The Busconductor Hines

by James Kelman

  Aye eh ... The Deskclerk was gazing at a sheet of paper lying in front of him on the counter; he raised his head briefly to nod.

  It has never been acutely necessary to think. Hines can board the bus and all will transpire. Nor does he have to explain to a driver how the bus is to be manoeuvred. Nor need he dash out into the street to pressgang pedestrians. Of its own accord comes everything. Not only are the passengers to be congratulated, so too must the creators and current administrators of the Public Transport System. It is all superb. Hines simply has to stand with his back to the safety rail beneath the front window and await the jerk of gear or brake to effect his descent to the rear and, with machine at the ready and right hand palm outwards to take in the dough, the left hand is extracting a ticket and dishing it up to the smiling person. Then though it be busy a lull always arrives, during which he can return to the front for a fly puff at a relaxing roll-up and, if of a mind, he can engage such as a Reilly in conversation. But a driver can be new. The Newdriver is a problem. One should tread warily in gabbing to such a being lest a lapse in concentration causes the bus to crash. Hines seems to get more Newdrivers than is his fair share. It is as though the Higher-ups view him as the ‘deep-end’ and thus they toss him the Newdrivers whenever available. They say to themselves: This Busconductor Hines is a difficult kettle of fish; should the Newdriver survive a shift alongside him then this Newdriver is indeed the man for us. Hines will show them that which is the ropes. He will advise them what is the what. Let us continue to ensure that he remains the busconductor as opposed to a busdriver that we may continue to toss him the Newdrivers whenever he and his own driver are not on together. And gentlemen, let us also take pains to ensure that he and his own driver are not always on together.

  Fucking shite.

  But it’s funny how he always seems to get lumbered with the cunts when Reilly’s on the panel or whatever. They’re all fucking idiots as well, this is the thing. 90% of their naivety is not connected with being Newdrivers; it is connected with being alive as persons. Hines cannot fucking understand how they have survived to the present. He signs for a shift and senses the proximity of a starched collar and tightly knotted black tie and there, in a quiet part of the Office, lurks the graduate, rocking back and forth on his heels while pretending fascination with the duty-sheets. What is the fucking point of such a carry-on. Useless talking. Hines leaves them to get on with it – which is no doubt why they get tossed aboard his bus. Some of them are cheery and some of them are not cheery, they chat and dont chat, but as the day progresses the latter always takes precedence. Because Hines doesnt fucking chat back! You think he wants to fucking die! Jesus christ!

  Never disturb Newdrivers.

  Even experienced drivers should not be disturbed. Back during the 1st term of transport Hines was feart to glance suddenly at the driver in case he caused a draught which might interfere with the steering mechanism. Absolute nonsense. But the quick glance into the cabin could have the driver reacting hastily that the possibility of disaster as reality. Hines tries never to speak without firstly having made his presence known. People can be deep in reverie. Some drivers have no idea where they are at certain points on the road. They say, Christ I dont even remember driving the last couple of miles! And these miles can embrace peak-hour city centre streets. It makes you quite jumpy to consider. Imagine a bus crowded with punters, standing room only both upstairs and down, all giving each other the time of day under the mistaken apprehension their lives are in a safe pair of hands. Now, these fucking hands might only be 2 days out the Training School for Busdrivers and some of them never sat behind a wheel in their lives before arriving there for fuck sake. Hines is sick of it. Apparently it isnt the fault of the Newdrivers themselves. But the poor auld conductors are having to carry the burden. No wonder certain shoulders will wilt. One pair should not have to support that kind of thing.

