The Busconductor Hines

by James Kelman

  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.

  Amazing but; how people are conned into thinking high unemployment means parsnips are not in demand. That’s the trouble with the lower orders, they’re a bunch of bastarn imbeciles. As though emphasising the point a girl was just then ejected from a close, being pushed o
ut by a youngish woman – the mother – who forced the girl to march ahead by a series of sharp digs in the small of the back, displaying her scapegoat for the catastrophic state of the steel industry. That spot on the back is maybe his favourite on the whole of Sandra’s body, right at the base of her spine, this wee bit which is always so warm. The mother was wearing slippers nevertheless, and ice needing to be crunched. A right fucking headcase. She dug the girl on toward the small cluster of local shops. Probably the girl had been sent a message earlier and been short changed by the thief who owns the newsagent, or maybe she had purchased an incorrect item. What a performance! The woman quite wee, with long black hair, the coat unbuttoned.

  All in all a scene to avert the face from.

  Hines followed them into the newsagent. Pandemonium inside. Weans everywhere, and a few disgruntled adults – and these latters having astonishing sets to their bearing to indicate extraordinary emotional control, as they stared to the dwarfs jostling each other along the counter, poking around in the boxes of sweetmeats and generally ignoring all known rules of social conduct concerning orderly procedure. But the thief’s trio of assistants was performing wonders, serving a minimum pair of adults to the 1 child.

  He had bought a ½ ounce, rice-papers and matches; and he rolled a smoke in a shop doorway.

  Along the street music blared from a 1st storey window, a teenage girl leaning out, chatting to three others at the long entrance to the close. Farther on somebody called to him. A man he knew. He returned a hello and continued on up the hill where on the road the grit should have been lying very thickly. He passed the close where he used to live.

  One of Griff’s three daughters opened the front door. She left him and came back with her mother. He smiled and made to speak but she had turned, and she showed him into the living room. Once she had gone the daughter entered, to remain for quite a while, just looking at him occasionally, pretending to be engrossed with the objects inside and on top of a glass display-cabinet; she was called away. Hines lifted a newspaper from beneath a coffee-table.

  Several minutes went by till Griff appeared. Hines had heard him being shouted awake. When he came in he took a cigarette from a battered packet on the mantelpiece and switching on the electric-fire he crouched over it with his back to Hines. Then his wife entered carrying two mugs of tea. That can of lager, he said.

  What can of lager?

  Look I brought one back with me last night.

  No to this house you didnt. And she went out, closing the door. Griff glanced at Hines, pursing his lips; then the door opening again, Mind you’ve to sign-on this morning . . . And it closed immediately.

  Griff stared at the door. How can I sign-on if you’ll no give me the bloody bus-fare! Crouching back over the fire he rubbed his hands, inhaled on the cigarette, blinking as the smoke hit his eyes. These weans no away to school yet! he added. He looked at Hines, shook his head briefly.

  Hines sniffed; he had prised the lid off the tin and paused, he sipped at the tea. Taking a paper from the Rizla packet, and the door opened: Naw, they’re no away to school yet.

  Griff had moved onto the nearest armchair and lifted the mug of tea from the coffee-table.

  Hines said, How’s your maw keeping?

  They took her back into hospital.

  Aye, I heard.

  Ah she’s okay, no bad, she was talking the last time I was up, a wee bit – you could make out what she was saying.

  Good.

  Griff yawned then shuddered, shaking his head: Fucking freezing man eh! A team of huskies you need for the hill. You should’ve seen them coming out the boozer last night! pantomime on ice so it was. O by the way man your name cropped up.

  Hines looked at him.

  Milligan.

  Aw aye.

  He was saying he bumped into you a wee while ago.

  Aye – he’s doing alright eh?

  What! fucking loaded the cunt – these oilrigs man to listen to him you’d think they were 5-star fucking hotels or something – the grub they get. T-bone steaks man; and the cunts’re leaving half of them on the fucking plate: right out of order so it is – all gets dumped into the fucking sea.

  Ah well at least we’ll get fat fish.

  Griff snorted.

  The door opened and the girl entered with her younger sister; they kissed Griff and said cheerio. On their way back out he asked them to see if the toast was ready yet. The door closed he said: So you’re still on the buses!

  Naw, grunted Hines, and he flicked the hat off the settee onto the floor and stretched to kick at it.

  At least it’s a fucking job man. Any vacs?

  Aye, four hundred and twenty seven. Naw. Hines shrugged. No for conductors. If you could drive . . .

  Ach I dont fancy these fucking shifts anyhow. Griff yawned, swallowed some tea. So how’s the maw and da these days?

