The Maintenance of Headway

Six

There was a man standing in the road holding a large key. He was surrounded by a circle of traffic cones, in front of which was a red and white sign: ROAD CLOSED. I pulled my bus up and spoke to him through the window.

“Morning,” I said.

“Morning,” he replied.

“Busy?”

“Will be in a minute,” he said. “I’m just about to relieve the pressure.”

His van was parked nearby. He was from a water company.

“Would it be possible to let me go past before you start?” I enquired.

“I’m afraid not,” he said. “I’ve already put my cones out. Can’t really bring them all in again.”

I counted the cones. There were seven in total. Meanwhile, the man raised a small iron flap in the roadway. Then he inserted his key and gave it a turn. Seconds later there were gallons of water gushing all over the road. Then it was hundreds of gallons. Quite a lot went over the man’s boots, which were laceups. Casting me an embarrassed grin he retreated to his van. This was emblazoned with the words WE CARE ABOUT YOUR WATER. When he returned he was wearing a pair of Wellingtons. The waters continued to flow.

I cursed heavily. The unscheduled halt had put paid to all my plans. A short while ago I’d been coasting towards the southern outpost with not a care in the world. I was almost there. I was running five minutes early and had ten minutes’ recovery time at the end of the journey, which gave me a comfortable fifteen minutes for a cup of tea. Comfortable, that is, until the man from the water company made his appearance. Now I sat watching him as those precious minutes ticked away. He seemed in no hurry whatsoever to turn the water off again. It just kept pouring into the drains while he stood there, apparently mesmerised. Perhaps he, too, was counting the minutes. At the far side of his cones I could see a line of vehicles waiting to come by; in the mirror I saw a similar line behind me. My people, I was pleased to note, were sitting quietly in their seats. How long, I wondered, before they would start asking if I could let them off the bus. Officially this wasn’t allowed: there were signs on the doors saying as much. Then again, I didn’t believe in holding people captive for long periods. Generally, most of them were afraid to ask in case the driver was rude to them. Instead they just sat waiting meekly. To tell the truth, most drivers weren’t rude: all the rude ones had long since been siphoned off to work on the underground, where they could disappear into dark tunnels and not upset anybody. Nonetheless, bus drivers had a reputation for being rude and only people of exceptional courage asked to be let off the vehicle between stops. Conversely, if they didn’t ask, I didn’t let them off. So it was that we sat in silence watching the performance of the man from the water company.

Operation ‘flood the road’ was at last coming to an end. Replacing his key he turned it clockwise and the flow ceased. More or less. As the waters subsided I noticed a small trickle persisted in bubbling up, despite the man’s repeated struggles to stop it. Eventually he gave up, removed the key and shut the flap. One by one, in a methodical way, he carried the cones to his van and put them inside. Lastly he removed the ROAD CLOSED sign. I was now free to go.

“Sorry for any inconvenience,” he said, as I passed.

“My pleasure,” I muttered.

The delay had been about fifteen minutes altogether. The road was still wet, but as soon as we got moving the cars and vans behind us began overtaking. Without exception they all gave me a derisive hoot as they went by, as if the hold-up had been my fault. This was not unexpected: the buses always took the blame.

Heading south, I became aware of a great many people waiting at each of the northbound bus stops. This didn’t concern me much as I knew there were at least two buses due to leave the outpost before me. Oddly enough, though, there was no sign of these other buses. Just a gradual build-up of people at every stop. Finally I arrived at the alighting point and emptied out. Why, I wondered, hadn’t any buses departed yet? I soon got my answer. Driving through the turnaround and onto the stand I saw at once that it was eerily devoid of buses. I pulled up and took stock of the situation. Never in my experience had there been a complete absence of buses at the southern outpost. There was always at least one waiting in readiness, and usually two or three. Clearly someone had blundered. Whoever was controlling the southbound buses must have received word about the chaos being caused by the man from the water company. I guessed they’d overreacted and pulled all the other buses back. Which left me here on my own to fulfil the role of sacrificial lamb.

I glanced at my time card. According to the schedule I should be leaving immediately. The rule book, on the other hand, stated I was entitled to a minimum recovery period of five minutes. In view of the waiting crowds, however, further delays would have achieved little. Therefore I decided to take only two minutes. Then I braced myself for the onslaught and set off northward again. When I emerged from the turnaround I saw Breslin standing in the road. This was all I needed. He flagged me down and I stopped beside him.