  Weans are the main hazard. Newdrivers feel able to be at home with them. It is an error. They drive folk crazy. Newdrivers are simply misjudging the situation. Experienced conductors have no truck with weans. Weans are to be avoided at all costs. The most hair-raising journeys involve them. On they pile maybe 6 to 8 at a time so that they wind up getting jammed in the doorway and you have to be there to poke here and pull there. And they are out to con you into losing your temper. One must tread warily. Three years ago a conductor by the name of McManus had a stand-up fight with a team of them because they were drinking wine on the rear seat of the topdeck. The full facts have never come to light – although Hines has a hunch it concerned moral outrage. McManus was an alcoholic. He always carried a half-bottle which he wrapped in layers of toilet paper and stowed in his machine-case. According to garage rumour he lost his temper because they refused him a gargle but McManus was a whisky drinker and it was a bottle of wine the weans had. Far more likely he wanted to warn them off the wayward track. Anyway, whatever it was he was out of order and the weans were right to object. So poor auld fucking McManus suffered a beating, then lost his job into the bargain. The Department of Transport is opposed to the boxing games where members of the green are involved. There is no excuse. No circumstances are singular enough to warrant such action. But obviously the beating was sufficient; he shouldnt have lost his job into the bargain. And he wouldnt, had the Union sorted it out properly. But the Union is not for discussing. Hines cannot discuss the Union. Yes he can. No he cant. Best leaving such a carry-on to the likes of Reilly who is able to attend meetings and even get involved in the proceedings. Life is too elongated.

  There is a road; and on this road there is much traffic.

  He was journeying home by omnibus having spent the past hour watching snooker-pool. Greenly members play for cash. Hines doesnt; he has no money to play at snooker with. He can hardly play the fucking game anyway. During his earlier terms he failed to master it and has continued to fail ever since. Usually he gets the chance to play only when Reilly has nothing better to do. Reilly is good and prefers to play others who are good. He can win money. How does he manage it. He plays and then people give him money. Off he goes to buy cigarettes or rolls and fried egg – or maybe home to weigh in with Isobel who then sticks it all into the building society.

  The sun has set; the streetlights have been on for a while; the slush, almost disappeared from the roads.

  Hines sits on a damp bus, on the lowerdeck, having lacked the whatever necessary to climb to the topdeck. He is being glanced at complicitly by an imbecile of a conductor who must have started in the job yesterday morning – he is upset at having a busy bus. Everybody gets a busy bus. There is nothing unique in the situation except that it may be so for him. Hines feeling obliged to raise the eyebrows occasionally, to convey interest, not wanting the cunt to suffer any sort of mental breakdown lest he is forced into donning the machine as substitute, until procuring an Inspector, and the ambulance. What a performance. At one stage the conductor slumped onto the seat beside him and began loud-mouthed complaints about the passengers he was getting. This loud voice going on and on and on, seeming to list the names and dates of birth of individual persons, in this voice which was grating on everyone – the heads of passengers twisting slightly to signal their awareness of what was being said.

  Hines has enough on his plate. But there is no way through to some folk. A lot of drivers carry on in the same way, gab gab gab about the trials and tribulations of driving buses. Who’s fucking interested? Hines is always getting cunts like that giving him their worries. Who wants to hear about irate punters at Hillington Estate. You finish your work and you expect a bit of peace, not some fucking imbecile battering your ears. This is what happens when you sit in the Vale; they all start yabbering about the morning’s nasty events.

  The wind was strong; he had to stride in a semi-sideways movement, frequently halting to catch his hat before it blew off his head; at one point he took it off but had to put it back on again because his ears got sore. Then the heat inside the nursery lobby, like a hosp
ital. Even the smells of the place. Wiping his boots on the several mats he wandered down the corridor, seeing the work the weans had done pinned up on the walls. The hum of voices from the main play-area. He was still too early.

  The Supervisor appeared; her tits very uncomfortable looking the way they seemed squashed together in the thing she was wearing. He nodded, stepping to one side as she passed, but she was frowning and barely noticed him. It summed up the place. Being a wean in the dump must have been no joke. Poor auld Paul right enough.

  Near to the play-area door he paused at a print of the Chieftain of all the Britons. It was spendid. On the wall opposite were companion prints also splendid, of long canines with short legs, ideal goals for the kids. The Supervisor again. She hesitated. Hines raised his eyebrows, indicating the prints. Then she said: Paul isnt in today . . .

  Although it wasnt a genuine statement it was nearer to that than a question. And she continued to look at him. Hines nodded, Aw aye, hh. He grinned, What a stupid . . .

