Insulated Conductor

Ed Bruce (c) 2001

Back on my own manor, I sometimes have a word with myself about it and
cringe. I mean it wasn't exactly emigrating, just a temporary change of
scene. A short shufti at how the other half earns a crust that's all.
And I have to tell you there's some really weird people out
there.

I used to do a scam down Pettycoat Lane, nothing leery. You know, the
bloke who shouts things like "Not thirty quid, not twenty-five, not
even twenty..." that old Jackson Pollocks. I sold iffy gear from the
back of a van with the engine running, before I found an up-market
patch off Oxford Street. Don't get me wrong, I'm not holding my hands
up and saying it's a mug's game, I've joined the Jehovah's, or any such
pony and trap, I'm just saying.

You know how the media rabbit on about the Old Bill being bent? Do me
a favour! Take corruption out of the filth and you might as well make
London a no-go area. It's about knowing the enemy, being one move
ahead; trust me. That's how I cottoned on to gorgeous Gina's nifty
little earner.

The law was having a laugh, giving me a hard time. They were doing a
purge on enterprising street sellers like me. All those clueless but
unbribable, smart-arse Hendon Police College graduates, cleaning up the
West End in time for their vegetarian lunch. It was doing my head in.
Feeling the heat, I went to ground by joining London Transport. Just by
way of keeping my nose clean for a while, you understand.

Now, if you think churning out phony designer tat in a Whitechapel
sweatshop might be boring, then try driving a London bus. You start on
the old Routemasters, where someone else collects the fares, then
graduate to the newer Titans and such that are
one-person-operated.

I didn't quite make it as a driver. I have this thing about roads you
see; I get hypnotised by the boring yellow lines along the kerb and
don't notice obvious landmarks like bus stops and queues of punters.
The low bridge incident all but finished me.

But you have to hand it to LT; they know how to suss a worker's hidden
talents. They let me be a conductor for a while, issuing tickets,
handling money even. It was the old Gibson ticket machine then, where
you cranked a handle and a paper voucher came out. Pretty basic stuff,
but tealeaf proof - well just about. I had one or two little fiddles
going too, selling dodgy gear in the rest room, that kinda thing, but
they ran a pretty tight ship. Fair play to them, management marked my
card and made me up to Revenue Inspector.

It goes without saying I was good at it, I just had to use lateral
thinking, my speciality you might say. I was just amazes me how thick
those fare dodgers are. I even caught a thirteen-year-old school kid
with a staff pass, can you Adam and Eve it? But you can't blame the
conductors or the drivers. I mean checking an ID photo, even just to
make sure the person is the same sex or colour as the one on the card,
isn't Open University and might make a dull day interesting. Then again
you have to think that such devotion to duty can lead to a punch-up,
and being a hero is little consolation as you count your remaining
teeth.

As with the coppers' blitz on West End petty crime, I became a marked
man, but the irony escaped me then. I wasn't going soft, just getting
carried away with the challenge. In a matter of months I produced so
many reports that the paperwork jammed the system. Sure I worked in
plain clothes, but on the city's bus routes I was as notorious as the
Cray brothers. When they saw me boarding, crowds of passengers would
disembark at the next stop.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm no boss's man and I have nothing against
unions. I realise they're the only resort a worker has against
management taking the piss. But in those days they were so strong that
if the union said "jump," management would ask "high, long or bungee?"
I was rocking the boat, simple as that. But who was getting their
knickers in a twist? Probably the Garage admin staff who filed all my
reports or maybe my Revenue mates who didn't have my flare for
ferreting out fraud. Who knows? Anyway, when the shop steward, who had
the build of a bus breakdown-wagon, leaned on me, I knew it was time to
have it away on my toes from that billet.

While the guvnors argued about my next placement, they gave me a cushy
number in personnel as Invigilator, supervising entrance exams for
conductors. Believe me, if you can't answer the questions in those
tests, even in half the allotted time, well, you shouldn't be allowed
out, even in daylight. You'd have to be a right tosser. That's where I
met the lovely Laura.

