The Busconductor Hines (32 page)

Ah, fish. That was the smell. Fairlie must have had fish for dinner. There had been a particular tang in the Deskclerks' room earlier on. Hines had caught a whiff of it but laid the cause to himself; he had neglected to wash the genitalia after the sex of last night and this morning. Sandra had forgotten to point it out to him; normally she reminds him of hygiene. He was too busy cooking the breakfast. It was a good breakfast, a great breakfast; a breakfast in celebration. They had celebrated by having a cooked breakfast. They had celebrated a coming together, a renewal, a case of fuck them all. Why should people worry about things, petty things. Hines cooked the breakfast, cheerily but not
cheerful at all, not really; he was too busy worrying about this fucking matter in hand. What he had been hoping for – he had been hoping for something. What in the name of fuck had he been hoping for, he was hoping for something. Hope. What a strange fucking word. Hope. Here I am, hoping. I am hoping. Hope hope hope, little bunnies, hope hope hope. Poor wee fucking Paul right enough. Strange how things fucking happen. There you are etc., then and so on. Christ almighty.

The Superintendent was writing into a folder. He was sitting at his neat desk, bent over a folder, writing away. This is what he does. Meanwhile Sammy and Fairlie were standing a yard apart, to the left side of where Hines stood facing the desk. Campbell had become absent. He would be off for his dinner, or maybe away holding the fort of the Deskclerks. The Superintendent sniffed very slightly and turned pages in the folder. He shook his head and glanced up: Do you have any idea how bad your record is? I mean you must have some idea: do you? The last time you were in here I told you if you kept on the way you were going you'd be right out the door: d'you remember that? I'll be frank with you son, I think you've got a damn cheek. Mr Fairlie says you're refusing to accept a Head Office line: is this true?

Eh.

Is it, is it true?

Hines shifted his stance a little, he glanced at Sammy.

D'you realise you might be right out the door? The Superintendent sat back on his seat. I mean I dont think you realise how serious this is. Do you? He sat forwards again.

Yes.

Yes . . . The Superintendent looked at him, nodding. The last time you were in front of me I had to give you a 7-day suspension: d'you remember that?

Hines paused.

Well?

Eh . . . he sniffed. I think the Shop Steward should speak.

Do you. The Superintendent nodded. After a moment he said. If you ask me you regard yourself as a bit of a barrack-room lawyer son; is that how you see yourself?

Hines looked at him.

Is it?

No.

No . . . The Superintendent nodded. He glanced at Sammy.

Well as I was saying before Mr McGilvaray, he wouldnt take the line for Head Office because he's not working and he'd have to go this afternoon.

That's right, he slept in this morning, said the Superintendent.

Fairlie smiled slightly, he gazed at the floor, arms folded.

And it's his day-off tomorrow.

Day-off; you mean he's not suspended?

Hh. Hines shook his head, and he smiled.

D'you think it's funny Conductor?

No.

No. . .

Sammy sniffed. Eh but like I was saying as well Mr McGilvaray, I think there's a fair point involved.

Do you; well maybe there is and maybe there isnt: but d'you think this is the way to go about it?

No. No I dont – but at the same time I mean . . .

Och come on Sammy, muttered Fairlie.

Naw Tom I think it's a fair point and it needs discussing. Aye, I think it does. And I'll tell you something else: I think you were right out of order the way you threatened him with his books.

Do you, well I dont.

Sammy had his arms folded; he gazed at the floor. Fairlie had glanced at him then at Hines, before he too gazed at the floor. Probably he would like to strangle Hines. And what a fine how-d'ye-do that would be! staff strangling hourly paid workers;
where would it all end. These petty squabbles gentlemen! play up and play the game for fuck sake.

The Superintendent had been shaking his head while appearing to reread the Bad File. Eventually to Fairlie he said, D'you know – I doubt whether they'll have time to see him now . . . He indicated his wristwatch. No, he said, it'll have to be tomorrow. And he looked to Hines. Give me your line a minute . . .

