Magnus Mills - The Maintenance of Headway

“Quite.”

“I bet they thought they were being frightfully clever,” I remarked.

“Oh, frightfully,” said Edward. “They even produced a special poster. All pastel colours and swirling shapes. Needless to say the Board of Transport didn’t like it at all.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“The public, meanwhile, were completely baffled. It spelt the beginning of the end for the graduates. Oh, they hung around for a short while, but one by one they started to drift away.”

“Except for Woodhouse.”

“Yes,” said Edward. “Woodhouse is still with us. Passes his time churning out pie charts and so forth while he continues his search for that elusive slogan. I’ve heard he’s currently seeking a rhyme for ‘the maintenance of headway’.”

Somewhere on the road ahead of me was another bus. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was definitely there. In fact, I could almost sense its presence. By my estimate it was about two stops away, on the far side of the bridge, heading for the common, and approximately two minutes late. I was close behind; but not too close. I had four minutes in hand, the bus stops were deserted and the sun was shining. In other words, conditions were perfect for practising the art of running early. As I passed slowly over the bridge I took advantage of the majestic view: the long curve of the river as it disappeared into the shimmering east; the tower cranes waiting patiently amongst half-finished buildings; and the distant public clocks, all showing different times of day. How many journeys had I made over this bridge? I once calculated it was roughly a thousand trips a year. Each way, of course. I knew every inch of this road. Every traffic light and every bump. When you came to the southern approach there was a slight dip which caused the bus to bounce dramatically if it was travelling at any speed over twenty miles per hour. Quite good fun if you were chock-a-block with people during the evening rush. This morning, however, I was taking it easy. I’d been out here since five past five and now I was making my way back to the garage for breakfast. With time on my side I could be the ‘artist at work’ for the next quarter of an hour or so. These buses were designed for heavy loadings, and consequently when they were empty they had a certain lightness of touch, allowing them to move from one stop to the next as gracefully as a winged insect moving from flower to flower in a garden. I wasn’t completely empty, but to my mind less than half a dozen people counted as empty. When anybody rang the bell I treated them to a precision landing, pulling squarely into the kerb, and letting them out through the front doors to make them feel privileged. Just after the bridge was my favourite stop on the entire route. It stood at a point where the road’s camber was quite steep, so that the bus leaned towards the pavement in a friendly way, its roof gently brushing the leaves of an overhanging tree.

Oh, how I liked these early morning duties! There were five such duties on our rota and I did them whenever I had the chance. They all followed an identical pattern: you went from the garage down to the southern outpost, then up to the cross, back down to the outpost, up to the cross again, then back to the garage for breakfast. The third and fourth trips were the busiest because they took place at the height of the morning rush. After breakfast you just went from the garage to the cross and back, and that was the finish of your day’s work!

There was a cadre of drivers who specialised in these dawn (and pre-dawn) starts, their only qualification being the ability to rise from their beds, fully awake, at five o’clock, or four-thirty, or even four in the morning (depending on which particular duty it was). The bus company appreciated these drivers (although it would never admit the fact) and counted on them to provide a reliable service. For this reason the officials did their best to make sure all drivers got back in good time for breakfast. Today, for example, I knew Hastings was on the common keeping an eye on us. I’d seen him standing there on my northbound journey and he’d given me a nod. I also knew he wouldn’t be unduly bothered if I was four minutes early. Just so long as I kept well clear of my leader.

Actually, the whole process was self-regulating. I was scheduled to hand my bus over to the next driver with passengers on board, so I needed to arrive at the garage exactly on time. I now had a total of ten minutes in which to cover the final two miles. The ordained time for the journey was six minutes. The four spare minutes, therefore, were to be dispensed with as appropriate. Between the common and the garage there were eight bus stops, two zebra crossings and five sets of traffic lights, all of which had to be allowed for as I continued my progression towards the south. The former custom of pulling up at empty stops had long since fallen into disuse, but then again it provided a useful expedient when a bus needed to pause for the odd minute. The trick was never to delay too long at any one place. The few people on board needed to feel that the bus was moving, even if only very slowly; otherwise they would begin to protest.

