The Busconductor Hines (33 page)

He will be dead though, for years perhaps, before thirty probably. He will have bowed out, cut short at the prime. Well well well right enough. This is a scream, a genuine scream. What you do is toss your bunnet at cunts while they're eating their soup. You get them laughing. Even Sandra's maw was a laugher and that's saying something. I wouldnt call her a thingwi, but see when she thingwis her thingwi! Gaaa haa ha. An astonishing bowl of parsnips.

Say something to the boy.

Hines cleared his throat. The boy was engrossed in the television programme. But it was the news that was on. Imagine watching the news at 4½ years of age. Definitely a sign of genius. Perhaps he'll become a Statesman. Yes, back home in
Scotland my father was a bit of a radical. In all honesty one is bound to remark that much of one's political awareness was gained at the old boy's knee. He had the awesome habit of farting in public. Who put that in. I well remember my first, as it were, entry into the political arena. He carted me along to the garage wherein he was at the time employed, for in those days comma you must remember comma the species known as Busconductor was yet to become extinct. Little did the old chap realise this at the time but nevertheless he did achieve a minor notoriety, fame, call it what you will. I well recollect his settling me down on a bothy table – if you'll forgive the expression – and vanishing downstairs. Merciful heavens.

Heh wee man, what did you think of it today? at the garage. Was it a load of rubbish?

Paul looked up.

Dont take it too seriously. The buses is a rotten job. That's how I jacked it. Terrible. Mummy'll be back soon; you hungry?

Yes.

Heh listen, how come you say yes instead of aye all the time? Naw son, seriously.

Paul glanced at him, and then back to the television. A child is a dwarfish entity. Heh! fancy a game of snap?

Yes.

Paul's laugh has also got that gurgling sound. It is a much better laugh than Hines'. But maybe he will develop something more akin to Hines' in the years to come. Hines' laugh is not a good one. In fact it sounds terrible, really bad – awkward almost. This isnt to say it is unnatural. It just seems not to spring from a source of well-being. Now when Sandra laughs it makes a special sound – it could have a disinterested bystander wanting to rush up and throw his arms round her immediately. That is the difference between his laugh and hers. And Paul has hers, it is an expression of happiness. Yes, he gurgled, the dear old boy had the most
peculiar of laughs; it seemed to spring from a source of something or other, one never quite had a fucking clue as to the what.

They rushed to the front door and grabbed her as soon as she entered, both cheering; and Sandra laughing. Let me get my coat off!

No time, cried Hines, kissing her a loud smack on the lips. Then he pushed the door shut and lifted the boy as she took off her coat They waited for her to put it on a hanger inside the wardrobe, before returning to the kitchen.

God it's so warm, she said, walking straight to the fire and heating her legs.

Yous woming! How come yous dont wear breeks when the weather demands it?

She stuck out her tongue.

That's the trouble with nowadays, this fashion carry on . . .

He had forgotten to boil the potatoes; they were lying unpeeled on the bottom of the sink. Everything else was ready. He began to whistle as he turned on the tap; he washed them and peeled them very quickly, then chopped them into very small sections. Hot water remained in the kettle; he set it to reboil. Heh Sandra . . . He grinned. Fancy the pictures?

That's a smashing idea. She had a shoe off and was heating the sole of her foot. He strode over and they embraced: the foot she had been heating she settled on his instep.

You're looking great, he whispered.

She held him more tightly and he raised her up about 6
inches from the floor. Then Paul was talking and he was tugging at her skirt at the same time. Hines let her onto the floor and walked to the oven. The people were on strike at daddy's garage. Lifting the lid off the cabbage pot he forked at the cabbage and then he lifted the lid off the skillet and forked at the stewing sausages, which came apart they were so tender. The water approached boiling point inside the kettle; he poured it into the pot of potatoes which he set to cook on a gasring.

She was looking at him. Paul had been continuing to yap and had now stopped.

Aw aye, he said, naw it's just eh . . . He shrugged: I jacked it. Heh Paul, get the table set.

Really?

Aye.

After a moment she said, Did anything happen?

Eh aye, quite a lot. There wasnt a strike; there was nearly one. A load of bla bla. I had to go in and see auld McGilvaray about a line. There was one waiting for me when I went in this morning; Head Office.

O Rab.

Ach I knew there would be, things were piling up, and Thursday's always the day for it.

What happened?

Nothing – they were going to sack me. Heh you wee man come on, set that bloody table! Hines chuckled and walked to her, laid his hands on her shoulders. It's okay.

She sighed. She added, Sorry; it's just something to take in.

I know.

What're you going to do?

He moved to get his tin; he prepared a cigarette. He grinned: Stop smoking, that's what I'm going to do!

She didnt smile.

Naw, the thing is, I'm no quite sure what the score is. I
chucked it on the spot, there and then; so . . . he shrugged, I'm no sure if I'm supposed to work a week's notice or what. He smiled, I dont think they'd let me!

O Rab what did you do? was it bad?

Christ sake Sandra.

No I just mean, if it was bad, for references maybe.

References!

Well if you just walked out.

You dont get references off the buses.

No but if you're going to start for a new firm, they'll want to contact them.

Hh. He exhaled smoke and returned to the oven.

Well they will.

Christ sake Sandra. He lifted a lid from a pot and replaced it. Paul was on tiptoes, reaching into the kitchen-cabinet for cups. Hines passed them out to him.

You always do things so suddenly.

I'm sorry, I thought you'd be glad.

It's not that.

Well what you acting like this for? christ. I thought that was what we were talking about this morning. I mean when we were talking this morning Sandra, that's what we were talking about, me leaving the buses.