One afternoon, after all the other candidates had handed in their quiz
sheets, I was getting my coat when I noticed this doll, still at her
desk. It was already knocking off time yet, stone the crows, she'd only
responded to half the pointless puzzles. But her big brown minces
seduced me. Against my better judgement I leaned forward, oggling her
cleavage, and whispered the correct answers in her ear. She was hardly
going to be London Transport material - even by their slack standards.
In writing that was barely legible, she still managed to copy two of
them wrong. But Laura's lovemaking skills were in a class of their own,
on my mother's life.

They moved me upstairs after that. My new job title was something they
conjured up at short notice and escapes me now, but I was still with
Revenue. Sod them, I thought, and argued another pay rise. To put it
simply, they wanted me to watch the watchers. Like those conductors
whose takings never seemed to square with their hours on duty. In the
run up to privatisation the public sector was coming to grips with that
alien word 'profit' and the X Files idea of 'worker evaluation' as
well.

From the heap of stats they buried me under, I selected Gina for my
first case study. OK, she looked great, even in the passport size
personnel mugshot, but that aside she had, over the year, paid in only
about half what was average for a conductor on that route. The
challenge had the adrenaline rushing through me like a psyched-up
sprinter.

She worked the 159s, Thornton Heath to West Hampstead. Based at
Streatham Hill Garage, she lived near Tooting Bec Common, which, even
then, was a classy address. On Monday I went to the garage and had a
butcher's hook at her recent waybills and returns. Her daily pay-ins
would barely cover the expense of the bus, herself and the driver, but
her paperwork was kosher and accurate to the last penny. Her
time-keeping record was flawless and her vehicle was hardly ever the
victim of mechanical failure, a popular crew-induced malady favoured by
those who milked the system. Copying Gina's duty schedule and bus
running numbers for the rest of the week, I opted for an early night,
fancying my chances in what promised to be a genuine challenge.

At Nine on the Brixton Town Hall clock next morning I was at the bus
stop, in my commuter suit, holding my commuter newspaper, with my
commuter briefcase containing my commuter sandwich. OK, I'd been
fantasising over what this chick would look like and how I'd handle it
when I'd figured what she was up to. Yeah, OK, and what was in it for
me.

She was better than my best dream image, so help me. More leggy than
lanky, she made that normally tatty uniform look like the suits those
slinky city girls wear. Then she had this friendly but firm voice like
a tour guide as she ushered the punters aboard, pressed the bell and
straight away started punching out tickets as if on piece work - or
self employed more like.

On top of that she had this your-bed-or-mine quizzical smile which I
tried hard to ignore to protect my cover. God it was hard. I bought a
ticket for Trafalgar Square then tried to watch her every move on the
lower deck without looking like a prawn. She was so efficient and
courteous it was like watching an LT promotional video. She even
pointed out tourist landmarks as we passed them. The Japanese and Yanks
with their cameras lapped it up. I went back to my office but no way
could I concentrate on any work. I caught her bus again for the return
journey but noticed nothing dodgy. I went home and 'phoned the garage
manager later to check on her returns for the duty. Figures accurate,
money spot on, takings like a miners' whip round for Margaret Thatcher.
Well, a thousand times better than that, naturally, but still about
fifty per cent light for the shift.

If there's one thing worse than being a driver or a conductor on a
Routemaster bus, it's being a passenger, especially in the rush hour. I
stuck it out for the rest of the week but didn't notice anything out of
the ordinary about Gina's routine. By Friday I had to admit defeat -
and it hurt. So I decided on the cards-on-the-table approach. Anyway, I
fancied her so much that every time I looked at her my brain went
walkies. She was ahead of me.

"Can I ask you a question, sir?" The bus was stuck in traffic near
Brixton Station and I had moved to the entrance ready to get off when
we reached the kerb. In the milling of bodies I found myself pressed
against her on the rear platform, acutely aware of her firm figure, her
body scent.

"Do what love?" I said, waiting for the grey matter to function.

"Revenue or stalker?" Matter-of-fact, as if I was a disorientated
punter - which I was for a minute.

