The Busconductor Hines (18 page)

He was not smoking when Colin Brown came upstairs but began rolling one as though preparing for a friendly chat. Colin likes to talk to him on serious subjects. He regards him as a
potential force in garage politics. Recently he has been making hints about Hines accompanying Reilly on an electioneering campaign: with one as Shop Steward and the other as Branch Secretary what will be that which is not to be being accomplished.

But said Brown C. has accomplished something heretofore outwith the reach of said Hines R. He has attended the School for Busdrivers. The silly cunt failed right enough but he must be granted a second shot fairly soon. And he will surely pass then. McCulloch gives him a go at the wheel at certain remote terminuses at specific times of the late night and early morning and his confidence grows no end. Reilly has offered this to Hines in the past but Hines had been unable to accept. Why is that. Even just for the experience it might have been worthwhile.

This busdriving licence is a watershed for some folk. Apparently Colin and his fiancée have agreed not to name the day until he is finally driving his own wee bus. Incredible how it affects people. There was definitely a sparkle about Colin. It was the licence. Even while speaking of the licence Colin sparkled.

Then he stopped. He had become self-conscious. He glanced out the window, the bus had pulled into the kerb to collect a passenger. He changed his fare-stage. He was aware of the future of Hines and was experiencing a terrible guilt. Eh! poor auld fucking Rab the unfortunate bastard with his wife and 38 weans who, unless content to remain as conductor for the rest of his working garage life, is definitely best to chuck the job right now and get it over with. Eh! Fuck off.

Hines grinned, and patted him on the arm. There was a middle-aged man sitting a few seats to the front; he had raised his bunnet to scratch the back of his head. It was an amazing
thing and obviously symbolic. Hines chuckled. He got off at Yoker.

He had begun by walking at an even stroll but gradually quickened to something nearer a stride while managing to keep it even paced. He could have changed buses earlier on the journey to avoid this trouble, but it was no trouble. It was fine to be walking. Brisk right enough; not a strong wind – more the sharp breeze which nevertheless went right through you and caused great pain to the ears. A balaclava would have been ideal. His mother had knitted one for Paul but not for him. This maternal neglect had not upset him. Still and all, ears are open entities, important items. One might have expected the Department of Transport to take care of such detail. Deaf conductors would certainly be a liability. Uniform hats are fine for parading but not much cop for the Arctic hike. Perhaps removable ear-flaps could be invented – clip-on fashion; the conductor to remove them during warmer weather, apply them during colder weather, and so on. A straightforward idea, awaiting a likely inventor whose patent of same would ultimately yield a cash return of infinite extension.

Hines could be that inventor. The Good Lord knows he needs the money. This week's wages for last week's workings amount to well nigh fuck all; and next week's wages for this week's workings is a ludicrous example of the parsnip. In the name of christ. And yet certain possibilities concerning future weeks are not, however, absent. Rumours of overtime being enjoyed by those and such as those continue to proliferate despite persistent denials from the crawling bastards in receipt of same. With maximum luck one could be netting a fortune. A week of back-shift beginning at 1600 hours would allow some 11 extra
working hours daily. If one were to be granted another shift in the morning hours one could be earning double wages – in fact it would be more than double wages since overtime rates must operate. 5 extra shifts per week would throw a minimum of 40 hours onto the basic plus ½ this extra 40 for the overtime time and a half rate. A round 100 hours of a wage. Plus if 2 of the days fell at the weekend there would be additional cash since to work a Sunday even as an ordinary day will throw time and a half. And the same applies to Saturdays after 1300 hours – which gives an extra 12 to be tacking onto the 100, plus of course the additional possibility of getting working both days-off, which at time and a half equals another 24 onto the 112 making 136 in all plus if the days-off chanced to be a Saturday by christ and it was after 1300 hours then the rate gets doubled to treble time which is 24 for working 8, throwing another 12 onto the 136 so what is that for fuck sake must be near about 148 hours, a hundred and forty-eight hours, of a wage, all rolled nice and tidy into the 1 week's wage-packet, the future being more than darkly.

