“It’s just that there’s this bloke who often comes nosing round the buses when we’re parked up at the cross. Acts very familiar. I know he’s staff because I’ve seen him going in and out the back entrance, but I just can’t imagine him being involved in the daily grind like the rest of them. He lacks their sardonic demeanour. I wondered who he was, that’s all. He stops and speaks to the drivers sometimes. Asks all sorts of peculiar questions.”
“Oh, I know who you mean,” said Davy. “Posh cunt.”
“Yeah, that’s him,” I said. “He makes all these enquiries like ‘how are we running today?’ and ‘do you think we can go the extra mile?’ There’s no polite answer to questions like that.”
“I take it you’re referring to Woodhouse,” said Edward. “Yes, well, he is the exception to the rule.”
“Who is he then?”
“Woodhouse is the last survivor of the graduate intake that took place about a decade ago. At that time the buses had a dreadful problem with their public image, so the Board’s solution was to recruit a few university graduates. To try and get a new angle, as it were. Up until then they’d always used this stock character in their campaigns. A sort of ‘model passenger’. You probably remember him: ‘the man on the civic omnibus’.”
“That’s right,” I said. “They had him on all the posters, didn’t they?”
“He was ubiquitous,” said Edward. “The Board was awash with funds in those days and they employed an in-house cartoonist just to draw him. He appeared in no end of bus-type situations. You know the kind of thing: he had the correct fare ready before boarding; he stowed his suitcase properly in the luggage compartment; and, of course, he always held tight when the conductor rang the bell.”
“Did he show people how to put their arm out properly at request stops?” Davy asked.
“Yes.”
“Didn’t work then, did he?”
“It seems not,” said Edward. “Also he was a bit old-fashioned: he had a bowler hat and umbrella. So these graduates were taken on to see if they could do any better. They were a disaffected bunch by all accounts. Most of them had tried and failed to get into broadcasting, and they clearly regarded public transport as being below their considerable talents. Nonetheless they dutifully set about their task. First of all they got rid of the man on the civic omnibus. The cartoonist, however, was retained. It turned out some of them had known him at university.”
“Typical,” commented Davy.
“Then they had their bright idea.”
“Which was?”
“A series of slogans.”
“Don’t tell me,” I said. “‘It’s quicker by bus’.”
“Very good,” said Edward.
“But that contravenes the Trade Descriptions Act.”
“Which is why it was immediately withdrawn.”
“What was their next offering?”
“‘Buses are better’.”
“That’s arguable,” said Davy. “Next?”
“‘Buses get you there’.”
“Wait a minute!” I said. “How much were they being paid for all this codswallop?”
“Thousands, probably,” said Edward. “The whole process was prolonged over several months with trial print runs and so forth. Lots of meetings, of course. Their rate of productivity was negligible, but the Board of Transport just smiled benignly and let them carry on.”
“When are they going to learn that you can’t run a business on slogans?”
“It’s not a business,” said Edward. “It’s a service.”
“Well, whatever it is,” I said, “they were obviously just wasting taxpayers’ money.”
“Yeah,” agreed Davy.
“Actually, it’s impossible to waste taxpayers’ money,” said Edward.
“How do you mean?”
“The purpose of taxation is to spend other people’s money,” he explained. “Therefore, by definition, it cannot be wasted.”
For a few moments Davy and I sat in silence trying to work this out. Edward was invariably correct on such matters so we didn’t bother arguing.
“What happened to these graduates?” I asked at length.
“They spent many months working towards their piece de resistance,” said Edward. “By now they’d decided they needed to be more ambitious, so they looked for a slogan that was all-encompassing. Eventually they found it, but then they went and overreached themselves.”
“How?”
“They presented it to the Board in Latin.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not,” said Edward. “‘Itineris omnibus.’ It means ‘journeys for everyone’, apparently.”
“Omnibus?” said Davy. “But that takes us back to where we started.”
“Quite.”
“I bet they thought they were being frightfully clever,” I remarked.
“Oh, frightfully,” said Edward. “They even produced a special poster. All pastel colours and swirling shapes. Needless to say the Board of Transport didn’t like it at all.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“The public, meanwhile, were completely baffled. It spelt the beginning of the end for the graduates. Oh, they hung around for a short while, but one by one they started to drift away.”
“Except for Woodhouse.”
“Yes,” said Edward. “Woodhouse is still with us. Passes his time churning out pie charts and so forth while he continues his search for that elusive slogan. I’ve heard he’s currently seeking a rhyme for ‘the maintenance of headway’.”
Five
Somewhere on the road ahead of me was another bus. I couldn’t see it, but I knew it was definitely there. In fact, I could almost sense its presence. By my estimate it was about two stops away, on the far side of the bridge, heading for the common, and approximately two minutes late. I was close behind; but not too close. I had four minutes in hand, the bus stops were deserted and the sun was shining. In other words, conditions were perfect for practising the art of running early. As I passed slowly over the bridge I took advantage of the majestic view: the long curve of the river as it disappeared into the shimmering east; the tower cranes waiting patiently amongst half-finished buildings; and the distant public clocks, all showing different times of day. How many journeys had I made over this bridge? I once calculated it was roughly a thousand trips a year. Each way, of course. I knew every inch of this road. Every traffic light and every bump. When you came to the southern approach there was a slight dip which caused the bus to bounce dramatically if it was travelling at any speed over twenty miles per hour. Quite good fun if you were chock-a-block with people during the evening rush. This morning, however, I was taking it easy. I’d been out here since five past five and now I was making my way back to the garage for breakfast. With time on my side I could be the ‘artist at work’ for the next quarter of an hour or so. These buses were designed for heavy loadings, and consequently when they were empty they had a certain lightness of touch, allowing them to move from one stop to the next as gracefully as a winged insect moving from flower to flower in a garden. I wasn’t completely empty, but to my mind less than half a dozen people counted as empty. When anybody rang the bell I treated them to a precision landing, pulling squarely into the kerb, and letting them out through the front doors to make them feel privileged. Just after the bridge was my favourite stop on the entire route. It stood at a point where the road’s camber was quite steep, so that the bus leaned towards the pavement in a friendly way, its roof gently brushing the leaves of an overhanging tree.