She nodded.

You're a worrier woman you're a worrier!

Somebody's got to.

. . .

Sorry. She shook her head. He had gone over to her; and he clasped both her hands. Again she shook her head. See this mummy of yours! he said to Paul; amazing, she's amazing. One of these days you'll understand that.

Sandra's eyelids had closed and he kissed her forehead. D'you mind if we just stay in though . . .

Aye. Aye, he said, I do mind. This is supposed to be something good – a celebration.

She nodded.

You're supposed to be glad.

I know . . . She smiled, I should be; shouldnt I.

Eh aye, aye, you should be. He made a daft sort of gesture, as if he was about to burst into song or something. Sausage and mash and the juicy cabbage, he cried: Served from a trio of vessels.

I'd still prefer it though, if we stayed home.

Aye . . . He nodded, Of course. Just a daft idea.

It wasnt daft.

Naw but, he sniffed and glanced about, picked up his cigarette from an ashtray and got another light for it from a gasring. Sandra was moving to sit down on her armchair, before doing so she bent to kiss Paul on the forehead; he had been kneeling on the floor near the television set, amusing himself with the pack of cards. Hines checked the potatoes with a fork. He stayed by the sink until they were ready. Sandra seemed to be watching television. It was a peculiar situation.

There is a situation fairly similar – if not the same – whereby one is waiting, one is standing, waiting, considering a variety of items. Then for some reason the chest is struggling to heave. The shoulders have become as though wilted, as though a spring has finally collapsed, having one aware of the weight of one's head.

Emotionally drained perhaps. One can be emotionally drained, such that the chest struggles to heave. You steep your feet in warm water.

Sandra can sit there and he has no idea what she is thinking, absolutely none. That is a peculiar thing. They have known each other for more than 5 years and lived together only slightly less. He doesnt know what she thinks. He is no longer sure she thinks well of him. She used to think well of him. Now she
doesnt seem to. Yesterday she left him for good. Now that really is a strange thing. Because she loves him.

Because she loves him she came back. She went away because she doesnt think so highly of him as she used to but returned because she still loves him.

It is probably a matter of time till she leaves again.

Eh . . . he turned to her. The other night there, did you really go to the pub with your Office pals?

She nodded. Her face was saying please be careful about what you say next.

Naw, he said, it just eh – yesterday, had you decided in advance? I mean the night before . . .

How d'you mean? Her face, showing he shouldnt be saying anything at all now.

What I cant figure out is how you would leave the way you did, taking Paul and that I mean . . . christ sake Sandra. He shook his head. You never planned it did you?

No. She nodded, signifying Paul and how he would be listening to what was being said and who was to know if he wasnt following every last word.

Hines shook his head. This week's been the worst week of my fucking life. Sorry. He grinned, I mean they're all fucking rubbish but this yin's the fucking rubbishest. He stopped grinning and turned to face the sink for a few moments. The chest struggles to heave. An interesting point: the weight of one's head; to lay one's head on a weighing machine such that the neck is not involved, so that you can get an exact reading. He took the lid off the potato pot and forked at the spuds – although he didnt have to. Because the water was almost totally clear. And totally clear water means unboiled spuds.

He smiled at her but her face . . . her face was so terrible, it was so fucking sad, so sad it was so fucking sad, really sad. He
shifted to stare at the venetian blind, through the gaps, to the gable end at the far left corner, the gap-site with the street lights through the absent tenement line; you get the cunts running away, they go tripping down the stairs and searching for new pastures, their weans bringing up the rear, that look on the wee faces: what's going on here! nobody's telling us what's going on but there must be something otherwise – otherwise what? otherwise how come we're getting pulled down the fucking stair out into the fucking cold.

We're off to see the world.

Hullo there Uncle Vic, that's me arrived. Here I am, and the whole stretch etc., anywhere I fucking like, cause that's me arrived, here I am, and if I just walk back out the door there's that entire fucking vista, the whole thing, Australia.

In a picture they saw on television a wee while ago there was this amazing bit where the husband was standing, a dejected figure, out on a balcony; the door opens silently and in comes his wife, dressed in her going-to-bed clothes: Darling . . . come to bed. What a load of shite that was; that was really a load of fucking shite. You get auld Boabbie at the window, he sits looking, he looks to the hills when it is or isnt misty, when he can see through the high-rise. Heh mammy! does he still sit at the window!

That's a nice question. Kind. A very kind question to put before one's mother. That's the kind of question Hines puts. He puts that question. How come he puts that question.

He opens his mouth.

Such a time has rarely been experienced. What you do is slow down. You pause, and you wait; there is no twitching allowed; you must stand there; quietly; not moving; not one iota; while the murky waters of the sultry Seine; the moody waters of the sultry
Seine, you see the dancing girls, wee Toulouse with the sketch pad, the slow walk down by the river, wheeling the pram, the wean gurgling away while the young couple stroll, not having to chat, knowing each other so well and so content there, just strolling, with the wean in the pram and the rest of the day, still to come. O jesus. What you do is shut the blinds, you shut the blinds.

Sandra was gone from her chair, out of the kitchen.

Emptying the water from the pot Hines began to dish out the food. Paul got himself onto his chair at the table. Hines winked at him as he placed a plate of food in front of him, then he went ben the front room.

She was sitting on the settee. Away you go, she said.

Closing the door he went to sit beside her and he put his arm round her shoulders, keeping it there when she tensed.

Sometimes I hate you Rab. She brought a tissue from the sleeve of her jersey and wiped her nose. You say things . . . she blew her nose, shaking her head.