Magnus Mills - The Maintenance of Headway

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By the following morning the water mains repair work was well underway. The problem with the traffic lights had finally been attended to, and they were operating in long sequences that allowed vehicles to get clear before changing from green to red. Nonetheless, as I travelled south I noticed there were still long queues on the northbound side. Such delays were unavoidable really, this being the height of the morning rush. There was simply more traffic going towards town than coming away. I wanted to avoid running late, so as soon as I got to the southern outpost I spun the bus around and prepared to leave again.

“Stop!” cried a voice behind me as I pulled off from the stand. It was Baker. I stopped and waited as he came marching up.

“You’re not due to leave for another ten minutes,” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“If I don’t leave now I’ll be late,” I replied. “The traffic’s terrible back there.”

“I’m quite aware of the situation,” said Baker, regarding me from beneath the brim of his black peaked cap.

Clearly he had regained his composure since yesterday’s crisis. He further informed me that I was not to depart until my proper scheduled time and he would hear no protests to the contrary. Which meant, needless to say, that the moment I set off again I would be late. Naturally I obeyed Baker’s command and left the southern outpost with marked punctuality. When at last I reached the common I saw Breslin standing outside the underground station. I was long overdue, but as I passed by he gave me the usual satisfactory nod. Indeed, he appeared more than satisfied. He was almost smiling. I had noticed similar behaviour on many previous occasions: whenever the buses were all running late, the senior inspectors seemed quite happy.

When next I was in the canteen I discussed this odd state of affairs with Edward, Davy and Jeff.

“Yes, I thought they looked decidedly jolly this morning,” agreed Davy. “Breslin curtailed me to the arch and he was very friendly about it.”

“The truth is they’d rather you were late than early,” said Edward.

“But that’s preposterous!” said Jeff.

“Preposterous or not,” Edward replied. “Lateness is something they know how to deal with. They can quantify it, label it and apportion the blame accordingly. In some circumstances they can write it off altogether. There’s no excuse for being early but there are plenty for being late. Look at your log cards: each one is preprinted with about ten different causes of delay.”

With a flourish he then produced a log card from his inside pocket and read out a list of examples:

“‘Traffic delay; no serviceable bus; ticket machine failure; extra mileage; road traffic accident; mechanical fault; road closure; staff shortage; other operating causes (unspecified)’.” He put the card away again. “It all proves they’re quite prepared to accept lateness without question. What they don’t like is wilful earliness.”

“But what about the maintenance of headway?” I asked. “I thought that was supposed to be paramount.”

“The answer is fiendishly simple,” said Edward. “They make sure every bus is late by exactly the same degree.”

“In other words it’s a conspiracy,” remarked Jeff.

“Correct.”

“So there’s no point in trying to run on time.”

“None at all. The timetables are a complete sham. You’ve probably seen the notices at the bus stops: “Buses depart at these minutes past each hour.” It’s all meaningless: a line of dots and a set of random numbers; no more than a sleight of hand to fool the people.”

“They’re not fooled,” said Jeff.

“Of course they’re not,” said Edward. “Neither are they ever satisfied. If the bus happens to arrive on schedule it’s good for the public record but little else. Nobody believes the timetables. Waiting for buses is therefore paradoxical; hence the refrain: ‘the people expect the bus to be late, yet they go to the bus stop early and wait’.”*

≡ Original source unknown: possibly from a nursery rhyme.

We shared the ring road with other buses from other routes, and some of these other buses ventured into the hinterland beyond the cross. Accordingly, people quite often wished to change from one bus to another. To facilitate this a proper transfer point had been established at the cross, where passengers could switch buses in an orderly fashion. Buses pulled up side-by-side at designated ranks and waited while people changed between them, depending on their final destination. That was the intention anyway. The reality was different.

Whenever we were on the ring road and one of these other buses came into sight, the bell would ring. We were thus obliged to halt at the next bus stop, usually right behind the bus in question. A slight delay would ensue as the hand brake was applied and the rear doors opened. Then nobody would get off. After a pause the other bus would move away again, and we would follow. As we approached the next stop the same thing would happen. The bell would ring. The bus would pull up. The doors would open, and again nobody would get off. Sometimes the other bus didn’t stop when we did, so that a gap opened between the two buses. As a result we would often arrive at the transfer point just after the other bus had departed.

In the days of conductors, of course, such matters could be dealt with speedily. A conductor like Gunter, for instance, would locate the offender and tell them in no uncertain terms to leave the bell alone. If they obeyed, all well and good; if they didn’t, he ordered them off the bus. Nowadays we had driver-only operation and it was not so straightforward. Every time the bell rang we had to assume it was ‘genuine’ and pull up at the next bus stop. If nobody got off there was nothing we could do except close the doors and continue our journey. This was a regular occurrence. It even happened to Jason.

“They never own up to it,” he announced after one such incident. “You could march round the bus threatening the lot of them with a horsewhip, but they would never confess to ringing the bell.”

I liked to think he meant this in a hypothetical way, but you couldn’t always be sure with Jason. All the same, he had his own solution to the problem:

“If they keep doing it on my bus I give them some treatment with the brake and the accelerator,” he said. “Rough them up a bit: teach them a lesson.”

“What about all the innocent people?” I asked. “The ones who haven’t touched the bell?”

“Tough, isn’t it?” said Jason.

It was mid-morning. We were parked up at the cross, standing by our buses and drinking tea from paper cups. Jason was in his usual belligerent mood. “Guess what this cunt said to me just now?”

“Which cunt?” I enquired.

“This fireman.”

“Don’t know.”

“He said I was driving too fast.”

“Blimey.”

“Fucking cheek!”

“I’ll say.”

“He told me I should only be going at walking speed.”

“Was he in his fire engine?”

“No,” said Jason. “He was up a ladder.”

“Good morning, gentlemen,” said a voice beside us. We had been joined, uninvited, by Woodhouse.

“Morning,” I replied.

Jason said nothing, and stood glaring with astonishment at the man who had dared to interrupt our discourse. Woodhouse was looking very relaxed in a pale linen suit and flowery tie. He, too, was holding a drink in a paper cup: some sort of fancy coffee with a lid on.

“How’s our ridership today?” he asked.

“Pardon?” I said.

“Our passenger profile,” said Woodhouse. “Is it in a positive trend?”