The Busconductor Hines

by James Kelman

  Hines winked at the floor.

  Aye, Elliot Street – I drove right fucking in; and then out she jumps soon as I opened the doors, going like the clappers she was man christ, you want to have seen her – the 4 minute mile wasnt fucking in it . . . The driver changed suddenly down from 4th to 3rd gear, Hines’ cigarette falling out of his hand and landing in a pool of water on the floor.

  Heh Rab you been on your winter-week or what? I’ve no seen you for ages. Where you been hiding yourself eh! Heh, I heard that cunt Reilly’s going to stand for Shop Steward, that right?

  Hh. Hines shook his head and replied that he was about to acquire a gun. He had the lid off the tin and was lining the tobacco along the centre of the rice-paper. A gun.

  A gun! what d’you mean a fucking shooter?

  Aye.

  The driver laughed. What’re you going to kill some cunt?

  That’s my business.

  The driver roared unintelligibly. Hines was grinning. He stopped this grinning by a prolonged stare at the saturated cigarette on the floor.

  After breakfast he set off on one of his occasional rambles round the garage periphery. Then he was at the stop. An Inspector was also here, taking notes on the times of passing buses, but soon he crossed the road to continue his work. Hines leaned against the display window of an adjacent shop. The few people waiting for a bus were standing back from the kerb. Slush was being sprayed onto the pavement by passing vehicles. A young girl came along while he rolled a cigarette. She got sprayed by a big lorry. She stopped and studied herself. The slush on her clothes, dripping. She seemed surprised but not astonished. Her face had flushed. Glancing from side to side she turned and went back the way she had come, neither too slowly nor too quickly although it could be seen that something disturbed her. Hines licked the gummed edge of the rice-paper and dropped the cigarette to the paving; he took out the tin to roll another, pausing to wipe at his nostrils with the cuff of his right uniform sleeve.

  He was to go home immediately.

  Across the road the Inspector was strolling to a different vantage point, hands clasped behind his back. When next he looked over it was the intention of Hines to fall. If the fall was properly accomplished coins would spill from his cashbag and his uniform breeks would get soaked, and maybe he would graze a knee. All this would be worthwhile if only he could get home. Sandra would be there and would be there for a further 2 hours. It is not that a Hines should not work. A Hines should certainly of course work. Hines has always been in favour of work. He considers it good for the thing.

  The fall was rejected.

  Signing off sick in order that one may return home immediately is nothing less than a step to the rear, the which step belonging to the past and not the present. And the present should not be said to be yesterday. One of the more fascinating aspects of the lower orders is their peculiar ideas on time and motion. This used to always be being exemplified by the Busconductor Hines. He had assumed the world as a State of Flux. All things aboard the world are constantly on the move. Ding ding. Being an object aboard the world I am indeed on the go. As a method of survival it is marvellous. Hines can marvel. He can look at the faces and cannot look at the faces. They approach the platform individually and in pairs and in groups, talking and not talking. They are hypocrites. The men and the women, the children. It is not that he knows this in particular but that everyone knows this and is also known to know it, by everyone else. Such a thing cannot be concealed. For each individual a guise exists but this guise is shabby, it can be seen through; face upon face, the tired the sullen the crabbit, the timid the cheery and so on. In the windows he could see their reflections, the strange frowns every now and then. That concentration.

  Snow was falling. He raised the lapels of the uniform jacket, huddled his shoulders, the uniform hat squarely on his head, hands deep in the uniform trouser pockets; that fine cigarette burning away. Over the road the Inspector stamped from foot to foot, smacking his hands together, his head twisting to right and to left in his continuing search for promptness.

  And Reilly had arrived, to go straight into the doorway of the shop without acknowledging his conductor’s presence.

  The bus was late.

  A thin layer of snow now covered Hines’ hat and his other exposed regions; he felt his boots, however, to be in good repair. Soon it would be time for another cigarette. At the end of this shift he would retain the price of a further ½ ounce. Too much was being spent on the habit. He had to keep Sandra in ignorance of the extent. But more than ¾ of his pocket-money was required for it and he was not able to cope. He would have to stop. To stop is not simple. As a gesture of some sort he had reduced his own pocketmoney several weeks ago but this was only leaving him short of funds and he was having to take from the housekeeping purse or otherwise reimburse himself – frequently he retained cash from the cashbag but this cash was deducted at source from the following week’s wagepacket while providing the file with additional Black Marks. Some conductors earn extra monies by means of positive ploys. Hines used to be such a conductor during his first term of transport. Nowadays circumstances have to be extremely odd before he will even contemplate action of that description. The present situation may well be demanding but the circumstances are not odd. They are baffling. They are baffling and they are not fucking baffling. He can see himself seeing the faces. Maybe he is just timewasting. The matter cannot be considered. But waiting for the bus could drive him crackers. He was standing there; he smoked 3 cigarettes. And Reilly in the doorway made things worse. He brooded about the not talking. He likes talking to Hines who doesnt not like talking to him. But what is the point in such talk. It is that which they have accomplished for years. Years are not minutes. In the garage the talk is endless. To discuss the talk of the garage is pointless. Such discussions do occur among the uniformed employees and are integral to the thing itself. Without such discussions the talk of the garage might even be becoming absent. Hines has endeavoured to reject both the talk and the discussions of the talk while aware of the absurdity of doing even that. Presently he remains silent. He is unsure as to whether the language of death is the language of the unalive. He only hopes a bus will stop soon, that it will be his.