  As she pushed her way into the play-area he could hear her call to a child, or adult perhaps, before the door shut.

  Along the corridor, ben the lobby, and out.

  There were problems in what had been said but there might not be. There were other items – people for instance, as well as different things, needing to be considered. Plus the experiencing: the actuality. Even the pavement, dry bits and damp bits, hardly a sign of the snow now at all; and the condensation, on windows, of tenements and buses and other vehicles – those clear patches behind which the gazers, gazing. These fucking scary closes! Some of them are really evil. Strange dripping noises. Is it a burst pipe or what. A broken gutter. Just a tap with a faulty washer. And the concrete all cracked and treacherous for folk’s feet. The auld yins there, having to tread with great caution, the lights in the close dim or not working except in periodic blinks; and that dogshit in dark corners – the floor just swept too and suddenly littered with a mysterious black matter which is picked up for inspection, O my it’s awful soft this whatever it is: Shite! help ma boab right enough. No wonder the auld yins crack up. Half a lifetime spent scrubbing and whiteclaying the concrete only to have to finally admit the uncontrollable stuff going on behind their stooped backs. It is a pity.

  Two teenage girls at the corner, probably on the game the way they were standing, conducting a form of non-conversation, their gaze everywhere – even to Hines. Too early; they have no doubt forgotten today is only Wednesday, that tomorrow is the day when members of the putrid can be worth a glance. In fact they probably werent prostitutes at all, just girls having a chat before going up the stair for tea. But the district is definitely going downhill fairly quickly and not even a dyed-in-the-wool native of the dump could say any different. Hines is no dyed-in-the-wool native; he’s a fucking incomer.

  He clearly distinguishes the candlelight at certain windows, and the women resting their elbows on the sills, watching you walk by. One’s offspring should not be reared in such a den. And yet according to local gossip it was once a sought-after area, green grass in a few backcourts; and all the local wee shops, a hive of bustling, good-natured activity. Evelyn Donaldson’s mother had been born and bred here. And if it was good enough for her etc. it was certainly not good enough for sane citizens.

  He paused at the traffic lights, staying very still, as though trying to remain untouched by the sharp gusts and eddies from the passing vehicles. One minute you can be heading along the street nice as nice and then the next you’re fucked as usual, care must be taken. You get the poor auld fucking animals; they go hopping about with broken shoulders and backs with the punters yelling at the conductor to put them out their misery. What are they supposed to do at all. Smash their heads in with the fucking machine!

  Darting out suddenly he made it to the other side, just as the green became amber. It is a habit he has picked up from them, the cats and the dogs. Dogs are better at it. They cross the busiest thoroughfares in a fine trusting manner, trotting quite the thing as though the space they occupy is bound to stay constant. Not so the cats. They know fine well there is no such thing as constant space and off they scud in the sure-fire knowledge the course they have chosen is 90% guaranteed to fail. What is astonishing is how neither species, once safely across, will pause to glance back over its shoulder. This fatalistic approach to life: no, it is not so good. At least once per month Hines sees something killed, animal or person. Being the best friends of people the deaths of dogs are reported to the polis so the van can arrive to cart them off. But cats are regarded like rats. On the first journey one gets run over and killed and coming back from the terminus its body is obvious. On the next journey out the shape can still be verified but returning in less easily so, and onwards, till with a bit of luck the rain is falling.

  He ignored the newspaper vendor outside the pub. Another thief. He short-changes blind pensioners.

  He rushed past the butcher and fruiterer.

  All a load of shite. Ha ha ha.

  Naw but, seriously, the depressed rectangles can be vicariously aloof. Pneumatic drills go blasting somewhere. Here you have this yin and there the other. What about the head though. The head is fine, fine. The head is a finely honed item; merely restricted at present. A gap-site is a delicate absence; a hunner years ago it was a brand spanking new section whose brightly white sandstone was quarried in Aberdeen perhaps, carted down by rail, the labourers and masons singing lustily, giving vent to their earnest endeavour via the traditional scotch worksong, while delivering then assembling the goods prior to collecting their wages and religious tracts from the builder’s daughter at the end of the contract, a rosebudly wench of prim but lovely exterior, getting some practice in with the lowly before shooting out to the African jungle to sort out the converts, beautiful stuff, with the laced bodice and so on.