As I trundled on I thought back to the halcyon days when I worked with Jumo on a VPB. Jumo’s sense of timing was second to none: he was easily the best conductor at the garage. On our first trip to the cross he would make sure we arrived five minutes early, and while I took the bus round to the stand I would watch in my mirror as he leapt from the platform and headed for the café. By the time I’d parked he would have returned with the requisite tea and custard doughnuts, for which he always refused payment. Then on the southbound journey he would control our speed through judicious use of the bell. There was many a day when I glanced back to see him standing on the edge of the platform, the wind ruffling his hair as we crossed the bridge, his hand poised in readiness over the button. One ring of the bell meant stop and wait a minute; two rings meant carry on. Jumo was very much at peace with the world: he never complained, even on the rare occasions when our bus was full of people!

Gunter was another good conductor, although I remember there was one episode when we seriously mistimed the return journey. We arrived at the common with twelve minutes in hand. Fortunately there was no inspector present, or we’d certainly have been ticked off. Even so, we were still faced with the problem of being far too early. We had to lose twelve minutes before we handed the bus over to the next crew, and as we hesitated at the common our people started to become restless. Gunter normally ruled his bus with a rod of iron, but today even he was having difficulty keeping them in check. After a few very long pauses at deserted bus stops we eventually resorted to our emergency plan. Gunter gave me two double bells (the agreed signal) and I pulled up beside a service station. I walked round the front of the bus and raised the bonnet. Gunter came and joined me, and for half a minute we stood gazing with concern at the whirring engine. In full view of our passengers we held an animated discussion. Then Gunter went into the service station and borrowed a bucket of water, which he emptied over the engine casing. Moments later we were engulfed in clouds of steam; we each gave a satisfactory nod, I closed the bonnet and Gunter returned the bucket. Finally we got back into the bus and set off again. The whole performance had taken about six minutes. Gunter told the people we’d been overheating and naturally they believed him. We reached the garage just two minutes early, which was quite acceptable.

Nowadays, of course, drivers operated buses on their own and had to make decisions for themselves.

I looked at my watch: four minutes to go, two more bus stops. A slight pause at each one: nothing too obvious. As I neared the last set of traffic lights they turned conveniently red, allowing me to arrive at the garage exactly one minute early. Then I handed over to the next driver and went in for my breakfast. As I said: the artist at work.

§

Upstairs in the canteen, I joined Jeff and Davy at their table. Jeff was despondent.

“Your friend booked me this morning,” he announced.

“What friend?” I asked.

“Mick Wilson.”

“Ah, well,” I said. “He was a friend once. I’m not so sure now though. What did he book you for?”

“Failure to maintain headway.”

“The standard felony,” remarked Davy.

“Where was this?”

“Southern outpost,” said Jeff. “He’s been stationed there all week.”

“I never noticed him,” I said. “Mind you, I was down there quite early. Probably before he started work.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Fancy him booking you,” said Davy. “How could he do that when we all used to sit round this table together?”

“It’s the job, isn’t it?” I said. “I suppose he had to find a scapegoat to justify his existence. Unavoidable really.”

“I’m not a scapegoat,” Jeff replied. “He’s also booked Cedric, Roberto, Carlos, Fitzroy, Kenny, Stevie, Coleen, Jakki, Imran, Ibrahim and both Moseses.”

“Blimey.”

“It’ll be us next,” said Davy.

“Surely not.”

“Surely nothing,” he said. “It’s obvious the power’s gone straight to Mick’s head.”

“It was my first booking,” said Jeff.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said. “You’re hardly going to get the sack for a first offence. In fact, you can be booked repeatedly and nothing happens.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Why do they bother booking us then?”

“It’s a matter of procedure,” I explained. “Strictly for the record. You don’t get sacked from this job unless you do what Thompson did.”

“What did he do then?”

“We never mention it.”

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

“Yes, you do.”

“I’d remember if someone got the sack.”

“You do remember, but you’ve forgotten.”

“Thompson?”

“Yes,” I said. “He was one of those blokes who stays in the job about a year and then leaves again.”

“Well, there’s been hundreds of them.”

“Except he got the sack instead.”

