David Nobbs - The Itinerant Lodger

The Inspector signalled Fletcher’s bus to a halt, and when he had boarded it—no easy matter, this, for the platform was crowded with passengers, he looked around for Fletcher. In vain. There was not a Fletcher to be seen. He noticed that none of the people who were thronging the corridor and stairs had any tickets, and the harsh gleam of inspection lit up his eyes. His face narrowed until it became as long as it had been broad, his eyes became slits and his lean nose was raised and thrust forward. He was a hound which had found the scent, and he would have bayed, had it been possible to do so with dignity.

“Where is the conductor?” he asked in a crisp, dry, thinly-sliced, unbuttered voice. A few heads turned slowly towards him and he repeated: “Where is the conductor?” There was something terrible about the man’s inflexibility.

Nobody actually answered, but he formed the impression that Fletcher was upstairs. It was obviously impossible for him to climb the stairs, packed as they were with travellers, so he clung desperately to the platform while he worked out how to deal with the problem. He was aware that for a majority of the passengers, including most of the younger ones and the old age pensioners, the crowding was a small price to pay for the pleasure of a free ride. He was aware, too, of a deep public resentment of his calling. People always took his presence on the bus as a personal affront to their integrity. He would have to tread warily, and, deeply though it pained him to let so much as a single two-penny juvenile fare be evaded, he realised that only when the bus was emptier would he be able to take any effective action. He judged that it would be impolitic to turn anyone off the bus, but that he could safely refuse to allow anyone else on without inflaming public prejudice.

By the time they reached the Goldplank Asylum and City Abattoir, living conditions had become tolerable again, and the Inspector was able to make his way upstairs. There he found Fletcher, looking stunned and exhausted by his work.

If Fletcher had looked stunned before, he was knocked flat when he saw the Inspector. He had an infinite capacity for being stunned.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the Inspector. “Why was the bus so crowded? Why were so many fares uncollected?”

Fletcher, who was bending over to give an old lady her change, stood petrified in that position for a few moments. He felt as powerless, attempting to explain himself to this man, as a romantic lover might feel in trying to describe his emotions to a second row forward. But he knew that he must try, and slowly he rose to his full height, like an Indian rope trick. He looked the Inspector straight in the eyes and said: “I—er—that is.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t see why I should refuse people admission to this bus. They want to travel. I…”

“You what?”

“I have the means to enable them to travel.”

“Oh, nice. Very nice. Very nice.” The Inspector, suddenly leaning forward as if he was barely restraining himself from lifting Fletcher off the ground by his neck, barked: “Why don’t you organise a running buffet into the bargain? Eh?”

“The passengers seemed happy enough,” said Fletcher.

“What have they got to do with it?”

“I tried to give them what they needed.”

The bus swung round into Riddings Close, and a cry of dismay rose from a thin-lipped man in a trilby.

“Why are we going down Riddings Close?” he wailed. “This is an 87, isn’t it?”

“No,” said the Inspector with relish, like an old spinster producing one last spade which nobody thought she’d got. “It’s a 92.”

“83,” cried an old lady. “It says an 83.”

“80.”

“72.”

“I thought it was a 75,” volunteered a confectioner.

The Inspector immediately stopped the bus, his whole frame quivering with excitement. He used so little energy up in the rest of his life that he had a great surplus of intensity waiting in reserve for situations such as this. He got out of the bus and went round to the front.

The board indicated a 65, bound for Huggenthorpe! This was clearly false. The 65 went to Stoneytown Bridge, unless it was turned round at Sodge Moor Top. The Huggenthorpe bus was a 67, and in any case Huggenthorpe was in the opposite direction, beyond Market Edge. He stormed back to the bus in a carefully calculated fit of uncontrollable temper and confronted Fletcher, who was standing on the platform in great distress.

“Well?” said the Inspector, and waited patiently for a reply. Time was on his side.

“I don’t understand it.”

“Well I certainly don’t.” The Inspector led the way upstairs, and he immediately noticed that the four front seats were empty. Four youths, he remembered with the facility born of long experience, had been sitting there like a display of barrack room brooms. The back of the indicator board—one of the old type that are adjusted from upstairs—was open. He turned towards Fletcher.

“You left the indicator board unlocked. That’s what’s happened. Those four youths have changed the board between each stop. You see what happens when you let too many people on a bus.”

The public, their free journeys forgotten, turned on the man whom they held responsible. Ugly mutterings arose, and the Inspector, his triumph complete, felt able to protect his conductor from their threats.

When he had quietened the passengers the Inspector made a brief inquiry and found that only ten of the passengers were bound for stops on the 92 route. Routes on which passengers believed themselves to be travelling included the 87, 83, 80, 77, 75, 72, 68 and 65.

His inquiry over, the Inspector apologised to the passengers and told them that their tickets would be valid for the return journey to the City, where they could catch their proper buses. He informed the passengers who wanted the 92 route that they would have to wait for the next bus, as Fletcher had developed a defect and was being taken out of service. They grunted, as if to imply that it was not his fault, and then, casting ugly glances at Fletcher, they stepped out into the snow.

The Inspector went round to the cab and spoke to Driver Foster. “Why did you do nothing about all this, Foster?” he asked.

“All what, sir?” asked Driver Foster.

“All this overcrowding on the bus,” said the Inspector.

“I obey the bells, sir. Two rings, and I start. One ring, and I stop. Three rings, bus running to full capacity. And I’ve never once had three rings. Two, one, but not three. I’ve never once had the bell that indicated to me: ‘Bus running to full capacity.’ So there’s never been any reason for me to bother with overcrowding.”

“Drive us back to the garage, Foster,” said the Inspector.

Fletcher and the Inspector sat side by side in the empty bus as they drove to the garage. Only a few sweet papers and cigarette ends bore witness to the fact that the bus had ever served a useful purpose in society—or ever would again.

“I’m taking you to see the Chief Inspector, Fletcher,” said the Inspector.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why can’t you be more like Foster?” the Inspector asked sadly.

Fletcher could think of no reply.

“THIS IS AN ODD BUSINESS, FLETCHER,” SAID CHIEF Inspector Wilkins, and even as he spoke Fletcher felt that this was a man to whom he would be able to talk.

“I wanted to serve,” he said.

“There’s nothing wrong in that, though it has never appealed to me,” said the Inspector. “But who did you want to serve?”

“Everyone.”

“That explains why there were 215 people on your bus, does it?”

“Well, sir, I don’t see why I should refuse anyone admission.”