  The final notice on the gasbill had been placed upright against the wall above the mantelpiece. He did not look at it more closely. He went ben the front room to play a record, and he began the tidying. Under the boy’s cot he found a neat pile of chewed food beneath a jersey. He hoovered the carpet thoroughly, swept the lobby and toilet floor, checking for other batches of food, going carefully in case he discovered signs of mice. Hines hates mice. They induce a terror in him that could be described as irrational. When Sandra or Paul is present he copes; he acts as though indifferent and can attack them quite the thing. Worrying about mice is pointless because they do not do anything much. Rats, however, can kill infants. It is not their fault. They are rats. A rat is an entity that will scavenge; and being bigger and stronger than a mouse it can tackle more onerous tasks. It can bite the neck of a wean. The infant lies sleeping in the pram and up climbs the rat softly, padding along the quilt, to pick curiously at the fleshy object. During the long hot summers the women sit downstairs in the backcourt, their chairs lining the foot of the tenement, a sun-trap, their voices carrying, that peaceful part of the afternoon when the older kids are in school. Sandra used to go down when Paul was a toddler. They were all sitting there chatting and this big rat the size of a dog got disturbed out the midden, and yet not so much panic as anger that a few moved to corner it, and a woman by the name of Joanne Hughes banged it dead with a shovel belonging to the demolition workers.

  Mrs Montgomery was washing the stair when he went out. He remarked on the weather but she replied only in a mono-syllable. Sometimes she would speak to him but generally not. She prefers Sandra. A couple of Hogmanays ago he went down to wish her the best for the coming year but for some reason got involved in an argument over religion. Although he was not s
ober he should not carry all of the blame. The politics of Mrs Montgomery are well away from the question.

  The snow.

  He decided against returning for a coat. And did he have an actual coat. Yes. He also had a good suit, plus a few other items he never seemed to have time to wear because of the putrid green. When was he last not wearing it. His last day-off. He even wore it on some of those. This is why it looked so shabby, the trousers in particular, like a pair of fucking concertinas. And when he came home after a shift he seldom bothered to change clothes unless Sandra mentioned it. And when he was due out on a backshift he usually stuck it on first thing in the morning, to save doing so later.

  Paul was already in the cloakroom, his coat on and his balaclava in his hand, eager to be away. This normally meant he was in the bad books with the bosses. He wasnt wearing his mittens; they were inside his coat pockets. While Hines was fixing things he tried to find out what was what but Paul was saying nothing. It could be hard getting him to talk. This amused Sandra, that it was obvious whom he took after; but Hines had been nothing like him as a boy.

  They trudged along, with Hines walking so that the boy could be stepping on the untouched snow to the side of the pavement; and he did seem interested in seeing the prints he left, but not for long. Taking off his uniform hat Hines attempted to exchange it for the balaclava, but Paul tensed and he returned it to his own head. He scraped a handful of snow from the bonnet of a parked car and gave it to him but he let it fall quite soon. It was hopeless. What was it to be a real father. He was it, a real father. But other fathers might be finding out what was up, if something really had occurred to upset him. What could have occurred to upset him. Something or nothing.

  They went into the butcher’s. The man behind the counter made a fuss of weans and could also quip merrily at adults – often Sandra smiled at these quips. Then into the vegetable shop where he added an apple to the purchases, giving it to the boy on the last lap home. It was good that he liked fruit. Fruit is good for kids. Sandra works that such items go more easily. She works part-time but hopes to go full-time. Her boss’ name is Buchanan. Imagine a cunt called Buchanan. Here you have a cunt by the name of Buchanan who is the boss and has always regarded one’s wife in a favourable light, as someone he would always reinstate, her work having been exemplary since first she started working for the cunt directly upon leaving Secretarial College. An employee of ideal proportions. Never a day’s illness but that such an illness is of a bona fide variety. A credit to all and sundry eh, excuse me madam you by any chance being employed on an informal basis by the Heads of the Monarchic State. A simple question. Give us an aye or give us a naw.

  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