by James Kelman
The bus stopped, the doors opened, the queue crushed up onto the platform. He dashed forwards. Full up we’re full up come on, down, off the fucking bus. He waved his arms till the platform was clear and turned to the newdriver. Come on, get moving.
The newdriver gestured at the doors and Hines glanced round. A middle-aged woman was now aboard and holding onto the safety rail at the front window.
Sorry mrs you’ll have to get off.
Dont give me that, I’ve been standing since half-past one waiting on you.
Come on, off the bloody bus.
The woman snorted.
Fuck sake.
I beg your pardon – dont you dare use that kind of language with me.
Hines sighed. From upstairs feet were stamping, voices rising; a song: Why Are We Waiting. The newdriver was looking at him. Hines nodded and took out his tobacco tin, and began rolling a cigarette.
Will I shut the door?
Naw.
Eh.
Just sit where you are. He struck a match and lit the cigarette, inhaled deeply. The rest of the people on the pavement were now rushing to get onto the bus behind. He looked at the woman. And she turned to the standing passengers; she said: They think they can do what they like.
Hines left the cigarette in his mouth and put his hands in his trouser pockets.
Eh . . . the traffic, said the newdriver, it’s piling up.
Aye.
Will I go or what?
A sudden thumping from upstairs and a youth appeared: Heh you – is the fucking bus broke down?
That driver’s a Rangers’ supporter, roared a voice. Then the singing resumed amid a crowd of catcalls.
You better get off mrs, said Hines.
Is this all because of that auld swine? called a female voice from the lowerdeck and immediately an outbreak of angry muttering.
Why dont you get off when he tells you? shouted somebody.
Ya auld ratbag, said the youth from the staircase.
The middle-aged woman’s eyelids parted more widely and she glared at Hines: I’m reporting you.
It wasnt me called you a ratbag.
Just you wait, she said but she moved to descend. Once she was on the pavement he peered out and to the rear, at the buses lined up behind; then he stepped back to the cabin, reached inside and pressed the doors shut.
Dont stop till I tell you, he told the newdriver. He nipped off the burning end of the cigarette and trod it out, stuck the still-to-be-smoked bit behind his ear and moved to pass the alsatian.
Paul was off and racing down the rutted path, his arms stuck stiffly out because of the heavy clothes he was wearing. It looked like he would have to topple over but the momentum of the run carried him straight into the middle of quite a large puddle and he slowed and stopped there. Hines strode down and dragged him out. Paul was off in the direction of the river. A few strides and Hines had caught him by the arm, fairly close to the bank. The boy was fighting to free himself, his face reddening with the effort but Hines maintained his grip on him till reaching the path, just at the spot where it veered behind the renovated foundations of the old flint mill.
A distance in front approached a man and a dog, the dog off its leash and trotting a little way ahead. Paul stayed close by Hines. And when it came near he sidled round him then dashed on to the small dam.
Here the river swelled, spilling over and through a wedge of tangled weeds and debris which two council workers in thigh-length waders were attempting to unblock with long pitchforks. Hines walked to the iron railing and leaned his elbows on it, standing beside Paul, watching the men work.
The water’s going in their wellies.
Naw it’s no; it’s just the spray. He took out the tobacco tin, began to roll a smoke. When he had finished he lighted it and said: Come on.
Paul made no reply.
We better be going.
I dont want to daddy.
Come on, I’ll race you to the echo-bridge.
Paul didnt move.
Hines stepped back from the railing and stood for a moment; he made to step back again but the boy turned. Hines took him by the hand.
He went from the mantelpiece to the cabinet, then to the sink, across to the bed and back to his armchair; he felt down its sides. The door opened. My tin . . . you seen it at all?
Sandra took it off the top of the television set and handed it to him. He yawned. A bit early yet I suppose – the time; a bit early yet, to go to bed.
She smiled.
Naw, half ten, too early.
If you’re really tired you should go.
He nodded. He reached for his matches and took one out and laid it on the box; he prised the lid off the tin and rolled the cigarette. He studied it before lighting it. When he was smoking he stared into the gas-fire. Then he yawned and started rubbing and rotating his shoulders.
You okay . . . Sandra was looking at him; she had laid her book face down on her lap.
Fine, aye.
Are you sure? She frowned.
Aye.
You just seem as if . . . she shrugged. You’ve hardly said a word since tea-time.
Just tired.
You could turn on the telly.
Nothing on.
Have you looked?
What?
The paper, to see if there’s anything on.
Aw aye; naw – well aye, I did earlier on but there was nothing. He yawned again; he placed the cigarette on an ashtray and stretched his arms. Think I will go to bed.
I feel like another cup of tea.
Hines grinned: Good idea. He stood up.
I wasnt meaning you to do it. She also stood up.
No bother, sit down.
When she remained standing he walked to her and patted her arm. Immediately she laid her hand on his. You’re not okay.
What d’you mean?
Rab . . .
I’m fine Sandra.
You are not fine: what’s wrong?
Nothing; nothing at all.
You never tell me anything. She shook her head. How can I do anything if you never tell me?
