The Maintainance of Headway (1987)

by Magnus Mills

  Then there was the sad case of the man who came wandering into the canteen one drizzly Sunday afternoon. Apparently he’d been a bus driver in former times and had dropped by to renew some old acquaintanceships. He had been employed at the garage for about eighteen months. Unfortunately, nobody seemed to recall him nor any of the names he reeled off. Somehow he latched onto me and I had to spend half an hour going through a list of conductors whom he claimed to have worked with.

  They had all gone now and I didn’t know where they were, yet still this man persisted in questioning me about them. He also wanted to know which routes we were operating these days, and what type of buses we had. Didn’t he have anything better to do, I asked myself, than come here and talk about buses? As darkness fell he finally went back out into the drizzle. I felt quite sorry for him.

  Another person who only remained at the garage for eighteen months was a driver called Thompson. He differed from the others in that he didn’t leave of his own accord. He was given the sack, which was most unusual on the buses, but no one could remember him except me.

  §

  By the following morning the water mains repair work was well underway. The problem with the traffic lights had finally been attended to, and they were operating in long sequences that allowed vehicles to get clear before changing from green to red. Nonetheless, as I travelled south I noticed there were still long queues on the northbound side. Such delays were unavoidable really, this being the height of the morning rush. There was simply more traffic going towards town than coming away. I wanted to avoid running late, so as soon as I got to the southern outpost I spun the bus around and prepared to leave again.

  “Stop!” cried a voice behind me as I pulled off from the stand. It was Baker. I stopped and waited as he came marching up.

  “You’re not due to leave for another ten minutes,” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “If I don’t leave now I’ll be late,” I replied. “The traffic’s terrible back there.”

  “I’m quite aware of the situation,” said Baker, regarding me from beneath the brim of his black peaked cap.

  Clearly he had regained his composure since yesterday’s crisis. He further informed me that I was not to depart until my proper scheduled time and he would hear no protests to the contrary. Which meant, needless to say, that the moment I set off again I would be late. Naturally I obeyed Baker’s command and left the southern outpost with marked punctuality. When at last I reached the common I saw Breslin standing outside the underground station. I was long overdue, but as I passed by he gave me the usual satisfactory nod. Indeed, he appeared more than satisfied. He was almost smiling. I had noticed similar behaviour on many previous occasions: whenever the buses were all running late, the senior inspectors seemed quite happy.

  When next I was in the canteen I discussed this odd state of affairs with Edward, Davy and Jeff.

  “Yes, I thought they looked decidedly jolly this morning,” agreed Davy. “Breslin curtailed me to the arch and he was very friendly about it.”

  “The truth is they’d rather you were late than early,” said Edward.

  “But that’s preposterous!” said Jeff.

  “Preposterous or not,” Edward replied. “Lateness is something they know how to deal with. They can quantify it, label it and apportion the blame accordingly. In some circumstances they can write it off altogether. There’s no excuse for being early but there are plenty for being late. Look at your log cards: each one is preprinted with about ten different causes of delay.”

  With a flourish he then produced a log card from his inside pocket and read out a list of examples:

  “‘Traffic delay; no serviceable bus; ticket machine failure; extra mileage; road traffic accident; mechanical fault; road closure; staff shortage; other operating causes (unspecified)’.” He put the card away again. “It all proves they’re quite prepared to accept lateness without question. What they don’t like is wilful earliness.”

  “But what about the maintenance of headway?” I asked. “I thought that was supposed to be paramount.”

  “The answer is fiendishly simple,” said Edward. “They make sure every bus is late by exactly the same degree.”

  “In other words it’s a conspiracy,” remarked Jeff.

  “Correct.”

  “So there’s no point in trying to run on time.”

  “None at all. The timetables are a complete sham. You’ve probably seen the notices at the bus stops: “Buses depart at these minutes past each hour.” It’s all meaningless: a line of dots and a set of random numbers; no more than a sleight of hand to fool the people.”

  “They’re not fooled,” said Jeff.

  “Of course they’re not,” said Edward. “Neither are they ever satisfied. If the bus happens to arrive on schedule it’s good for the public record but little else. Nobody believes the timetables. Waiting for buses is therefore paradoxical; hence the refrain: ‘the people expect the bus to be late, yet they go to the bus stop early and wait’.”*

  ≡ Original source unknown: possibly from a nursery rhyme.

  Nine

  We shared the ring road with other buses from other routes, and some of these other buses ventured into the hinterland beyond the cross. Accordingly, people quite often wished to change from one bus to another. To facilitate this a proper transfer point had been established at the cross, where passengers could switch buses in an orderly fashion. Buses pulled up side-by-side at designated ranks and waited while people changed between them, depending on their final destination. That was the intention anyway. The reality was different.