"Well both, as it happens." You don't lose it for long do you? I was
relieved, almost euphoric. Which one would she prefer I wondered?

"One of you keeps watching me when he thinks I'm not looking. Is that
the jobsworth or the voyeur?"

"The Revenue Inspector thinks you're in big trouble, but the other
fella wants to take you for a drink."

The red bus spewed out most of its passengers at the station while I
clung on to chrome rail, breathing deeply from the crushing effect of
stampeding bodies and the thrill of her closeness. When the last one
had gone I nodded for her to bell the driver. As the old workhorse
picked up speed we shared a rear seat. She crossed her slender,
model-length legs and I became aware of all my London Transport ethics
vanishing through the small sliding window.

On our first night out together I realised how smart Gina was. I also
knew she was playing me at my own game, but it wasn't too painful. One
half of me wanted to get inside her mind to find a clue to the missing
money, while the other half just wanted to get inside her knickers.
Both halves were disappointed.

On our second date she told me she was a single parent with a
one-year-old daughter. Relaxing over our second bottle of wine, I went
for it and mentioned the company's quandary over her low ticket sales.
But she only flashed that luscious smile and suggested an incentive
scheme might help. As for the other, well there was none of that.

Next time I pushed a little harder. Her girl, she told me, was the
product of a drunken one-night-stand following a garage booze-up. The
father, a married work mate called Hugo, opted for denial then
persistent amnesia. When she got stroppy he started a whispering
campaign that forced her to leave her job. After the birth she was
reinstated. She maintained that the experience had traumatised her so
much that the next man she would ever sleep with would be her
husband.

"Right," I said, removing my hand, which had unconsciously strayed
under the table and on to her thigh. "In that case..." It was the cue
for violins and soft focus, but something I can't explain made me stop
in mid-sentence, like I had quinsy. There would be other nights I
reckoned. I needed to think it through. So the Revenue man took over,
but his subtle questioning failed to solve the mystery of the
short-changing clippie. This one was good.

Meanwhile my basic instincts were being sorted in my cosy relationship
with Laura. It was a sort of teacher exchange thing. She'd call at my
flat twice a week and I'd try to bring her maths up to speed. You see I
still felt guilty about helping her through the conductors' exams. By
now she was making so many waybill errors that she was on three verbals
and a written warning. In return she continued to surprise me with
fresh and exquisite lovemaking techniques that made the Kama Sutra seem
missionary. She was rounded, sensuous and generous, whereas Gina was
willowy and chaste.

Then came the breakthrough. I had tackled and solved a few cases of
simple internal fraud at various garages around Greater London. All the
while my mind was on the enigmatic Gina. One night I was settling down
with some extra strength cans and a video when Laura arrived in a right
two and eight. When I saw the Gibson machine in her Tesco carrier bag,
I knew it would be more lager than video. I handed her the glass I had
already poured, sat her down on the sofa and waited for her latest tale
of misadventure. As usual with Laura, you couldn't invent it.

In Regent Street her bus had been stuck in traffic coming down towards
Piccadilly Circus. Frustrated passengers reckoned walking was quicker,
drivers got bored with hooting and swearing and Laura was looking at
Hamleys Toy Shop front, remembering she needed a birthday present for
her little brother. After a while, with traffic still stacked up, she
put her machine in the cupboard, told the driver her plan and rushed
into the shop. He promised to wait at the next bus stop if, or when,
the river of traffic started flowing again.

The purchase took only a couple of minutes. She emerged from the toy
store, spotted the red Routemaster and dived on board. In less than a
minute she had opened the cupboard using the steel T piece common to
all LT vehicles. She deposited the young man's present in there,
strapped on the Gibson and went about collecting fares on the lower
deck. As the bus started moving as she returned to the platform - just
as another conductor was descending the stairs from the upper
saloon.

"What the hell are you doing on my bus?" she asked.

