telling the whole story by means of one illustration
The Inspector oiled the wheels and the bus [1] began to move away. Lumbering at first, it started off towards Dissipation Terminus, gathering pace as fellow-travellers hopped on the platform and took their seats, some downstairs, some on the top deck, all asking for fourpenny ones.
The Inspector oiled the wheels and the bus [1] began to move away. Lumbering at first, it started off towards Dissipation Terminus, gathering pace as fellow-travellers hopped on the platform and took their seats, some downstairs, some on the top deck, all asking for fourpenny ones.
The conductor (it was well before the days of one-man operation) rang the bell three times and cried ‘We’re full right up inside!’ as they raced past bus shelters and avoided low bridges. Someone started whistling We’re all going on a Summer Holiday!, but they were actively discouraged.
After a while, there were not any more fayres to attend. It seemed there had been a leak of brake fluid, as the vehicle hurtled out of control. But the dead weight of those who were just there for the ride expended its momentum. So, having run at great velocity, it ground to a halt, out of fuel, finished, spent, conked out. The conductor had to lean a seat-cushion (stood on its end) up against the back of the bus to indicate its status. All the filling stations were exhausted, so no vehicles could move, and everyone resorted to shank’s pony. Nobody was even trying to ride on the rear platform, an activity that contravened several bylaws, as well as health and safety directives.
Beyond that, the bus driver sat with animals, perhaps waiting for them to die, be buried, become compressed and turn eventually into oil, which could be processed into petrol for the bus. That might have been a long wait. No, instead, his thoughts turned to the familiar garage from whence he came; the clang of wrenches being dropped into the inspection pit; the intense light from the oxy-acetylene welding equipment; the cheery banter of the mechanics; the dog-eared girlie calendars; the distinctive aroma and unctuous viscosity of the Swarfega.
As he gazed into this rear-view mirror of memory, an idea occurred to him. ‘I will arise and go to the Inspector and ask if I can work as part of his team.’ He decided to use his reserve fuel. He was faced with a long journey, yet enthusiastically wound the destination display until it read
NOT IN SERVICE
RETURNING TO DEPOT
He revved up, put himself into gear and gave very clear hand signals through the little window allocated for the purpose, indicating he was about to pull out in front of other vehicles and swerve aggressively, without warning, into the flow of traffic.
While he was more than a fare stage away, Blakey [2] saw him and bestowed a tarpaulin, new tyres, a washer and a once-over with the chamois.
‘The driver had mislaid his RAC Atlas of the Road, but now he has a sat nav; he’d pulled over at a service station, but now has finished his hot, sweet tea and all-day breakfast and is full right up inside, ready for another extended spell at the wheel. Just to ride inside that thirty foot long by ten foot wide – inside that monarch of the road, observer of the Highway Code, big six-wheeler scarlet-painted London transport diesel-engined 97-horsepower (97-horsepower) omnibus. [3]
‘Hold very tight, please!’ Ding ding.
2 the Inspector from London Weekend’s tv series On the Buses
3 A Transport of Delight by Michael Flanders & Donald Swann (1959). The song scans thanks to errors of fact: engines in RM, RML & RMC models produced 115 bhp; all were just 8ft 2.44m wide; the RML was 30ft 9.14m long – and RM & RMC models were 2ft 6in 0.76m shorter, at 27ft 6in 8.4m
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