  Whenever we were on the ring road and one of these other buses came into sight, the bell would ring. We were thus obliged to halt at the next bus stop, usually right behind the bus in question. A slight delay would ensue as the hand brake was applied and the rear doors opened. Then nobody would get off. After a pause the other bus would move away again, and we would follow. As we approached the next stop the same thing would happen. The bell would ring. The bus would pull up. The doors would open, and again nobody would get off. Sometimes the other bus didn’t stop when we did, so that a gap opened between the two buses. As a result we would often arrive at the transfer point just after the other bus had departed.

  In the days of conductors, of course, such matters could be dealt with speedily. A conductor like Gunter, for instance, would locate the offender and tell them in no uncertain terms to leave the bell alone. If they obeyed, all well and good; if they didn’t, he ordered them off the bus. Nowadays we had driver-only operation and it was not so straightforward. Every time the bell rang we had to assume it was ‘genuine’ and pull up at the next bus stop. If nobody got off there was nothing we could do except close the doors and continue our journey. This was a regular occurrence. It even happened to Jason.

  “They never own up to it,” he announced after one such incident. “You could march round the bus threatening the lot of them with a horsewhip, but they would never confess to ringing the bell.”

  I liked to think he meant this in a hypothetical way, but you couldn’t always be sure with Jason. All the same, he had his own solution to the problem:

  “If they keep doing it on my bus I give them some treatment with the brake and the accelerator,” he said. “Rough them up a bit: teach them a lesson.”

  “What about all the innocent people?” I asked. “The ones who haven’t touched the bell?”

  “Tough, isn’t it?” said Jason.

  It was mid-morning. We were parked up at the cross, standing by our buses and drinking tea from paper cups. Jason was in his usual belligerent mood. “Guess what this cunt said to me just now?”

  “Which cunt?” I enquired.

  “This fireman.”

  “Don’t know.”

  “He said I was driving too fast.”

  “Blimey.”

  “Fucking cheek!”

  “I’ll say.”

  “He told me I should
only be going at walking speed.”

  “Was he in his fire engine?”

  “No,” said Jason. “He was up a ladder.”

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” said a voice beside us. We had been joined, uninvited, by Woodhouse.

  “Morning,” I replied.

  Jason said nothing, and stood glaring with astonishment at the man who had dared to interrupt our discourse. Woodhouse was looking very relaxed in a pale linen suit and flowery tie. He, too, was holding a drink in a paper cup: some sort of fancy coffee with a lid on.

  “How’s our ridership today?” he asked.

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “Our passenger profile,” said Woodhouse. “Is it in a positive trend?”

  “Not sure really.”

  “If there’s a downturn we’ll need to redefine our targets.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Or at least revise our threshold,” he added. “Given that seat occupancy never fully represents total capacity.”

  This was all too much for Jason. “Look, mate,” he said. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  It dawned on me that Jason had no idea Woodhouse was part of the senior management ‘team’. Or maybe he did know, and didn’t care. Which was fair enough. Admittedly, Jason could be churlish at times, but Woodhouse was equally at fault for simply butting in on our conversation. The situation threatened to turn unpleasant at any moment. Woodhouse, however, was a master of diplomacy.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, thrusting his hand out. “Jeremy Woodhouse. Customer approval consultant.”

  Reluctantly, Jason took the proffered hand and shook it.

  “Jason Reilly,” he murmured. “Mass transportation operative.”

  “I was referring to bus loadings,” Woodhouse explained. “The ratio between passenger numbers and journeys completed.”

  “Oh those,” replied Jason. “You should have said.” He examined the remains of his tea with disgust before pouring them into the gutter.

  “I see you’ve been testing a new vehicle,” I remarked. “Should carry a lot more people.”

  “The articulated bus?” said Woodhouse. “Yes, the trials have been a great success: the engineers’ report was full of praise. We’re planning to introduce a pilot service along the ring road.”

  “Seems like a good place to start.”

  “The possibilities are huge, of course, when you consider there are three main-line railway stations standing side-by-side in all their Gothic glory. We’re hoping to move a million passengers every day. Even more once we’ve completed work on the sea tunnel.”

  “They’re not all Gothic,” said Jason. “Only the one in the middle.”

  “Really?” said Woodhouse.

  “The other two are purely utilitarian. It’s more like Cinderella and her ugly sisters.”

  “Well, I must remember to bear that in mind,” uttered Woodhouse with a furrowed brow. “Maybe I need to alter my presentation.”

  He took a notebook from his pocket and wrote something down.

  “I expect these new buses are expensive,” I said.

  “Astronomical,” said Woodhouse.

  “Funded by the taxpayer?”

  “Naturally.”

  “Who’s going to drive them?”

  “Good question,” said Woodhouse. “They’ll certainly require drivers of advanced experience. The articulated body could be rather daunting to some, I imagine, not to mention the increased brake horsepower. The acceleration is quite phenomenal apparently.”

  “Oh yes?” said Jason.

  “Therefore, the driver selection process will need to be rigorous.”

  “Suppose so.”

  “Each garage will put forward suitable candidates based on their length of service, their safety record and so forth.”

  “Is there a waiting list?” I enquired.

  “Well, it’s still early days yet,” said Woodhouse. “Are you interested then?”

