The Busconductor Hines (21 page)

Your driver?

Aye Willie, Willie Reilly – no mind I brought him up a couple of New Years ago?

O . . . She nodded, very vaguely, either switching herself off or having already done so a couple of sentences back.

His wife's at Teacher Training College. A rosily white outlook. They've no got any kids right enough. To be honest mum what I was thinking of doing was starting a revolution: Kirilov. One shot and one shot only. What d'you think?

She breathed through her nose; a method of not answering a non-question. And he had to stop himself from adding, Seriously, and continuing with something else altogether. He inhaled on the cigarette, glanced at the clock on top of the boiler-cupboard. Life is not too difficult. He chuckled. Heh! mind how granpa used to hide behind the door and fling his bunnet at us!

She smiled.

That time Andy ducked and it hit dad on the head while he was eating the bowl of soup!

She had no option but to laugh in the most genuine of manners. Hines shook his head, also laughing. And she added, An awful sense of humour he had – a real Highlander.

He must've embarrassed grannie.

O . . . she laughed briefly.

An odd bundle of turnips. He had wondered about such power on different occasions. Here you have a manic depressive bastard who can make cunts laugh more or less at will. A great deal of hypocrisy, of course, being inextricably bound in with it. Pure relief on their part; thankful they arent having to start committing dastardly acts. What a performance.

When he left his mother had forced another bag onto him, one of the plastic carrier type. He detested being given bags by her but methods of declining werent always available. Going downstairs he glanced inside: a tin of cold ham, a ginger cake, a packet of digestive biscuits, and an envelope containing £2.

If there had been any justice in the world he would have carted it all across to Griff. Who would have collapsed on the spot. Who would have flung the stuff in his face, stick the charity up your arse ya bastard. No he wouldnt, he would have shrugged and called for Rita. No he wouldnt. It would never have happened in the first fucking place thus as reasoning goes is absolutely nonsensical.

A man was pitching what seemed to be boiling water at the windscreen of his car. Surely the glass would break. It didnt break at all, the icy bit just having melted away. Shaking his head at Hines the man gazed at the white sky, clenched his fist at it, smiling good-naturedly.

The fates, grinned Hines, be careful.

The man nodded. Heh, he said, you got a light by any chance?

Hines gave him his box of matches, waited for him to light the cigarette.

I left my lighter up the stair, he said as he returned the box. Ta.

Farther on there was a wean's slide on the pavement; grit
had been laid on it but it was still serviceable. It looked dangerous – should a wean have misjudged the thing it would be easy to go slithering right off onto the road and it being so steep the vehicles would have been incapable of an emergency stop. Shoving the cashbag into the carrier bag he tugged the hat firmly onto his head and taking a short run up went sliding down, travelling quite a distance but maintaining balance well. It was satisfying without being exhilarating – it was only a weans' slide for christ sake. Nevertheless, the sensation of risk, that slight awareness of devil-may-care-abandon and so on.

Halfway down the hill he glimpsed the pale sky over the Old Kilpatricks which were white at the top. If they were the Swiss Alps the District of D. would be being worth its weight in gold.

The fellow is cockahoop.

This can be explained simply. That brief reminiscence about the granpa cheered him up as well as his mother, and allowed the leave-taking to occur amid low-key scenes of mutual understanding. Does she really understand him. Of course. She knows fine well why he is not to amount to anything in their world. Her only problem is in agreeing his course is all that there is. Not that she has any inkling of it. But she does know him quite well, that if eventually he does do something then that something might turn out to be startling.