As the penny dropped Laura panicked, jumped on to the road and ran
like hell to the next bus stop, where a load of puzzled passengers and
an angry driver were waiting. She collected her own ticket machine and
completed her shift pretending the whole thing never happened. But she
still had the Gibson she had taken from the other bus. Being in
possession of such a piece of equipment, I reckoned, must be the legal
equivalent of having a gadget for printing fivers. We slept on it. I
told Laura that if she went to work as usual and stayed shtoom, I would
get it sorted.

The reason I felt cocksure was the description she gave me of the
conductor on the other vehicle. I just knew it was Gina. Laura's bus
was from another garage that shared the 159 route. I just couldn't
figure out why Gina hadn't chased after her to grab back her property.
Well, not immediately I couldn't, but a 'phone call to her garage put
me completely in the picture. When I tracked her down I relished being
in charge of the situation for the very first time.

"Your place tonight at seven Gina." I said, "It's important. Trust
me."

I was confused at first because when I searched the garage records I
expected to find the machine booked out to Gina. Instead I discovered
that, while his vehicle was parked up at a bus stand about a year
previously, a male conductor had gone to buy cigarettes. When he
returned he found that his Gibson was missing. The fact that the
cupboard was only accessible to bus crews meant that it had been an
inside job. The investigation drew a blank. The conductor's Christian
name was Hugo. I was holding all the aces.

Gina was ready for me. She had taken her daughter to stay overnight
with her parents, prepared an Italian candlelit meal with wine and
changed into a long midnight-blue satin robe that turned her into a
Goddess. I turned into warm putty. Later I proposed an early night and
Gina trumped that by proposing marriage. Mellowed by Chianti that went
down singing Italian love songs, my brain was on autopilot as I
murmured a grovelling acceptance. This image of elegance would be all
mine, for life, but only after the ceremony. Ever fancied a nun? I
slept on her couch that night, the frustration driving me
bananas.

In the cold light of day I fronted her with my up to date case notes.
She cursed Laura as a prime example of the brainless bimbo LT was
recruiting these days. But without losing her cool she went on to
describe the callous way Hugo had treated her, following the revelation
of her pregnancy. She told how he applied pressure on her to have an
abortion, adoption, whatever. When she refused, he spread nasty gossip
about her until she was almost excluded from works social events, even
canteen gossip. Months before the birth, management forced her to give
up her job on medical grounds. The company doctor had diagnosed
prenatal depression, but she knew management and Hugo's union mates
were behind it.

After the birth she took her case to a brief, then a works tribunal.
She was reinstated, but without compensation. Her plan for revenge, she
told me, was formed over months of pain and resentment. She calmly
described how she decided to work only half a day for the company and
half a day for herself. In her mind, the acquisition of Hugo's ticket
machine justified the fraud. She could implicate him if anyone ever
sussed it out and her conniving bosses were getting their just deserts
for the way they'd treated her. I bought it.

The marriage was in a registry office, with a quiet reception in my
local boozer down the East End. We moved into hers. I'd like to tell
you that the union was blissful, but I might as well be up front about
it. The thing about ethereal is that you can't make love to it. Well
you can, but you usually feel bad about it after, know what I mean?
Like a mermaid, I imagine. Nice status symbol to have on your yacht,
but try shagging it. Gina is class, I could tell that from the outset.
I ran out of words to describe her beauty when we went out together all
dressed up and that. But heavenly bodies, trust me, are a no-no in bed.
The lady was still way beyond me. I couldn't handle it. I think I'd
used up all my brain cells figuring out her scam. Maybe it was her
subtle way of telling me I was the loser. I done a runner.

The old Gibson is my only souvenir of that cocked-up career move. Now
I just think of it as a trophy from a Sherlock Holmes-style five-pipe
problem. I often wonder if I should nick a bus from a garage for an
evening; they never take the ignition keys out you know. I could do a
night run to Trafalgar square, with Laura blagging topped-up fares from
club ravers stoned out of their skulls. Then I could return it in early
hours all warmed up for the 'milk run' driver.

It's in the genes I suppose. But then again, maybe I'll just stick to
the old ducking and diving. It's what I do best and it's gotta be less
grief.

Ends