  “Not really,” I said. “I’m a strictly double-decker man.”

  He turned to Jason. “How about you?”

  “I’ll think about it,” came the reply.

  “Well, gentlemen,” said Woodhouse, glancing at his wristwatch, “I really must dash. Nothing but meetings, meetings, meetings for me, I’m afraid. Good to talk to you both. Bye.”

  “Bye,” we each said, and then he was gone.

  I grinned at Jason. “That was impressive,” I said. “I didn’t know you knew about architecture.”

  “I don’t,” said Jason. “Neither does that cunt.”

  §

  A small but regrettable incident had taken place during my northbound journey. The road works involving the burst water mains were still underway and they had begun to encroach on a bus stop situated nearby. Accordingly, the stop had been put out of commission and a temporary ‘dolly’ stop set up about a hundred yards further along the road. The out-of-use bus stop was clearly marked with a yellow hood bearing the words NOT IN USE. Nonetheless, when I approached from the south I saw a group of around a dozen people waiting there. Another group of a similar size was standing by the dolly stop.

  Now, the purpose of this closure was two-fold. Firstly, it was to prevent people at the bus stop from getting splashed with mud from the nearby excavations. Secondly, it was to reduce the congestion which would inevitably be caused by a bus halting in the middle of the road works. Needless to say, the people at the out-of-use stop were oblivious to either of these reasons. It was the height of the early rush and most of them were in their usual dazed state. Paying attention to notices at this time of the morning was seemingly beyond them as they stood in a huddle waiting for the bus. One or two vaguely put their hands out as I drew near. The rest did nothing at all. Meanwhile, the people at the dolly stop were frantically waving their arms in a frenzied attempt to attract my attention. These were the ‘righteous’ people. They knew propriety was on their side, but they could not be certain whether justice would be done.

  Slowing down to negotiate the road works I noticed that the people at the out-of-use stop were gathering into a tight knot as they prepared to board. At the last moment a couple of them raised their hands slightly like discreet bidders at an auction. Then, when I drove straight past, they gazed at the bus with incomprehension. Half a minute later I reached the dolly stop, where the righteous people were congratulating one another on their supposed moral superiority. Without exception they came onto the bus wearing great big smiles. Even so, I didn’t really like leaving the oblivious people behind, so I waited a while at the dolly stop to see if any of them came running up. None did, and eventually I carried on without them.

  The question of when and where a bus should stop was a thorny one. Apart from the abstract distinction between request and compulsory stops, there was also the matter of these so-called ‘runners’.

  Obviously, if a driver waited at a bus stop to allow people to catch up it was widely considered to be a good deed. Sometimes the people even said ‘thank you’. It was also a useful ploy if the bus happened to be excessively early and the driver was looking for an excuse to pause somewhere.

  Confusion arose, however, when prospective passengers attempted to ‘race’ a moving bus to an empty bus stop. There was nothing more irritating to a bus driver than to be cruising in a leisurely manner towards an apparently deserted stop, only for one of these ‘runners’ to come into view, galloping along as though their life depended on it.

  Runners were divided into two sub-categories: ‘logical’ and ‘illogical’. Logical runners ran in the same direction as the bus they were pursuing. Illogical runners were the ones who had given up waiting for the bus and begun walking towards the next stop. Then, when they suddenly heard the bus approaching, they came running back. It made no sense whatsoever to run away from their final destination, yet many people did this quite regularly.

  In both cases the physical definition of a bus stop was crucial. It usually consisted of an upright pole with a sig
n attached bearing the words BUS STOP. This could be augmented by a large rectangle painted on the surface of the road. In some cases there would be a bus shelter: either a rustic version with a thatched roof, or a draughty urban one. In the absence of bus shelters, people were also known to gather under a nearby tree or beneath the awning of a shop. Because of all these various aspects, the precise location of any bus stop was open to interpretation. In general terms, however, it was the upright pole that seemed to count for most. ‘Runners’ always assumed that if they got to the pole first, and touched it, then the bus would be obliged to stop. (This was known in bus parlance as ‘the race for the pole’.)

  Unfortunately it was not quite so simple: in reality there were many complex issues at stake. Firstly, the driver would have to judge whether he or she could stop the bus smoothly without having to slam the brakes on. Sudden halts could be jarring to both driver and passengers alike, and tended to disrupt the overall ‘flow’ of the bus. Consideration also had to be given to the opinions of the people already on board. While some of them might be sympathetic towards the runner, others certainly may not, and hence a balance needed to be struck. Another important influencing factor was the question of time: if the bus was late then stopping for runners would only help to make it even later. Clearly in these circumstances the act of leaving people behind was an unavoidable necessity. Furthermore, the driver may be aware of another bus travelling close astern which would be in a much better position to stop and pick them up. Whether it actually did or not was an entirely different matter. Finally, some drivers were disinclined to stop because they just didn’t think it was worth it. Experience told them that most runners only wished to travel a short distance before getting off again. Besides which, the gesture was seldom appreciated: people only remembered the buses that went without them, never the ones that waited.