30th July 1966

They met every Saturday morning at 11 o'clock outside The Pavilion pub on Wood Lane and caught the No.7 bus to Oxford Circus. Jimmy and Chris had been mates since junior school, but now went to different secondary schools and only saw each other at weekends. They stood chatting in the bright morning sunshine as they waited, each shouldering a small rucksack containing packed lunches and their ABC London Transport books, primed and ready for the day's adventure.

Today was special, it was Jimmy's fourteenth birthday and his pockets were full of birthday money destined for the lure of the metropolis. Jimmy and Chris were bus spotters and there was no better place for spotting and spending on a busy Saturday than the city's famous Oxford Street. The number seven loomed into view and the two boys peered at it in anticipation, each hoping to spot the fleet number first.

'RM1768', cried Chris, triumphantly. 'Copped'.

As they climbed onto the rear platform, Jimmy paused on the step for half a second and looked down the bus. Through the glass partition, just past the driver’s shoulder, he could see the little garage disc mounted on the bulkhead. A plain white circle with a single black letter 'V'.

He nudged Chris as they moved upstairs.

'It's an Acton bus,' he said quietly.

'How do you know that?'

'I spotted the garage disc in the driver's cab. It's a 'V' for Acton'

They clattered upstairs in search of their favourite seats at the front and were in luck, sliding triumphantly into the front nearside double whilst swinging their rucksacks onto their knees in one fluid motion. Within seconds the conductor was beside them and the two boys handed over their nine pence fare in exchange for the small rectangles of paper dispensed at lightning speed by his Gibson ticket machine. The bus smelled of cigarette smoke and hot engines and the boys grinned with sheer delight.

Like ships' figureheads, they anticipated their stop-start progress into Ladbroke Grove and through Westbourne Park, chatting excitedly over fleet numbers and depot origin. A brief layover at Paddington Station sent them into overdrive, as buses bunched through congestion on Praed Street and Edgware Road, but they were soon clear of the mayhem and en route for Marble Arch.

'Can you smell that?' enquired Chris, peering out into Edgware Road.

'Smell what?'

'That funny smell. A sort of hot, burning oil sort of smell.'

Jimmy leaned forward and scanned the vicinity in search of any unusual Edgware Road conflagration.

'Can't see anything and can't really smell anything either.'

'It was like when my dad's Wolseley caught fire last year on our way down to Brighton. It was the same sort of smell.'

RM1768 made a strange juddering sort of noise as it emerged from Edgware Road into Marble Arch and the funny smell Chris had described a few seconds earlier suddenly, and unmistakeably, began to occupy the upper deck. The bus desperately bullied its way across three lanes of traffic and came to a halt by the right hand kerb, just before the marble arch itself. The boys looked down to see the driver jumping down from his cab and gesticulating wildly to his conductor in the lower saloon.

'This is brilliant,' beamed Chris, 'I think we're on fire. Let's get off here and see what's going on.'

As they stood and headed for the rear staircase, other passengers began to do the same and as they funnelled downwards they could hear the conductor instructing the lower saloon to leave the bus immediately. Within seconds, twenty or so people were crowded onto the grass under the plane trees watching RM1768 gently simmering under the mid day sunshine with a strange sort of inquisitive fascination.

For a while, nothing of any great drama seemed to be happening, but gradually smoke began to emerge from under the belly of the bus and climb quickly up past the windows. People stepped further back under the trees, their curiosity quickly turning into anxiety as it dawned on them that the unthinkable was about happen. That a London Routemaster bus was on fire by Marble Arch and all they could do about it was to stand and watch.

'Did you bring your camera, Chris?' enquired Jimmy as he realised this was probably the opportunity of a lifetime.

'I didn't think I'd need it today, Jim, so I didn't bother. I thought we were spending most of our time shopping.'

The conductor appeared and told everyone he'd just been over to the cafe on the corner of Great Cumberland Place and got them to ring the fire brigade. As he spoke, the first flames appeared from under the front wheels and quickly began to blister the red paintwork as they climbed, inches at a time, towards the upper windows.

'Move back everyone,' shouted the driver with real tension in his voice. That tyre could blow any minute and there's a fuel tank under there with gallons of fuel in it. Get back!'

At that moment the sirens of the fire brigade could be heard hurtling down Edgware Road from their station in Marylebone, and within seconds two engines appeared. And then police cars and then an ambulance and before they knew it, the bus wasn't theirs any more. It had been possessed by urgent men running and shouting and pointing and marshalling. Traffic was being diverted away from the now unstoppable inferno that was RM1768.

From a bench in the park fifty yards away, Chris and Jimmy watched as they tucked into their packed lunches. It was irresistible theatre as the object of their fascination was consumed by a ferocious, crackling inferno. Oil and fuel and floor covering and rich foam-filled moquette seating was being transmogrified into a grotesque concoction; a black, heavy, devilish spectre that spiralled uncontrollably upwards.

'Bloody hell Chris! We're watching a Routemaster being cremated. How do we mark this one off in ABC?'

Chris didn't answer. He was traumatised by what was taking place in front of him. He had never witnessed such ferocity, such violence, such destruction, such vulnerability. It had frightened him and he was fully occupied with trying to deal with it.

Time had flown by and it was now heading towards two o'clock. Jimmy had money in his pockets and had promised himself a shirt with a button down collar and a trendy slim tie, so they reluctantly bid goodbye to the smouldering corpse and uniformed attendants and headed down Oxford street towards Selfridges. The street was the usual relentless parade of red London buses, but somehow the two boys had lost their appetite. A period of mourning would be required before they could ever think of resuming their favourite pastime. It seemed somehow much quieter than usual for a Saturday afternoon, perhaps due to what had just taken place and the pervasive smell of burning Routemaster.

Selfridges was quiet too, and Jimmy had soon parted with his birthday money in exchange for a button-down collar shirt and slim leather tie. They stepped back out into Oxford Street and were instantly taken aback. The street was practically empty.

'Where is everyone?' asked Chris.

Jimmy didn't answer straight away because he was watching a No.11 drive past with only three of four passengers aboard. This alone was strange enough to be unsettling.

They walked on down the street until they came across a small group of people gazing into the window of the Peter Robinson store. They weren't casual window shoppers, but something else. Something more focussed. They were staring at a flickering television screen. Chris, the taller of the two, could see a sports stadium packed to the rafters and what appeared to be the Queen on the pitch walking along a line of people and shaking hands.

'Is it a cricket match?' asked Jimmy casually.

'No. It looks like football to me,' replied Chris. 'It looks as if something big is going on at Wembley.'

A man standing in front of him turned round and stared at him with a look of total disbelief, before walking away down the street.

'Unbelievable,' muttered Jimmy to his mate. 'There's a burnt out Routemaster just down the street and all they're interested in is a football match.'

'Come on Jim,' said Chris. 'I think we've had enough for one day. I can see a No.7 on its way down. Let's see if it can get us home before it bursts into flames.'

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