by James Kelman
He glanced at her, then walked to his chair and lifted the tobacco tin, but replaced it; he sniffed and lifted the alarm clock, and set it for 0445 hours. A mistake making this coffee, he said, it’ll probably just keep me awake . . . He drank briefly, emptied the rest of it down the sink and rinsed out the cup, leaving it on the draining board. I better go to bed.
She was still watching him.
I need a sleep, he said, while walking over to the recess and tugging the jersey up over his head and shoulders. It’s okay.
What’s okay?
What.
What’s okay Rab . . . she was saying it isnt okay at all Rab, really. He had shut his eyelids. But in her set voice she continued on saying it to him, that it was not okay at all, as though she had decided long before that this would have to be said tonight but had only remembered this very minute or else had maybe just found the right opportunity. Ever since coming home she had been about to say it; he had been sidetracking her. She said: We cant carry on the way it is just now Rab, we cant.
I know.
Well then . . .
Well then something’s going to happen, that’s the well then, something’s going to happen.
O God. She smiled, and shook her head.
Thanks, thanks a lot, that’s smashing. He sat on the edge of the bed and took off his socks. Your ironic wee smiles.
I wasnt being ironic.
Naw, sorry, it was a genuine smile of a friendly nature, I just misread it.
I dont need any of your bloody sarcasm.
Good, fine. He had undressed and was now in bed, pulling up the sheets, and gazing at the ceiling.
That’s it finished I suppose!
That’s what finished?
O God.
Look I’m fucking tired Sandra that’s how I’m in bed – I’ve been sitting worrying about you all fucking night.
Dont start blustering.
Blustering!
Yes, blustering, the times you’ve stayed out! bloody cheek, it’s just different for me.
I’ve no done it for ages, ages; christ sake.
No, you just dont go to your work and never tell me and then when I ask you you tell me a bunch of lies, a bunch of bloody lies.
Lies. What was she talking about lies. It’s because I dont want to worry you.
Why? what d’you think I am? you dont want to worry me, Rab! I’ve been married to you for 5 bloody years!
Hh; christ. He got out of bed in a movement and went to the lavatory; and back into bed, pulling the sheets to his chin, and turning to face into the recess wall.
Her chair had been shifted and she sat so that she could have been looking into the fire – although a magazine was lying on her lap.
Things passed sluggishly. All kinds of items. He was fancying a similarity between it and what was supposed to happen to people that instant prior to death. What a fucking jumble and yet also quite coherent. The idea of laughing aloud occurred, and made him smile. The clock. He raised himself to see the time: apparently 20 minutes had elapsed since the alarm clock sounded. It seemed like 20 seconds. Too late now to make any breakfast, not even time for a coffee, and coffee would have been delicious. What like would a coffee have been. Delicious. And Sandra; snuggling into her; what like would this snuggling into her have been like. There you have a body warm and soft; the woman you love and are sleeping with and want to sleep with, to continue this sleeping with; she’s lying beside you not conscious. And not to be conscious of last night if abruptly wakened so that the possibility of breaching the divide through physical arousal must exist, the slightest touch on her shoulder, and moving to her.
He was out of bed, wanting a smoke. Smoking helped him get out of bed on bad mornings. Without that to look forward to he would be an even worse timekeeper. And yet he wasnt the worst of timekeepers because the worst of timekeepers had already got the boot. The Busconductor Hines has yet to get the boot. This should be remembered. As should the following proposition: The longer one remains in a job the more difficult it becomes to get sacked. They keep him in the job. Mayhap they have resigned themselves to the fact of Hines. He is already a fixture. In the years to come, when one-man-buses rule the roost, they will have him cast and hoisted above the garage exit, as an example of The Busconductor.
Before leaving he touched Sandra on the shoulder but decided against taking a look in on Paul – too sentimental. Life is difficult.
Crunch crunch crunch. The snow turned slush turned ice. What a transformation! And all the hand of that mutable nature as well! it makes you think right enough. Take the clockwork universe: aye, just pick it up and set the wheels in motion; tick tock etcetera; just lay it down now, aye, that’s correct, the broad shoulders will attend to such a burden.
The brisk march along the wintry city streets at 05 something hours. The discreet tenements on either side, high and yielding efforts while straight above them the blankly grey clouds firmly, permanently, hanging there.
Pause.
The fellow rolls a cigarette. The charlatan did not accept his just reward in the house cum flat but employed it to advance himself towards his place of work. Now that he has come so far it would appear there is to be no turning back.
Glasgow thoroughfares can be mysteriously still, the slightest breath of wind seeming not to exist. The smell of fresh tobacco on the nostrils first thing is an astonishing item. Did you hear the one about the woman with the green lips. A disgusting verbal jape. There is no time for such knavery; come on there you there Hines! get crunching to your fucking place of work, the poor auld punters by christ they await, they stand chittering at bleak outposts, their pitiful attempts to retain body heat while where is the blooming bus. O for fuck sake but it’s freezing man can you imagine lying in your kip, the breakfast in bed and that, brought by this amazing big blonde with no knickers.
Shut up ya cunt I’m going to my work.