  It would be hard to say what he was playing at. The volume control on the music-centre might have required decreasing, as also the gas-fire. He was still wearing the uniform, standing at the windows in the front room, the curtains parted as though night had yet to fall. His lips moved. He could have been mouthing the words of the song but if the song stopped he would be talking to himself if still doing it – maybe still singing right enough. The cashbag lay over his left shoulder. Although right handed he always carries it thus. A point for possible discussion: do left-handed conductors carry their cashbags on the right. Or is it only those who smoke. Very few people dont smoke in the garage. Hines could have named almost all of them – at least those who worked on the same side of the shift as he did. Such people may have stronger personalities than the rest but they might just be stubborn. It is also noticeable how less eager the nonsmokers are to spend their dough willy-nilly. Or is this a case of yoicks tally ho on the part of Hines. In other words is he a bad loser. Because he still smokes and is aware he should not be. But if a poll was conducted in the bothy perhaps the percentage of nonsmokers who carried homemade sandwiches would be higher than that of the smokers. While the percentage of nonsmokers purchasing prepared food in the canteen would certainly be minimal. On the whole then, it would appear that nonsmoking members of the green are less inclined to spend money willy-nilly.

  He continued to stand there once the LP stopped playing. Then he frowned and went ben the kitchen, and walked to the window. Some demolition equipment was lying about. It is surprising this should have been the case. Probably there was nothing of value else it would get stolen. The demolition men could even steal it themselves and say it had been stolen by nightprowlers. They could steal it each time it was replaced, until steps were taken. The firm would end up having to employ a nightwatchman and maybe even a daywatchman cause what would stop them stealing it during daylight, so the daywatchman would then follow them about during working hours ensuring the stuff stayed on the premises.

  He switched on the television, the gas-fire; returned to the front room and put on another LP record, switched off the gas-fire there. Before going back to the kit
chen he listened to the opening of the first song. He drew his armchair nearer the fireplace, then hunched over it, sitting on his ankles the way Griff had done. What would three daughters be like. A quintet. A unit of 5 – plus the mother when she got out of hospital. If she ever got out. People rarely get out of hospital. They get kept in. They have their own wee incinerator down in the basement.

  Amazing.

  Hines can see their double chins, the way their jowls droop, the eyes saturated, while the bodies, groping towards each other in an effort to feel. Is that veins there. Actual blood pumping behind the greyly shadows. Living organisms of a reflective nature. Aw look, heh jimmy, a stain on the mohair suit, the cunt’s pished himself and might rub against us; quickly quickly to the basement with the bastard or we’ll never be the same again.

  Hines can get closer in to them by flitting into Paul’s usual kneeling position. Fine to drag a needle across the flesh, that thin bubbling line of blood, stripping them of their garments and sticking them into formation, tallers to the right and shorters to the left, single rank: size! Just so we can study them properly – see: here you have this yin and there the other. Essences: this yin’s the essence of this and that yin’s the essence of that. Out of it all you’ve got the individuals who perform the feats. Poke and you’ll see them quiver. They hate getting poked right enough. And they dont like quivering in public either. And see how affected they get when you break their glasses, that sudden inrush of air; their eyes widening in terror, the streets coming jumping up at them – the accelerator james: let’s get to fuck rapidly.

  Or simply rearing questions, the answers of sociological interest to such as the adolescent Paul. And did you act in honest naivety. Or with thought malevolent beforehand. Or just as a genuine agent for whom the no-nonsense lack of shilly-shally is to bring forth universal benefit, as between two industrial captains – a singular contract for mutual expansion (if the sun doesnt rise tomorrow a balanced scale might simply slide, eh!). And how was it up there. Slippery. No time to relax. Aesthetically irksome, but compromise to some degree is always imperative if one is to gain a foothold, that footholds are seen as essential, that they are to be being continuing.