He grinned at the elderly woman; she was struggling along on the grass verge at the side of the pavement with two big shopping bags for ballast, her gaze to the ground as she passed. Probably she lived on the 19th floor of the fucking high-rise. But it isnt her fault she's a bastarn imbecile. She had to leave school at 13 years of age to go to work in a steamy ill-lit washhouse, craning her neck to read in the dull yellow glow at all hours of the night, her father lying exhausted in one of these 1930s labour camps down in Ayrshire, her maw in
a fucking workhouse. Never mind auld yin: jumping jehova'll fix everything, a land of hope and glory right up there beyond the mountains. Terrible damp in winter but, it's these low-hanging clouds. Heh d'you hear the one about the 3-legged priest in Ballymurphy. A strange kettle of toadstools. The universe, however, need not be a bleak item. Unzip the 54th onion peel and the sturdy shoulders will attend the task. There is a song. There is a song, whose name Hines cannot recollect at present though no doubt it is appropriate. If truth be told his memory demands a thorough shake. Other folk seem capable of conjuring the remotest detail in straightforward primaries. Maybe there's something wrong with the cunt. Even the pettiest of entities, certain nomenclatures for example, take flight out the fucking window at the most inopportune of instances. But he well remembers dancing with Rita long before Sandra stepped aboard his platform. She and Griff got married young and were in the position to throw a few parties without any real parental disapproval to worry about. She held her body close. It was fucking smashing. Poor auld Griff, the boys queuing up, the terrible lack of women as usual.

Yet this is no time for breasts.

And do such thoughts follow as a direct effect of the fellow's recent visit to mother. Yes, no, I dont know albeit in times of joy the male heart leaps.

Fuck off.

The mood darkly but, at the approach, then constant through the first part of the visit, then somehow less darkly till bang, enter granpa flinging bunnets at cunts' heads for no reason.

There you have it. He was not a bad old bastard. A bit doatty at the finish but fair enough, it's a hard life in the grey but gold city if you've had to come down from the freedom-loving highlands and islands.

He walked through the shopping centre, and then out the other end, in the direction of the library. But this was fine. And he entered. The walls were painted. The whole lay-out in fact, had altered. He found an empty seat and left the carrier bag on it, went to find something to read.

The bag was on the floor when he returned. He glanced round but no one acknowledged responsibility. He pushed the bag beneath the seat and sat down, studying the words on the page of this large book. He took off his hat and placed it on the carrier bag. His head was acting up, a sensation of thickness about the upper regions of the nose and eye-sockets, a slight ache in the temple region, and his feet were itchy – in reaction to the sudden shift in temperature perhaps; it was hot and stuffy; the boots were soaking. And his nose now streaming. Plus the necessity of smoke. He needed a smoke. He hadnt smoked since leaving the house and now he wouldnt be able to. What a time to be without a hankie. He was sniffing continuously. He called a halt, it was out of order. He remained motionless, resisting all manner of urges; the water gathered; he raised his arm, the cuff of the uniform sleeve to be capturing the drops before hitting the book. O for a pint of milk. Milk is great for runny noses, causing the liquid to thicken into mucus thus the stuffed rather than streaming effect. Reaching beneath the chair he extracted the brown paper parcel. He would use only the paper. Sacrilege to even consider the vests – although he would never ever wear them. No; those vests would definitely never be worn – not unless he reached a point where the tallboy drawer was empty of T-shirts. And Sandra seldom allowed that to happen – although on occasion it did appear as if his laundry needs took third place in the Hines' household. Too late to go home. By the time he arrived she would be leaving to stick Paul into
the nursery. Before heading on to the office. No point thinking about that.

They would all have hangovers, diarrhoea with a bit of luck. The girl whose birthday it was would be at the centre of things. It's your fault we've all got the sore heads and the red hot arses, you ninny you. Obviously it all took place as she said. If Sandra wanted to leave she would leave. Dear Rab, Our life to date has not been sweet. With this in mind I've taken the boy and skedaddled. Yet she is so honest she would be forced to leave Paul behind. And he would be forced to give up the buses, to allow him the proper attention, at least until he started school. And after that: infinity. Measureless space. Emigration to Australasia. Uncle Vic would see him okay for the first couple of months, just till he got a few quid together, then off into the outback to team up with Andy, one of these wee sheep-shearing stations.

Fucking rubbish.

