Magnus Mills - The Maintenance of Headway

• Название: The Maintenance of Headway
• Автор: Magnus Mills
• Издательство: Bloomsbury UK
• Жанр: Современная проза
• Год: 2009

It's a matter of procedure,' I explained. 'Strictly for the record. You don't get sacked from this job unless you did what Thompson did.' 'What did he do then?' 'We never mention it.' In Magnus Mills' brilliant short novel he transports us into the bizarre world of the bus drivers who take us to work, to the supermarket, to the match and home again. It is a strange but all too real universe in which 'the timetable' and 'maintenance of headway' are sacred, but where the routes can change with the click of an inspector's fingers and the helpless passengers are secondary. The journey from the southern outpost to the arch, the circus and the cross will seem as familiar as your regular route, but then Magnus Mills shows you the almost religious fervour which lies behind it, and how it is fine to be a little bit late but utterly unforgivable to be a moment early. 'To write one unique book is a rare achievement. The ability to produce several is truly special.' Independent

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Mrs Barker had been based at our garage since time immemorial, though nobody could quite work out how she had lasted so long. Put simply, she did not seem to realise that she was part of a coordinated operation, which ran buses at specific times, calling at designated stops and charging predetermined fares. Instead she tried to provide a sort of ‘social service’, allowing people to get on and off where they pleased and pay according to their means. She had been known to remain at a bus stop for as long as ten minutes while she worked out a ‘special rate’ for someone, or waited while they went back for the dog they’d forgotten, or even cashed a cheque for them. Actually it didn’t make any difference whether it was a proper bus stop or not. She halted at all sorts of places to pick passengers up and drop them off again: zebra crossings, T-junctions, traffic lights (especially green ones). All the people she helped in this way thought she was ‘an absolute treasure’ and undoubtedly she did have a heart of gold. I had often noticed, however, that just as many people fled her bus if they saw another one going in the same direction. This, I presumed, was due to her ‘ultra-defensive’ style of driving. She steered well clear of other vehicles and always yielded to them at roundabouts and intersections, even if she had the right of way. Not only was she wary of oncoming traffic, which made her doubly hesitant, but she also kept well clear of the kerb, so that queues of irate motorists built up behind her. True, she had never been involved in an accident. Even so, I suspect she would have witnessed dozens if she’d ever bothered to look in her mirror. Despite her best efforts to serve the public, Mrs Barker caused nightmares for the officials. She ran late from the very outset of her journey, with the result that they had to make compensatory adjustments to other buses.

Today was clearly no exception. As I watched her brake lights come on, go off, come on and go off again, I decided I had better overtake her. The alternative would have been to maintain strict headway and stay eight minutes behind, but then it would have taken forever to reach the arch. Mrs Barker was best left to her own devices so I passed her at the first opportunity. As I did so I took note of her running number. This told me she should have been four buses ahead of mine in the sequence. Which explained why Hastings had curtailed me. Mrs Barker was supposed to be coming back the other way by now, but instead he’d directed me to turn round at the arch and cover the southbound section. Meanwhile, she would continue her painstaking odyssey towards the cross.

All this ‘adjusting’ and ‘curtailing’ and similar tinkering by the officials came about due to the so-called ‘service requirements’ laid down by the Board of Transport. These dictated the minimum number of buses per hour on any particular route in each direction, thereby providing a viable ‘through’ service with other connecting routes. Officials were expected to juggle buses to make them conform to this master plan, while at the same time trying to ensure the maintenance of headway. Yet because they only had a finite supply of vehicles, they were obliged to curtail certain journeys in favour of others. No wonder the travelling public despaired. The idea of curtailing bus journeys in order to provide a better bus service defied logic, but, needless to say, the Board of Transport had a logic all of its own. How else could it accommodate drivers like Jason and Mrs Barker under equal terms? They were totally incompatible: Jason could complete a trip to the cross in half the time it took Mrs Barker. Such evidence alone exposed the maintenance of headway as a false idol. Indeed, back in the dark ages, when buses were first invented, there was an altogether different ruling maxim: ‘the bus will always get through’. In those days, every vehicle travelled from one end of the route to the other, no matter how long it took. The only buses available were the ‘old heavies’: no power steering, no sprung suspension, and, originally, no windscreen. Nevertheless, they plied back and forth through hail and highwater, undeterred by adverse traffic conditions; and curtailments were unheard of.

This, of course, was the ‘pure’ form of public transport advocated by Edward. He argued ceaselessly that the maintenance of headway was unattainable and should therefore be abandoned. In its place he suggested an organic system where each bus operated at its own speed until a perfect service developed. Perfection, he conceded, could take forever to achieve. The existing arrangement, by contrast, had imperfection built in from the start. Essentially, the job of a bus driver was to hold the bus back (but not quite as much as Mrs Barker did).

§

My return journey was uneventful and I rolled into the garage with forty-five minutes to spare. A gratifying end to the working day. The shed was just as I’d left it, completely empty, so I could park the bus where I liked. It so happened, however, that Steve Jennings was emerging from the engineers’ office just as I arrived. He gave me a wave and I stopped beside him.

“Do us a favour,” he said. “Stick it straight in the wash, can you?”

“Righto,” I replied. “Night shift miss it out, did they?”

“Yeah, lazy sods.”

“Do you want me to switch it on?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“Course I don’t.”

“OK, thanks.”

As Steve headed off towards the inspection bay I drove my vehicle into the bus wash. Then I went round inside and closed all the windows. Next I walked over to the control panel and pressed the green button. Instantly, the great rollers began turning, slowly advancing on rails towards the waiting bus. At the same time jets of foaming liquid squirted it from all directions.

Watching the bus disappear under the deluge, I was suddenly reminded of what Thompson did. I smiled to myself and left the machinery to finish the job.

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.”