained an impression of a youth whose sights were fixed on the World of Higher Education. Having shucked off his adolescent excesses he would no doubt be buckling down to serious studies thence picking up on a rung of a not unparallel ladder to that of the Civil Engineer. All would indeed be well. And education was, after all, the Scottish Way. Surely this erstwhile nation had once been the forerunner of the concept of Equal Opportunity at a Spiritual Level. And did this spiritual levelling not include the possibility of Social Transport! Ding ding. Why, throughout the length and the breadth of this grey but gold country toty wee mites were being befriended by the Sons of the Laird and going on to become steely-eyed village dominies or gruff but kindly members of the medical profession, and even preachers of the gospel in far-flung imperial establishments.