“There are about a hundred people waiting up at the parade,” he announced.

“Yes,” I replied. “So I noticed.”

“Not for you personally,” he added. “It’s your bus they want.”

This was most reassuring. I knew what people could be like when they’d been waiting a long time for a bus, and I wasn’t looking forward to the encounter.

“Tell you what,” said Breslin, adjusting his black peaked cap. “I’ll come with you.”

Then he stepped into the vehicle and told me to proceed when I was ready. I advanced along the parade and halted before the jostling throng.

“Right,” he ordered. “Open the doors.”

Some of these people must have been waiting almost forty minutes, yet when they came on board they never uttered a word of complaint. Not one peep. With Breslin standing in the doorway looking suitably grim-faced they scurried inside and took their seats. When we were full and standing I shut the doors and moved off. The next bus stop I missed out altogether, despite frantic arm-waving from the people waiting there. I did the same at the one after that as well. And so we continued, progressing slowly northward. Occasionally the bell rang and I stopped to discharge passengers and take on replacements. Meanwhile, Breslin’s brooding presence in the doorway was enough to quell any disorder. He rode with me all the way to the garage, and during the journey I began to realise that he wasn’t quite the medieval despot I’d always supposed him to be. There was no doubt I’d have suffered unrelenting grief if I’d been on my own. Passengers could be merciless in these situations, a fact Breslin had recognised and acted upon.

As we approached the garage I noticed several buses either parked on the forecourt or in the process of being turned around. These were obviously the vehicles which had been displaced following the earlier disruption. Overseeing the operation was Mick Wilson, who I thought looked rather pale. I wondered if it was him who had bungled. Clearly Breslin thought so. The moment we arrived he disembarked and marched over to where Mick was standing. A conversation then ensued during which Mick turned even paler. From my bus I observed the rare spectacle of a senior inspector taking his junior down a peg or two. Then the pair of them disappeared into the annexe for a further debriefing.

Meanwhile, I was now very late for my break: I had been due to hand the bus over almost half an hour previously. The relief driver was Jason, who was standing at the side of the road with a big grin on his face.

“You’ve done me a favour there,” he said. “I’m finishing on the way back, so they’ve told me to spin her round at the arch. Lovely.”

Moments later he was installed in the driver’s seat and revving up the engine. I watched as Jason and his terrified passengers sped into the distance, then I headed upstairs to the canteen. Seated at our usual table was Edward. I joined him and described my recent revelation concerning Breslin.

“Oh yes, he’s quite human,” Edward remarked. “He may appear rather gruff at times but you’d probably be the same if you’d made a career out of waiting for buses.”

“I suppose so,” I said. “I’d never thought of it like that before.”

“Breslin is a true professional.”

“Luckily for me.”

“Luckily for all of us.”

§

The following day we were sitting at the same table when Jeff came into the canteen.

“Is there a difference between early running and running early?” he enquired.

“Not really,” I said. “Early running is the generic form. Running early is the deed itself.”

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“I got booked again.”

“That’s twice in a fortnight.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Who booked you?”

“Wilson,” said Jeff. “Same as last time.”

“He was in trouble himself yesterday,” I said. “I expect he went on the warpath, looking for a few victims of his own.”

“How early were you?” asked Edward.

“Seven minutes,” Jeff replied. “There was so much pandemonium yesterday I didn’t think anyone would notice.”

“But Mick did.”

“Yeah.”

Jeff looked quite forlorn, so I treated him to a mug of tea while Edward provided sympathy.

“It’s not the end of the world,” he said. “The worst thing that can happen is you might have to go and see Frank.”

“What shall I say to him?”

“You won’t have to say anything,” said Edward. “He’ll do all the talking.”

Frank Lowe was the garage operating manager, although in reality he didn’t do much actual managing. The entire bus system worked on a set procedure and most of the day-to-day administration was handled by his sidekicks in the duty room. Frank’s role was mainly as a figurehead. He added a personal dimension to a largely impersonal regime. Like all bureaucracies, everything on the buses had to be signed for. We signed for our uniforms, our lockers, our starter keys and our payslips. When we went on holiday, we even had to sign a declaration stating we would come back again afterwards. (This was to ensure the garage had enough drivers available at the end of each holiday period.) Frank, however, added the occasional tender touch. For example, every year at Easter all the bus drivers were given a chocolate egg, paid for from Frank’s petty cash allowance. Admittedly our eggs had to be signed for, but it was the generosity of spirit that counted.