“Thompson?” Davy repeated the name as he tried to conjure up a face. “Who did he go round with?”

“Us sometimes,” I replied. “Lots of people actually. You know that bloke who was always trying to fix the television?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do,” I said. “Kept putting his feet on the chair. Fitzroy had a big row with him about it.”

“Oh, him,” said Davy. “That’s right. He left about six months ago.”

“Well, he started on the same day as Thompson.”

“That’s a big help.”

“Sorry.”

“Who was his conductor?”

“Sedgefield.”

“I don’t remember him either.”

“Yes, you do.”

§

Having failed to remind Davy who Thompson was, I went in search of a bus. This particular duty differed from most of the others because the bus for the final journey started empty from the garage, instead of arriving outside with people already on board. Ten minutes before departure time I wandered into the shed and saw it waiting there in the corner. It was completely alone: all the other buses had gone. For the large part of the day this bus was kept as a spare vehicle in case any of the other buses broke down; but at ten o’clock it was scheduled to make one trip to the cross and back. I gave the bus a brief inspection and set off two minutes early. Our working day was measured in miles but paid in hours. Consequently, the wages for these early morning duties were minimal. This was a fact we gladly accepted: after all, the day ended around noon. All we asked was to finish on time. If the duty was scheduled to end, say, at 11:58 then that was the time we wanted to finish. Not 11:59, or 12:00, or 12:01. The reason we tended to run early was because we wanted to finish on time. And, oddly enough, when we were on time it felt as if we were late. This was a mindset known only to bus drivers.

I arrived at the common and saw Hastings standing outside the underground station, where peace had returned after the chaos of the morning rush. How a place could change in so short a while! All was quiet now, yet a mere two hours ago the pavement where he stood had been seething with people. It was the same every day. From seven o’clock until nine, swarms of them emerged from the escalators in a continual surge. Woe betide a bus that happened to arrive just after a train had come in. Within seconds it would fall victim to the sort of feeding frenzy usually associated with the jungle: a grazing beast laid low by predators. Even when the bus was full the people kept trying to get on, and the besieged driver could do little to relieve the situation. Strictly speaking there existed an imaginary line in front of which passengers weren’t supposed to stand. This was difficult to enforce, however, when people simply kept piling onto the vehicle. In the past I’d tried making announcements in which I’d ask them ‘not to stand forward of the imaginary line’, but they never took any notice. The only solution was to close the doors and hope nobody got squashed. Sometimes I shuddered when I thought of the interfering politicians who were trying to get the doors removed from buses. Politicians liked nothing more than to be photographed on the open platform of a bus, preferably in the company of a smiling conductor. They assumed the pictures would win them votes and, therefore, they opposed doors on buses. The impracticality meant nothing to them.

I was pondering all this when I suddenly noticed Hastings was flagging me down. I pulled up and glanced at my watch: I was one minute early. Hastings came to my window.

“Swing her round the arch for us, will you?” he said. “Then can you come straight back and run her into the garage?”

Hastings belonged to the old school of manners and continued to refer to buses as ‘her’ and ‘she’. Furthermore, he always gave instructions in the form of a question, so that it appeared as if you were doing him a good turn. Unlike Greeves, though, he wasn’t one for providing explanations to drivers, so I had no idea why he’d curtailed my journey. All the same it was quite a result. It meant I would be on my way back in about an hour’s time! Hastings signed my log card and I changed my destination blind before proceeding joyously towards the arch. The usual mid-morning quiet spell had now begun in earnest. I crossed over the bridge amidst a light flurry of traffic, collecting unhurried passengers here and there as gradually I made my way north. It was a very pleasant ride: even the lights were obligingly green. At one point I passed Kenny Barton bringing a bus the other way, and as he went by he gave me a very odd signal. He sort of pointed behind him with his thumb, at the same time shaking his head in mock despair. He’d gone before I was able to decipher precisely what he meant, but I didn’t have to wait long to find out. Skirting the corner of the royal park, I suddenly came upon one of our buses not a hundred yards ahead of me. Even at this distance I knew who was driving. I could tell by the body language of the bus. It was Mrs Barker!