Hines had slowed down; his pace now increased. Forces were pushing him. The uniformed employees and mechanics, the black-squad – even the office fuckers; they were all in unspoken league, edging him onto the brink and beyond. Having recognised the futility of certain methods of advance they had now chosen him as representative – leader was to go far too far. He was to represent them. By struggling ahead with life he would be showing the way. Could this be true. Did he have something they didnt. At an early age he had sucked in the ultimates. He had revealed a marked ability to steer clear of a special type of conventional motion. Nothing was, it would seem, being left to chance. Even the circumstances surrounding nowadays were part and parcel of the whole. All went to force the point's arrival, hence departure; and speculations concerning the when were
irrelevant. That kind of stuff can be stowed away. There can be no settled moment, rather a mass of moments; because of this a great deal can be taken as granted.

Maybe his father would slap him on the back, as an indication his trip out had been expected, and lead him down to
The Glen
for a pint and a laugh over the bad quarrel they'd had that last time. Surely Hines had never taken it seriously! Aye. Well well well son an odd bundle of turnips. So you didnt even recognise it as part and parcel of the whole! well well well right enough. Never mind but all to the good, all to the good. What we had planned in fact because it was hopeless you getting here too soon. You had to be ready, in the precise frame of mind. And now everything is seen to fit. Settled from the hour of birth. Your maw always enjoyed a seascape son: now you know why – you couple that with my view from the window and there you have it, the A going to B that the C has become a picture.

That it has been revealed to Mr Hines that his son is the representative is fine, fine; but what about his own wee boy, Paul, what about him.

Just a son, just a son; another tomorrow, He could even have a more strenuous time of it, since Hines wouldnt be getting beyond the moment; by his not getting beyond the moment Paul would be obliged to account for much of what is to follow – although Sandra would see him through. It is down to her to show him the road. While what will she be doing. She will be getting ahead with things. What things. She will ascertain that which is to be done and go ahead and fucking do it. Fine. Not fine at all. At times like the present 1 or 2 items cannot be dwelt upon. Especially when cutting through from Y to D because of the route taking one to the outer skirts of High Amenity Zone K. He could have walked 20 minutes out his way to gaze in his parents-in-law's living room window. That
would've been a fine how-d'ye-do. Pardon me, is that the nose of one's daughter's spouse pressed against the glass. Fuck off.

A sylvan setting. Around that area the snow lies at deeper levels for longer periods. In the gardens the grass is covered, toty holes indicating the shoots; trees to make you feel like pulling the branches to see the snow shower down. Hines hates the place. It is not to be wondered at. He has always been glad it is to always be beyond him. The fellow is quite weak. Entities like space could have demolished him. He might well have succumbed to a life of ease, growing old in the pursuit of vegetables.

But vegetables may be grown in D. A lot of people out there are also proud of their gardens, particularly during the long hot summers at which time it is a paradise. The weans go rushing off and enjoy themselves daily when the school hols are in progress and things arent falling from the sky so that rushing about bareheaded can be comfortable.

When he reached the shopping centre it was still early, only newsagents were open. He purchased a newspaper, entered a shop doorway to keep out the way of everything.

His fingers had become very cold. He pressed them against the glass to obtain heat from the interior Xmas lights. On the window itself a lot of frosty stuff and tinsel were pasted, and on the ledges and floor inside was a great display of goods built round a feature involving the Splendid Tassels of the Future Chief of the Britons. He winked. Then folding away his newspaper he put his hands into his trouser pockets.

Weans had begun to appear; and all sorts of dogs were prowling about in that unfurtive manner, having folk alter stride to allow them passage, and they werent noisy. There was little noise of any kind. He recognised a face, a woman who lived quite near his parents' place. She was cleaning in a big
department store; she had pushed open the glass door at the side to attend to the wide tiled floor immediately outside. Steam rose from the bucket of hot water which she nudged ahead with her mop as she progressed. Obviously a method derived from maximum experience, she would be using less energy than others perhaps, and to more effect. Probably her mates were employed in different sections within. Shortly they would knock off for a quick cup of tea and a buttered scone, and a cheery chat, before completing their tasks for the day. It was great to see. She had a son 2 to 3 years older than Hines who used to be a terrible footballer, but played the pipes in a Boys' Brigade band; he rarely spoke to boys younger than himself but occasionally nodded to Hines because their mothers were acquainted. What was he doing now. Hines hadnt seen him for 10 years. Maybe he was married and now living in South Africa. Or he could have settled in England, in London probably, quite near to Hines' young sister.

