Magnus Mills - The Maintenance of Headway

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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.

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.