He blew his nose into the brown paper and stuffed it into his jacket pocket, then took off the jacket and draped it over the chair. A woman had glanced at him – the librarian probably. It must have been her that took his carrier bag from the seat. She was wearing a dress of a soft clingy material.

He examined the book. Big illustrated pictures of an anthropological nature. It was a mistake to have taken it out, he would probably end up with a hardon, and she would see him, and report him to the authorities. Come into the office you and just wait there till the wagon arrives, bloody cheek, getting hardons in my library, why dont you fuck off to a bus where you belong. But buses are bad as well. You can be sitting there minding your own business and the next thing bang. That's what happened with Sandra. It was an old backender – one of these with the passenger entrance to the rear, no doors. Freezing in the winter but great in the summer. It was almost empty
and Hines sitting there having a quiet puff at a Players' Plain because at that time the idea of rolling one's own had yet to present itself. The seat he was on was to the side, one step up from the platform – the conductor to be positioned that he could twist and with minimum effort be applying the ding ding when necessary; the big drawback being the punters' ability to jump aboard at will. And Sandra must have known this as well as anybody, that of all things hated by the busconductor/tress, this uninvited jump onto the platform took the fucking biscuit. And it explains why she should have immediately parked herself down on the side seat facing him. She was too embarrassed to go farther. She was flushed, an effect of this platform jumping at the traffic lights. Then that was it that Hines was blushing. What did she look like at all. Christ knows. The flushed face, the set face; Sandra through and through. She had taken the purse from her handbag and was footering with the coins. But Hines was finished. It wasnt even possible to collect her fare. Having to sit there staring at the window, then the twitching, the throat feeling about one hundredth of an inch in diameter, and the face of course, so fucking purple. And becoming aware of how uncomfortable it was making her feel; her hand, travelling to her neck, to fidget with the collar of the thing she was wearing, probably that it was arranged okay or something, while the bus went vibrating on its way out to the famous K. Theretofore had her life been sheltered. That's these fucking High Amenity Zones for you.

He got the brown paper out of the carrier bag for another clearing of the nostrils; then stuffed it into his trouser pocket. The dampness through the cloth. It might be an idea to start wearing tights. Quite a few male wearers of the green already did so – drivers mainly, to combat the draught whizzing up through the cabin floor. Or longjohns. Apparently such efforts were still being manufactured – although Hines could not
remember having seen any in the shops. That's the trouble with nowadays. And with 3 months of winter looming ahead a couple of pairs could be well worth an investment.

These fucking buses with defective heaters: 60% of the fleet in other words. O for the sandy beach and the sun beating down; secluded dunes; that time they went across to the East Neuk of Fife with her stupid brother and sister-in-law in the sharp Cortina car, but then when they had gone off somewhere, the beautiful screw, so slow, so painstaking, the sounds in the distance through the stems of the long rushes, close your eyes and listen, that slight stickiness of contact, skin on skin.

The book was closed. He raised it a little. The woman was probably hiding somewhere and watching. He studied the floor. For some reason his shoulders were astonishingly tense. How does such a thing transpire. One minute you're fine and the next it's as if something or other, a definite reason why you are not to be fine though this reason is impossible to discover. And he was onto his feet now and getting the uniform jacket from the back of the chair and stuffing the cashbag back into the carrier bag with the folded vests and the grub and returning to replace the book. He nodded to the person at the check-out point and down the steps and out jesus it was fine, but he was having to go quickly now and no option whatsoever. But it was fine, the shoppers and everything, familiar faces about also no doubt.

Crossing to the pub his pace altered in mid-stride, to a kind of slow quick-step; he felt like calling a halt altogether, to see if he was okay, was he about to collapse or something, the way things werent in order, the concrete slabs even, as though shifting at the edges, not vertically, the boots holding them down. The way he had been in the library he really could be coming down with flu, those first throes – the rapid
movements in temperature and him not wearing the proper winter clothes too always the same be it summer winter spring or fucking autumn the things always the same that the possibility of at long last the system reneging and no wonder, no fucking wonder. The door. What happens now. In.