The woman didnt see him at first. He had the tin out and was licking the gummed edge of the rice-paper. Sticking the tin back into the cashbag he lighted the cigarette and said, Hullo Mrs Noonan.

She started, frowning, moved back a pace as though to focus precisely, but she was not wearing spectacles. She said: You gave me a jump.

Ah, sorry.

How's your mother?

Fine. I just saw you there. He sniffed. Cold yin this morning, eh!

It is . . . She had continued mopping but wasnt signalling an end to the conversation, and she smiled that he should carry on speaking, instead of which he walked on without immediately looking back. He walked round to the front of the complex and stopped at a place where a few people were
queueing for a bus, standing well back from the kerb though there was no slush about. Then he continued on, that instant prior to being asked questions on the scheduling of the city transport. If anyone was to give a derogatory mutter he would return at once to challenge the largest body to a fight. And so what if it should prove a woman! He could knock her to the ground and stick the boot in. That would teach the bastards.

He was gripping the cashbag; he relaxed. Yet he hadnt been angry at all – just tense perhaps. Seeing the woman there maybe had something to do with it. Aside from that, aside from that there was nothing of any real significance. Life is simply too bad to be true at times and there's a fucking end to it.

About to return into the shopping centre he set off in the opposite direction on to the top of the street, right across the road and along. Everything familiar of course, except the faces, but it was doubtful he would have recognised anyone bar a contemporary, which might have been weird – this part of the district used to be hostile territory. A bus approached. He waved it down. A 1-man-operated effort. He passed the man without comment, to sit near to the rear; and remained there until the terminus and back down the hill again where he got off and continued walking.

A boy dashed out a close, down the flight of steps in a jump to go skidding right out across a patch of ice, and he fell but was then on his feet and running; an elder boy pursued him and it was not until about 100 yards on that he paused to examine himself and rub his elbows and back. The elder boy also paused, probably wondering whether to stay in pursuit; he did, walking steadily onwards.

Quickening his stride Hines soon caught up with him and as he passed he murmured, Touch him and I'll give you a doing son I'm warning you.

And he strode on at the same stride, trying not to chortle but also aware of possible snowballs or bricks being heaved at the back of his head. The younger yin had crossed the road – this was Andy, his young brother, a cheery wee cunt always pulling some stunt or other and being clouted by the methodical big brother – and was frequently glancing back over his shoulder, the superficial bravado, while the elder yin – poor auld Hines – kept relentlessly on. By this time he would no longer be sure whether he had heard a genuine threat or just dreamt the fucking thing, an unknown voice of probable retribution all set to pounce towards the backend of the formative years; merciful heavens right enough. Yet the belting couldnt be avoided. The younger yin would be captured and that would be that. The poor auld fucking elder yin had to get a grip of him. He had to. That would be that. Hines had clouted his young brother quite a lot, not into the teens. During the teens he gave him a few terrible tongue lashings. One of them was so bad it reduced him to tears. It was a remarkable thing. Possibly it could have stopped a heart from beating. It was horrible. Such a power, making somebody

Dont tell me yous're on a bloody go-slow!

A pensioner of the male variety standing on a grass verge by a bus-stop. He seemed to be expecting an answer. This crabbit wee red face shouting on about timetables in a tone of voice that conveyed a total lack of willingness to hear a genuine reply.

But ice-bound roads are always irrelevant in this fucking city. So too the perennial shortage of able bodies. He had stared at Hines with a really fierce expression on the countenance. Abuse was out of the question. What would have been the point, the auld cunt, standing chittering there, a constant drip from the nostrils, in a patch of spare earth, the few thin trees in a kind of formation, waiting for a fucking bus.