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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“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 sign 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.

In the era of the VPB, of course, there was plenty of scope for compromise. Drivers could slow down and allow the more athletic runners to leap aboard without bringing the bus to a complete halt. In the past, conductors could often be seen standing on their platforms offering verbal encouragement to such valiant individuals as they ran along behind. ‘Having a go’ was considered highly dangerous and officially frowned upon. Without doubt it contributed to the demise of the open platform. Nevertheless, it was a common practice for years and led to the expression ‘catching a bus’.

This itself was a misnomer: people only caught buses if the driver allowed it to happen.

Jason, it goes without saying, had very strong views on the subject. Indeed, any mention of ‘catching a bus’ tended particularly to rankle him.

“The way people talk you’d think they were big game hunters stalking tigers through the jungle,” he said. “Or out in the ocean reeling in swordfish and marlon: “Ooh, I had a struggle catching the bus this morning!” For fuck’s sake, it’s pathetic! There’s a fucking bus every eight minutes! What’s so challenging about that?!”

“Maybe it seems different from where they are,” I suggested.

“Huh,” said Jason.

Personally I tried to maintain a fair and measured outlook, but at times it could be difficult. After all, it was much easier to keep going than to stop and wait for runners. Sometimes a kindly act could even backfire. Once I waited a whole minute at a bus stop for a man who was running desperately through the early morning gloom. Only when he ran straight past me and continued up the road did I realise he was a jogger. In the final analysis the question of runners was a matter for discretion. As a point of reference, the rule book stated that we were supposed to wait for all ‘intending passengers’.

Jason’s verdict was different. “People wait for buses,” he said. “Buses don’t wait for people.”

Ten

We also drove at night. Our garage operated a ‘round-the-clock’ service (almost): the last bus didn’t finish until a quarter to two in the morning, and periodically I was required to take the wheel. These late-night duties were long-haul affairs stretching over many hours: a far cry from the short-duration ‘early turns’ which were a doddle by comparison. Occasionally I managed to swap my duty with someone else, but at other times I simply had to buckle down and do it myself.

This particular duty started at the beginning of the ‘rush hour’: an hour which quite often extended well into the evening. Buses forged back and forth in pursuit of other buses. Every road was busy, and the busiest of all was the bejewelled thoroughfare, which acted as a confluence for many assorted bus routes. Eastbound buses flogged towards the cross carrying their burden of crazed people, all desperately attempting to make connections with express trains. Other buses headed for ‘theatreland’, or trekked out towards the estuary. Meanwhile, westbound buses charged headlong into the sunset. When they reached the arch some turned north, some south, and yet others continued west. Our destination was the southern outpost. It was barely seven miles away, but the journey took ages to complete. I often wondered how the passengers could tolerate making the same trip every day, week in, week out, squashed into buses with the sunlight streaming mercilessly through the windows. It was all right for me: I was being paid for my efforts. These people, by contrast, did it voluntarily. Furthermore, I could see the view from the bridge when we crossed it; half of them couldn’t.

The style of driving required during the evening rush was simply to ‘go with the flow’. This was no place for slowcoaches. Everybody was on the move, and everyone, it seemed, was in a hurry. At the peak hour a number of official ‘extra buses’ were added to the ferment, apparently just for the sake of it. Which meant even more vehicles competing for limited road space. In such conditions bus drivers were obliged to employ harsh methods in order to make any progress at all. Often we brought into play a special technique called ‘push of pike’. This was when several buses shunted through a junction together in a solid block, regardless of anyone else’s right of way. It was based on a seventeenth-century infantry tactic, and was invaluable for saving precious minutes during the journey. The passing of time was an obsession for most bus drivers. It arose from our aversion to being late, which we would do anything to avoid.

Taxi drivers, on the other hand, had completely different preoccupations. Normally their behaviour was as rational as any other motorist, but during the rush hour they appeared to enter a trance-like state in which they were unable to distinguish between red and green traffic lights. Consequently, you could never be sure if they were going to stop or go. This could be a problem if you were travelling behind them in a bus. Nobody knew the reason why they went into these trances, but recently Davy had offered a possible explanation:

“It’s because they’re always thinking about money,” he said. “It acts as a kind of drug for them and once they’ve got it on their mind they can’t concentrate on anything else.”

“But what about cyclists?” Jeff countered. “They ignore traffic lights too, and they’re certainly not motivated by money.”

“There’s a crucial difference,” Davy replied. “Cyclists only ignore red lights. Cabbies in a trance ignore red and green ones.”

“They never give proper hand signals either,” I added. “They just pull out right in front of you.”

“Probably counting money,” said Davy. “I’ve heard they’ve got a singular penchant for gold sovereigns.”

Davy was always criticising taxi drivers. Nevertheless, I suspected he was secretly learning the ‘knowledge’ on his days off. He would most likely change his tune when he became one of them.

I thought about all this as I worked my way southward, over the bridge, and up the rise towards the common. There were bus stops arrayed along the entire length of the road, and without exception the bell rang for each of them. I’d got rid of almost all my people by the time I reached the underground station, at which point another load came on board. Finally I arrived at the southern outpost to discover the tea shop was closed for the evening. There was nothing else to do except go back into town and pick up yet more people.

Sometimes during the rush there would be holdups at places where traffic was particularly congested. On these occasions inspectors would suddenly pop up and curtail certain journeys, much to the disdain of the passengers. The travelling public seemed to think the purpose of curtailment was to give the driver a rest at their expense; the real reason, in fact, was to turn the bus round and send it back in the opposite direction.