For the most part Frank was regarded as a ‘kindly’ manager. I remember meeting him on my first day as a new recruit at the garage. He invited me into his office and gave me a short lecture about punctuality.

“Look at this duty,” he began, proffering a time card he’d picked at random from a pile on his desk. “Signs on at 5:58 in the morning. That’s a funny time to start work, isn’t it?”

I assumed the question was purely rhetorical, so I nodded my head in vague agreement but said nothing.

“Most people start work on the hour, don’t they?” Frank continued. “Seven o’clock, eight o’clock, nine o’clock and so forth. Not 5:58.”

This time I shook my head.

“You sign on at 5:58 for a reason,” said Frank. “The reason being that the bus departs at 6:13. That gives you precisely fifteen minutes to find your bus and prepare it for the conveyance of passengers.”

“Do I have to put the fuel in?” I asked, somewhat naively.

“No,” he said. “The engineers will do that. But for reasons of safety you have to check the entire vehicle. Then you have to put water in the radiator. Then you have to set the destination blinds. Then you have to adjust the driving seat and mirrors to fit your personal requirements. The whole process takes precisely fifteen minutes.”

At this point Frank gave me a measured look and leaned back in his chair.

“Now let’s imagine what would happen if you turned up late,” he said. “Imagine you arrived not at 5:58, but at 6:04. That means your bus wouldn’t depart until 6:19. And let’s further imagine that one of your passengers is a train driver who is supposed to be at work at 6:44. He’s also got fifteen minutes to get his train ready. It’s scheduled to leave at 6:59 but because you’ve made him late, he doesn’t get going until 7:10. Which means the train behind him gets delayed. And the train after that. See how it accumulates? See the potential for outright bedlam? Your failure to be punctual could make a million people late for work!”

Frank sat behind his desk and bristled with imaginary rage.

“Sorry,” I said.

“That’s alright,” he replied. “Don’t let it happen again though.”

Another of Frank Lowe’s tasks was to find appropriate punishments for early running and related misdemeanours. In the days of the VPB, of course, the solution had been simple. Drivers who persistently ran early were paired up with conductors who were known to be very tardy on the bell. Likewise, injudicious conductors were placed with slow drivers. The system worked successfully for decades, but the introduction of one-man buses meant a change in tactics was required. After some thought, Frank decreed that early running drivers would be transferred from double- to single-decker vehicles. This was the busman’s equivalent of being cast into outer darkness. Single-decker routes were notorious for their tedious convolutions. They rarely went directly from A to B, but instead proceeded in no end of twists, turns, loops and figures-of-eight. Few drivers liked working on them and usually the mere threat of a transfer cured the problem of early running.

Needless to say, such punishments had their limitations. In the case of Jason, for instance, they failed entirely. After a few months working with Gunter he had been teamed up with an elderly conductor called Mr Otis in an attempt to slow him down a bit. Mr Otis was a company employee of many years’ standing, but after only a few weeks he threatened to resign rather than continue being hurled around the bus by Jason. Several other conductors also tried and failed. Subsequently Jason had been put to work on single-deckers. This, too, had met with no success. On one occasion he went over a humpbacked bridge so fast that the vehicle’s underside left a tell-tale scrape along the tarmac. Finally, as a last resort, Frank took Jason out of service and gave him a job shunting buses inside the garage. Such a position was considered the lowest of the low, but it still didn’t have any effect. Jason’s shunting was so quick and efficient that all the other shunters began to fear they’d be made redundant. Accordingly, they went on strike and the matter was only settled when Jason was moved back to double-deckers.

None of these stories offered any solace to Jeff. He sat at the table nursing his tea and contemplating his fate.

“One thing’s for certain,” I said. “You won’t get the sack.”

“No,” said Jeff. “You told me that before.”

“To get the sack you’d have to do what Thompson did.”

“Yes, you told me.”

“Thompson?” said Edward. “I don’t remember him.”