He turned away, briefly, to glance at the clock. But she leaned to kiss him on the lips and they had their arms round each other. O christ, he muttered.
She moved to look at his eyes. I hate to see you like this.
He shrugged then smiled.
Come on I’ll give you a massage.
Right then . . . And when she sat down on her armchair she put a cushion on the floor at her feet, and parted her legs so that he could sit down between them. He held each of her ankles.
You should’ve gone to bed earlier, she was saying, her fingers working in across the tops of his shoulders; he had closed his eyelids . . . just as well I managed to get the legoset for him when I did you know Rab. Mary was telling me a friend of hers had to go to three shops before she could get one – three shops, gets to this time of year and everybody seems to go daft. Her hands had moved onto his back, palms end to end on his spine; her fingers were moving again.
Hines sighed and she chuckled. What happened to the music? he said.
I turned it off when you started snoring.
He laughed. Reaching behind he took hold of her wrists, then lowered his hands to her thighs. For a time she continued to massage his back. When she stopped she said: I cant do it unless you relax properly.
He twisted to face her, placed his arms round her waist, his head on her lap . . . Aye – bed sounds perfect.
Yes. She chuckled. As long as you remember what time of the month it is.
Hines nodded.
When he sat round again she resumed the massage. You know Carol – I’ve mentioned her to you – she was saying she was on the pill for 7 years, and see when she came off it – the heaviest periods she’d ever had; and fresh, the blood, that pinky kind – the thing is though Rab her headaches, disappeared; she never gets them at all nowadays – when she was taking it though, all the time, all the time she was getting
them; it was when she was talking, I was beginning to wonder – but she thinks it was different to mine; she tried umpteen of them right enough – she’s just not sure about whether she was given the one I’m on – she thinks she might’ve been but she’s not certain.
Hh.
It was just that it made me wonder . . . She breathed out deeply and paused.
Ah thanks, that was great . . . He stood up: Still fancy a cup of tea?
Sandra yawned.
What about a slice of toast?
Are you having one?
Two. In fact I might even have three – any cheese in the house?
O God!
What’s up with you woman!
That stew you made!
I beg your pardon, that stew was a remarkable affair.
It would’ve fed the close for a week.
Exactly what I’ve been thinking. Heh what d’you reckon if I stuck a menu up on the landing wall and started cooking carry-out meals? I’m being serious. I think it’d take a trick. Imagine the cash I could make! probably end up chucking the buses and going full-time at it. You and the wee man could help out with the dishes and that. Christ, before you know it I’d be a captain of industry – me and auld Bufuckingcanan, knights of the regalled empire, by appointment to the majestic imperials. Fuck sake Sandra!
I always wanted to be a barber but, this is the fucking point.
Reilly hooted.
Naw, seriously. D’you never go to the barber’s on a Saturday morning? Christ sake man, transistor radios playing, drinking bottles of ginger, the place stowed out with folk chatting about football and everything. Great. Relaxed, everybody relaxed. Used to go there a few of us, then we’d shoot down for a game of snooker and that.
Aye well the fucking barber wasnt shooting down to play snooker; he was stuck in the shop cutting cunts’ hair.
Naw, it was good but, honest. That was the thing about living in the Drum; it meant when you went up the town you really went up the town I mean you had to get a blue bus or a train. Took you a while so it did. And you always dressed up for the occasion.
Shite.
Is it fuck shite.
You trying to tell me you got a haircut once a month!
Suavity; aye. A smooth team so we were. The Drum’s a debonair district.
Keech.
Is it fuck keech; there was always somebody needing a haircut; the rest of us just sloped along for the outing.
Reilly snorted.
No point in snorting ya cunt ye. Eh! imagine missing out on the barber experience! well well well; a man of the world too, sitting for his fucking Highers and he hasnt even done that! I dont know right enough. Heh . . . Hines bent to lift a ½ pence coin from the floor.
Lovely, you can buy the grub.
That’ll be fucking right.
Aye and by the way ya orange bastard; I’ll tell you something for nothing: this conductor I was on with the other day, first terminus and off he jumps straight into a wee dairy – two jamrolls and two pints of milk. Eh? fuck sake! Ya cunt ye you’ve never done anything like that in all the time I’ve known you.
Hh!
Conductors are supposed to look after their drivers; it’s a tradition.
I know, invented by drivers. To think of all these poor clip-pies down through the aeons all falling for it left right and centre, buying their drivers all kinds of grub while the dirty cunts’re earning one and a half times their wages. What a miserable fucking con!
One and a half times their wages. Ha ha.
More or less.
Come off it ya cunt.
Come off it fuck all. Take the O.T. into consideration as well I mean how in the name of christ d’you carry on expecting solidarity with that sort of stupid discrepancy? typical nazi ploy: maintain the differentials.
Reilly laughed.
Aye, on you go. And I’ll tell you something else: you’ll never catch me driving a bus till it’s equal wages all round.
Reilly continued laughing.
Aye and dont think you’ll catch my vote for Shop Steward either!
You’ll no be here by that time.
What time?
The elections. According to what I heard you were jacking the job.
Hines shook his head. I’ve never met a cunt like you for poking the nose in where it doesnt belong. I’m no kidding you Reilly you’re a disgrace to the Vatican.