  Away up and see for yourself.

  For fuck sake man you’ve got to ask these questions; it’s called fucking politeness I mean battering the door at all times of the morning when cunts’re trying to kip!

  Ah christ, I’ve been up for days.

  Aye you get paid for it but.

  Naw I dont; propaganda.

  Griff raised his eyebrows and sighed, gazed briefly at the ceiling. On the wall to his left the small picture of King Billy on his white horse, athwart Boyne Water. Hines grinned and nodded to it: I see you still like the cowboys Griffin.

  He had been exhaling smoke, and he smiled a moment. He glanced at the door and it opened. His wife and youngest daughter – an infant; she was clutching a blanket to her mouth and toddled to squeeze her way in beside Griff on the armchair. The plateful of toast on the coffee-table.

  No cheese?

  In the fridge. I’m going to the shop, she added. She paused, then she looked at Hines and indicated the toast.

  Thanks Rita.

  She nodded. How’s the family?

  Aw fine, okay.

  We need fags, said Griff.

  Is your da still working?

  Aye.

  It’s just the one you’ve got?

  A wee boy – four and a half.

  That’s right . . . After a moment she nodded then walked to the door.

  Mind the fags, said Griff as it closed.

  They munched the toast without speaking. The girl occasionally twisted to touch Griff ’s head then would stare at Hines, the blanket almost obscuring her face. And when Hines eventually prepared a cigarette she studied his movements, and he rolled it slowly, sitting forwards for her to see more easily. Griff said, I could never be bothered with that – no patience.

  It’s no patience you need man it’s skill.

  Griff snorted.

  It’s an art.

  Griff raised his eyebrows and he reached for the last piece of toast; then he said: How’s the wife? what’s her name again – Sandra?

  Aye; ah she’s alright.

  Still got the wee job?

  Hines nodded.

  That’s good.

  Aye, it’s a help right enough . . . He struck the match; he had been waiting for Griff to get another cigarette from the packet on the mantelpiece; when he had lighted his own he passed across the burning match. Heh how’s wee Frank doing these days? you ever see him?

  Hh. Griff put the match into the ashtray, he frowned: No if I can bloody avoid it. A Peter Pan that yin.

  He’s still going about but?

  Aye, unfortunately. He’s jumping around The Glen with a young team. When you see him you walk the other way. Naw Rab, a headcase, worse than ever he was, shooters and all sorts . . . He sniffed, made to rise. How? you’re no wanting to see him are you!

  Hh; naw.

  Griff had risen from the chair, holding the girl in one arm; he collected the mugs and went ben the kitchenette, and returned with refills of tea. The girl got up onto the chair before him. He shook his head as he sat down. That last time he got lifted, they’d stuck a blade in some poor . . . no reason nor
nothing.

  It wasnt him but, no as far as I heard.

  Aw Rab, Christ sake.

  Hines shrugged.

  I mean you dont know him now man; he’s no the way he was at school.

  I’m no saying that; I’m just saying it wasnt him that actually done it.

  Ah! Griff snorted, shook his head. He’s a headcase Rab he’s a headcase. A wean. Showing off to the young team and that, makes you . . . bloody sick.

  Hines grinned after a moment. Sorry, sorry sorry sorry! He held his hands palms outwards.

  Naw, these . . . Griff shook his head. He raised the girl and sat her on his knee, bounced her a couple of times then sniffed and lifted her up to smell the nappy. Away and get your potty hen. He put her onto the floor then got up and opened the door for her.

  Christ, good for her age!

  Aye. Griff smiled.

  What is she anyway?

  Just turned two.

  What!

  Aye, yaps like fuck as well – you can hold a conversation with her. He grinned as he sat down.

  That’s great man.

  Aye well, you just having the one and that . . . he shrugged. The other pair talk to her so she picks it all up – she could be at the nursery the now. They’ve got her doing her sums. Ask her 2 and 2 and she’ll tell you 4. She doesnt know what it is right enough but she’ll fucking tell you anyway. Griff chuckled. He sniffed. Actually I better see she’s alright and that.

  When he returned he left the door ajar.

  Hines had lifted a book from beneath the coffee-table and was reading the blurb.

  Take it with you if you want. I finished it yesterday. No bad, it’s about this guy’s retired from the Secret Service, finds out his auld boss’s been done in and that, so he rejoins to get after the cunt that did it.

  Hines nodded. After a moment he reached to replace it but he sat back with it again, flicked through the pages; he grinned. I wonder if it’s these pesky fucking commies to blame?