Eh.

It's still in the drawer, said Fairlie.

Yes. The Superintendent shook his head slightly. Right conductor, it'll have to be a 10 o'clock for tomorrow morning.

Hines looked at him.

I really dont think you appreciate how bad your record actually is. I mean you dont, not really. Do you?

Yes.

O you do.

Hines nodded. Can I just say something about why I wouldnt accept the line?

With your record son, once upon a time, you'd have been straight out that door. D'you know that?

Yes eh . . .

The Superintendent gestured at the file for Sammy's benefit. You should take a look at this.

Aye I know Mr McGilvaray but like I was saying earlier on I mean it's the principle of the thing eh . . .

Uhhu? The Superintendent nodded.

Fairlie was staring at the floor.

Hines hadnt looked at Sammy. He said to the Superintendent: I think I should remind you, I've been in the garage since about half 11 this morning. I'm no getting paid for it: I'm here on my own time. And something else – I'm supposed to be looking after the wean; he's sitting up the stair with a bunch of bloody strangers. I think it's a disgrace, to be honest.

Do you?

Yes.

Eh Inspector! would you go ben and get that Head Office line from the drawer please . . .

Hines sniffed. I wont be signing for it if I've to go tomorrow: it's my day-off.

O is it?

Yes; it seems a peculiar idea to ask an hourly paid worker to go about his employer's business when he's no getting paid for it.

Uhhu? The Superintendent leaned his elbow on the desk, rested his head on his hand.

Aye, said Sammy, I mean that's the point.

O is it?

Well aye I mean

Hines interrupted: Would you sit there talking to me if you werent getting paid for it?

Dont be bloody cheeky, said Fairlie.

I'm no being cheeky.

You are, said the Superintendent.

O; very sorry.

And now you're being sarcastic.

Hines paused. I beg your pardon sir . . . He studied the floor during the immediate silence.

The silence continued. Sammy was pursing his lips and had folded his arms and then unfolded them. Meanwhile Fairlie seemed at great odds with himself, alternately frowning and not frowning at the floor, and he reached into his dustcoat pocket – for his cigarettes perhaps, although he didnt bring out the packet. Look son, said the Superintendent, carry on this way and you'll definitely be out the door, and I'm no kidding. Go and get the line, he told the Inspector.

The door opened and closed.

I'll tell you something Hines; I just dont know why you
started back in the job. Eh? he glanced at both Fairlie and Sammy.

Jobs are scarce.

Jobs are scarce! The Superintendent snorted. He shook his head and gazed at Hines for a moment. I think I know what it is with you, he said. You fancy yourself on the soapbox. Eh? is that what it is?

Hh.

Eh? The Superintendent snorted again, shaking his head.

Sammy moved, from foot to foot. The proceedings were to be brought to a conclusion.

I think we should call it quits.

O?

Aye, I'm away home; that's me resigned. Hines turned at once and walked to the door; he opened it and stepped out, shutting it behind him. He walked along the corridor and didnt look at the Inspector while passing him going out into the main Office area. A few Members were behind the counter. He walked out and along into the washroom; but he halted at the entrance. He was to leave the garage immediately. It was the thing to do. Nothing else could be right. It had to be right now, otherwise, otherwise things would not be for the best. He went upstairs at a steady pace, avoiding the gaze of the Members milling about. From the canteen doorway he beckoned Reilly to bring Paul. I blew it, he grinned. I'll tell you downstairs. And he lifted Paul to his shoulder and set off downstairs. Upon reaching the yard Reilly paused but Hines led him on out to the pavement beyond the garage exit.

That's me jacked it at long last, he grinned. The sheriff's cleaning up the town. The land of the regal brits is to let sleeping dogs lie.

Poor auld Reilly's face.