Naw but imagine it man you’re lying there sound asleep, right out the game, then a wee nudge on the shoulder, eh darling, eh darling, you awake, you ready for a bit of morning fare, here’s the paper, the mug of piping hot coffee to get you going, your tin’s at the side of the bed, aye, just reach across while she’s getting off the clothes. Fucking nonsense: get to your work ya cunt ye.
Look at him stride! In the name of christ his legs might fall off. Naw but he quite likes walking – it makes a fucking change! Gaaa haaa ha. Ding ding. Heh you there laddie, the greyly black boots and brown leather cashbag; pick up these heels of yours, let’s be having you, king and country laddie king and country; hup two three now hup two three, she’ll be coming round the mountains when she comes, she’ll be coming round the mountains when she comes, she’ll be coming round the mountains, coming round the mountains
Life is too serious.
Hunch the shoulders and march. The furtively fast figure. One fine morning Hines R. was arrested. Crackle crackle crackle. We have this fantasy coming through on the line sir should we tape it and hold it against him or what. Naw but honest sir he’s just a lowly member of the transport experience; he slept in a little and perforce is obliged to walk it to work, having missed the staff bastarn omnibus. A certain irony granted but nothing more, no significance of an insurrectionary nature.
He was chuckling as he pushed back the chair. His waybill remained blank. He had neglected to fill in the opening numbers and names and dates – it would appear he had always been allowing for just such a decision. He grinned, swallowed the rest of the lukewarm tea, thanked the conductor who had supplied the second-hand tea-bag.
The bothy was full of people all talking and not talking; it was great to see. Gathering his chattels he bade the cheerios and walked to the door. But it opened just as he arrived and he had to withdraw his hand to keep from being struck. McCulloch and Colin Brown. They wanted to chat a minute. A rumour about him jacking the job as a point for discussion. Returning with them to a table he sat down to recount the one about the woman with the green lips but that cu
nt Reilly had already told them it. He left immediately, along the corridor and downstairs where he paused to roll a cigarette. But could he afford to be seen smoking. Would going sick with a bad stomach retain the hallmarks of authentic reasoning if the subject were to state the case amid clouds of blue. He would be laughed off the premises. Into the washroom and into a cubicle in the lavatory area where an ancient Sun had been jammed behind a cistern pipe. But there was plenty of toilet paper. According to the retired conductor who cleaned the place the average amount stolen per week could reach to twenty rolls during a one to two month period. Having to account for this curious situation was one of the less gratifying aspects of his job, and Hines often had occasion to cheer the fellow up by pointing to the more gratifying aspects of which there were plenty in comparison to plying the decks of streetfaring vehicles of a public service nature.
The door into the lavatory area opened. Somebody shouting him by name.
He had been studying the marks on his knees, old scars, from playing football, actual dents in the skin, a sappy kind of surface, unlined; one scar in particular he recollected, the doctor or doctor’s assistant having to scrub vigorously with a brush, to clean out the flesh, getting rid of the dirt and gravel, using a red ointment substance that the patient could not tell what was blood and what was ointment. For the garage football team: what a business.
It was the driver shouting on him. Sorry, he replied; he was not able to fulfil the duties of the day because of the pains he was getting. Was he kidding. No. And the driver was to inform the Deskclerk about Hines having to sign-off sick. Would it not be better if the driver just waited a minute to see if maybe Hines began to feel more healthy. No. There was no chance of his making it through an entire shift due to the condition he was in. What condition was he in. A fucking terrible condition. In fact he had been up all night with it. The Deskclerk would have to get a spare conductor to take over. But Hines would go in and tell the Deskclerk himself just as soon as he felt capable of leaving the fucking cludgie.
When the door banged shut he made to leave; stupid – too early; he sat down again and made to unjam the Sun but it wasnt safe to touch. He rolled another cigarette. At length McCulloch and Colin Brown entered the area, to be standing on the opposite side of his cubicle door, shouting if that was him in there. We can smell your clatty tobacco ya cunt. Heh, how can you sign-off sick if you’ve no even started. Their laughter. Wait will Reilly hears this yin right enough. Heh, you really got diarrhoea. Just as well he didnt – fucking place, you’re not even allowed to have a shite in private. He waited several minutes after they had gone; and when he walked into the Office he was massaging his belly.
The Deskclerk glanced at him then turned his back.
Hines sniffed and went back upstairs to replace his machine-case. The voices in the bothy could be heard in the corridor. The canteen would not open until 0730 hours; and a further hour from then until the snooker room opened. The thing to do was leave the garage completely and immediately, of course.
A lot of bustle outside in the yard. More buses departed the garage between the hours 0615 and 0700 than at any other time during the 24. Drivers checked radiators and conductors checked destination screens and waybills, then hung about chatting together and with members of the blacksquad who were ready to go home from nightshift. McCulloch was sitting at the wheel of one bus. Hines waited until its engine revved then he trotted across and aboard. He grinned at the pair of them. Perhaps a brief account of the future was in order. Then you’re a grandfather and dead thank christ. He shook his head.
There is a road from Yoker goes near the Forth & Clyde Canal – across the Great Western Road which is an amazing road, stretching to the beautiful sights: from the centre of Glasgow it runs such that if a tourist asks how to get to Loch Lomond, Glen Coe, Fort William, Loch Ness, the Shetland fucking Islands, you can more or less tell he or she just to drive straight out on this yin jimmy and that’s you – and leads right into the District of D.
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.