Here we go, evasion of the issue; typical Masonic trick.
I’d rather be a Mason than a Pope.
And who told you I was definitely standing for it anyhow? Reilly had risen from the seat; he paused before strolling along to the cabin.
My lips are sealed.
Did you believe whoever it was?
Course I fucking believed it. My whole picture of you became a hundred percent. A flash of inspiration. That’s the true Reilly I pondered, at long last being declared in his actual primaries, enhancing the life fulfilment, setting his sights on the ladder.
Reilly hooted.
An Inspectorship; that’s what you’re really after. Everything’s fitting the gether by christ. Once I jack the job you’ll be applying for the one-man fucking bus training then after that you’ll be grabbing the Shop Stewardship while sneakily entering the Inspector’s exam. O for fuck sake and then it’ll be the Deskclerkship! Too much! You and Campbell. The plot’s out. Imagine it too; the cunt’s too embarrassed to confide in me. Me! His one genuine mucker in the entire garage spectrum. Well well well. What’s up? did you think I’d scoff? Aye well you’re fucking right I will ya hypocritical cunt ye.
I’m taking the fifth. Reilly switched on the engine and revved it loudly.
Hines waited for a lull and roared: A ladderclimber ya cunt! I always knew it: typical fenian marxist fucking glory seeker.
Up your arse. Reilly released the handbrake, the bus moved out from the terminus.
Upstairs in the bothy Hines covered his mouth while he yawned. Very pardon, I’m no hinting about my state of utter boredom.
A driver nearby had been recounting an incident from the morning. Someone told him to ignore the interruption but he shrugged. Ach, I was more or less finished anyhow. He also yawned; he drank a mouthful of tea. 2 duty I was on – it gets to you.
So does 92.
Well why dont you go back on the broo ya bastard!
Wish to christ I could George, that’s the trouble with nowadays, you thingwy and then the thingwy thingwys. Fucking murder so it is.
He’s a three-time loser into the bargain, said Reilly. If he jacks it now he’s doomed to a life without buses.
Ah the job’s just fucking getting to him.
It’s always getting to him.
Aye but it’s Reilly’s fault, laughed Colin Brown, for jumping on the sick so fucking much.
Nothing to do with me. My life’s my own. Reilly shifted his chair to allow someone to squeeze another chair into the company; he munched on his roll and sausage. A different conversation began.
Hines stared at the ceiling. He exhaled a smoke-ring in the direction of the strip-lighting. Can I canoe you up the river. That’s what I want to know.
No wonder I jump on the sick, grinned Reilly: It’s the only way to stay sane with the cunt.
Shut up ya renegade! Hines glanced round at the faces. This bastard was offered a bit of O.T. yesterday afternoon. Thought it went unnoticed so he did – creeping up to the counter when I was paying in the dough and all that. No kidding you man there’s no cunt trustable nowadays.
Reilly snorted.
These fucking drivers’re all the same, cried a conductor.
Aye, said Colin Brown. And he’ll be sticking his name down for the one-man operating games when your back’s fucking turned.
McCulloch laughed: Aw listen to this cunt! As soon as he passes his licence it’ll be the first thing he does himself; no danger.
You kidding? Colin Brown looked at him. Fucking last thing you’ll catch me doing, eh Rab?
Hines indicated R
eilly: He’s already done it the snidey bastard.
A few turned to glance at Reilly and he laughed: Heh wait a minute, he’s joking; he’s joking.
Who’s joking! You’ve joined the arselickers Reilly and you cant deny it.
Shut up you, you’ll have them fucking believing it.
Hines grinned and drank tea.
Pay no heed to the cunt, said somebody to Reilly. Hines is just upset because auld McGilvaray gave him a day suspension.
Heh by the way . . . said Colin Brown. I heard some cunt got sent home the other day for no wearing a hat. Eh! fuck sake; imagine losing a day’s wages for that.
There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip.
Naw, went on McCulloch, it definitely is getting worse but. No doubt about it. Couple of nights ago we gets to the Cross – on the bingo run – I’m no more than 4 maybe 4½ minutes sharp; out jumps Mackie – cunt’s been hiding up a close as usual. Over he comes to the window. Heh you he says. What I says you talking to me Inspector Mackie. McCulloch grinned: Cunt hates it when you call him that. You’re far too early he says. I’m no too early at all I says I’m only 4. 4 my arse he says you’re 7. And if you think you can come charging through here at this time then you’ve
Well well well.
Shut up ya cunt, muttered Colin.
If you think you can come through here 7 sharp he says and get away with it then you’ve another fucking think coming. Wait a minute I says. Wait no minute says Mackie take out your watch. So I takes it out and that and
Amazing kettle of cabbage.
McCulloch glanced at him.
O sorry, sorry – I thought you’d finished there George.
Sarcastic bastard Rab, so you are.
Naw George honest; I genuinely thought you’d shot the bolt.
McCulloch looked away.
Hines is right, said somebody. Here we’re in for a fucking break out the road and what happens? Christ, you’re feart to leave a cup on the table in case it gets knocked down by a wee bus.