But what about Hines! He was having to stop himself from bursting out greeting. He felt absolutely defuckingplorable. An actual fucking blockage in the gullet causing him to gulp drastically, hanging onto his son for grim life, pulling his head down
closer onto his shoulder so he could be having no option but to peer anywhere except at the old man, anywhere except seeing his auld man's fucking kisser. What a performance.

What happened?

Nothing. Hines shrugged. Naw, listen Willie I'm away home. You better hang on but, to find out the score and that, from Sammy.

Christ sake Rab.

Ah it's fucking hopeless – well no exactly hopeless . . . Hines shook his head. Ah! fucking bastard, I blew it. He turned and walked on up the street. He stopped to call: Sammy'll tell you better man I'm fucking . . . he shook his head.

Reilly had his hands upturned, a gesture of despair, of indecision, of sympathy maybe – wanting Hines to wait there a minute, not to be leaving at this precise moment, not without telling him, his one true mucker etc.

Sammy'll tell you better: he called, and he looked to the front as he walked now, not letting Paul to the ground till having rounded the corner into the main thoroughfare.

A nasty wind was blowing, rending the very heart of the back-court asunder. The debris reeled and the huge puddle was extremely choppy. Patrons of the midgies staggered as they made their way, bent into the blast, their bags of rubbish tilted against it, but these sudden draughts, the bastards, whirling out old bits of paper and stuff, high into the air. It wasnt possible to measure facial expressions but it could be guessed
that a certain perplexed, rather absentminded frown was the order of things.

The kitchen was a cosy place. From the front room the music sounded loud and strong, a rhythm and blues equivalent to the
Marseillaise
. Hines felt as fit as a bastarn fiddle. A match for anything or anybody. No more getting fucked about.

And there knelt the wee man watching television, untoward happenings in a rural English village. A proper joy. Two winters ago a television got heaved out a window directly across from here. A domestic quarrel. Nothing to do with political affronts though Hines has related the event in that colouring to various parties both within and without the garage. He doesnt regret having falsified the tale. Why should he. Lying is no concern of his. Truth is. He seeks the true. Fling the telly out the fucking window and be done with it. Not for him the lush pastures. He is in favour of the bottomless depths, however, which are good when clear. Clarity for a policy. It arrives via silence. Silence is a remarkable how-d'ye-do. Hines would wish to maintain it. His mouth gets him into difficulties. His language contains his brains and his brains are a singular kettle of fish. He often feels like slitting his head open to have a look at the mess in a mirror. It is a peculiar notion. Hines is, however, peculiar. And genuinely regards himself as such. He is a picnic. A pic nic. Anyone who refers to himself as a picnic must be certifiable.

But the winter is a time of madness. Hands up those who get carted off in straitjackets when the sun is shining and summers are long and hot. Not many I'll be bound. No, the summer is a time of pleasure, relax and breathe in. Just take your sausages and fry them, browning the skins all over, then add the water, the salt & pepper, the seasoning, and soon they stew, to be served with mashed potatoes and cabbage, a fine tasty meal. Obviously Paul prefers them fried and served with chips but he isnt the fucking chef and what Hines says is this;
tell the wee cunt to go to a café. And anyway weans are weans; they prefer what's bad for you.

Hines likes order. Order. Line them up and shoot them down. He takes a dash of this a pinch of that and then goes out the window. You see them down the backcourt, cutting through a wind that chills to the marrow. What is marrow. It is a stuff which comes out your bones, of a gelatinous nature.

Who wants to know. There is a voice such that it cuts about discharging commands and stuff. In a square rectangle there lived a triennial unit once upon a time. The head is a strange item. Hines cant get into his. He gives it every opportunity to produce the goods but does it ever pay heed!

Tomorrow is another day. It dawns, then you eat your breakfast, and have had your wash then shave perhaps, if you can be bothered. If you can be bothered to shave. Paul doesnt shave. He is a wee boy. He wont be shaving for another ten years or more. By that time a Hines will be reaching the approaching forty years of age stage. Forty years of age is a blockbuster. When Hines gets to that age the world will have become something or other.