The Itinerant Lodger

Nobody actually answered, but he formed the impression that Fletcher was upstairs. It was obviously impossible for him to climb the stairs, packed as they were with travellers, so he clung desperately to the platform while he worked out how to deal with the problem. He was aware that for a majority of the passengers, including most of the younger ones and the old age pensioners, the crowding was a small price to pay for the pleasure of a free ride. He was aware, too, of a deep public resentment of his calling. People always took his presence on the bus as a personal affront to their integrity. He would have to tread warily, and, deeply though it pained him to let so much as a single two-penny juvenile fare be evaded, he realised that only when the bus was emptier would he be able to take any effective action. He judged that it would be impolitic to turn anyone off the bus, but that he could safely refuse to allow anyone else on without inflaming public prejudice.

By the time they reached the Goldplank Asylum and City Abattoir, living conditions had become tolerable again, and the Inspector was able to make his way upstairs. There he found Fletcher, looking stunned and exhausted by his work.

If Fletcher had looked stunned before, he was knocked flat when he saw the Inspector. He had an infinite capacity for being stunned.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked the Inspector. “Why was the bus so crowded? Why were so many fares uncollected?”

Fletcher, who was bending over to give an old lady her change, stood petrified in that position for a few moments. He felt as powerless, attempting to explain himself to this man, as a romantic lover might feel in trying to describe his emotions to a second row forward. But he knew that he must try, and slowly he rose to his full height, like an Indian rope trick. He looked the Inspector straight in the eyes and said: “I—er—that is.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t see why I should refuse people admission to this bus. They want to travel. I…”

“You what?”

“I have the means to enable them to travel.”

“Oh, nice. Very nice. Very nice.” The Inspector, suddenly leaning forward as if he was barely restraining himself from lifting Fletcher off the ground by his neck, barked: “Why don’t you organise a running buffet into the bargain? Eh?”

“The passengers seemed happy enough,” said Fletcher.

“What have they got to do with it?”

“I tried to give them what they needed.”

The bus swung round into Riddings Close, and a cry of dismay rose from a thin-lipped man in a trilby.

“Why are we going down Riddings Close?” he wailed. “This is an 87, isn’t it?”

“No,” said the Inspector with relish, like an old spinster producing one last spade which nobody thought she’d got. “It’s a 92.”

“83,” cried an old lady. “It says an 83.”

“80.”

“72.”

“I thought it was a 75,” volunteered a confectioner.

The Inspector immediately stopped the bus, his whole frame quivering with excitement. He used so little energy up in the rest of his life that he had a great surplus of intensity waiting in reserve for situations such as this. He got out of the bus and went round to the front.

The board indicated a 65, bound for Huggenthorpe! This was clearly false. The 65 went to Stoneytown Bridge, unless it was turned round at Sodge Moor Top. The Huggenthorpe bus was a 67, and in any case Huggenthorpe was in the opposite direction, beyond Market Edge. He stormed back to the bus in a carefully calculated fit of uncontrollable temper and confronted Fletcher, who was standing on the platform in great distress.

“Well?” said the Inspector, and waited patiently for a reply. Time was on his side.

“I don’t understand it.”

“Well I certainly don’t.” The Inspector led the way upstairs, and he immediately noticed that the four front seats were empty. Four youths, he remembered with the facility born of long experience, had been sitting there like a display of barrack room brooms. The back of the indicator board—one of the old type that are adjusted from upstairs—was open. He turned towards Fletcher.

“You left the indicator board unlocked. That’s what’s happened. Those four youths have changed the board between each stop. You see what happens when you let too many people on a bus.”

The public, their free journeys forgotten, turned on the man whom they held responsible. Ugly mutterings arose, and the Inspector, his triumph complete, felt able to protect his conductor from their threats.

When he had quietened the passengers the Inspector made a brief inquiry and found that only ten of the passengers were bound for stops on the 92 route. Routes on which passengers believed themselves to be travelling included the 87, 83, 80, 77, 75, 72, 68 and 65.

His inquiry over, the Inspector apologised to the passengers and told them that their tickets would be valid for the return journey to the City, where they could catch their proper buses. He informed the passengers who wanted the 92 route that they would have to wait for the next bus, as Fletcher had developed a defect and was being taken out of service. They grunted, as if to imply that it was not his fault, and then, casting ugly glances at Fletcher, they stepped out into the snow.

The Inspector went round to the cab and spoke to Driver Foster. “Why did you do nothing about all this, Foster?” he asked.

“All what, sir?” asked Driver Foster.

“All this overcrowding on the bus,” said the Inspector.

“I obey the bells, sir. Two rings, and I start. One ring, and I stop. Three rings, bus running to full capacity. And I’ve never once had three rings. Two, one, but not three. I’ve never once had the bell that indicated to me: ‘Bus running to full capacity.’ So there’s never been any reason for me to bother with overcrowding.”

“Drive us back to the garage, Foster,” said the Inspector.

Fletcher and the Inspector sat side by side in the empty bus as they drove to the garage. Only a few sweet papers and cigarette ends bore witness to the fact that the bus had ever served a useful purpose in society—or ever would again.

“I’m taking you to see the Chief Inspector, Fletcher,” said the Inspector.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why can’t you be more like Foster?” the Inspector asked sadly.

Fletcher could think of no reply.

Chapter 9

“THIS IS AN ODD BUSINESS, FLETCHER,” SAID CHIEF Inspector Wilkins, and even as he spoke Fletcher felt that this was a man to whom he would be able to talk.

“I wanted to serve,” he said.

“There’s nothing wrong in that, though it has never appealed to me,” said the Inspector. “But who did you want to serve?”

“Everyone.”

“That explains why there were 215 people on your bus, does it?”

“Well, sir, I don’t see why I should refuse anyone admission.”

“The bus might become overcrowded. Didn’t that occur to you?” Fletcher was silent, and the Chief Inspector continued: “Injuries might have occurred. Fire might have broken out in those crowded conditions. Didn’t you think of that?” Ninety-nine Chief Inspectors out of a hundred would have confined themselves to the regulations and attempted to have Fletcher certified. Chief Inspector Wilkins—although he had never let anyone suspect it, especially his wife, to whom he was happily married—was the hundredth man in any gathering.

“I don’t see who I could refuse to admit?”

“You are supposed to allow five standing.”

“But which five? If one five, why not another?” There was a brief pause. The Chief Inspector, man in a hundred though he was, felt justified in being taken aback. “Why not ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, sir?”

“Or four hundred and twenty-five, Fletcher. You have to stop somewhere. There isn’t room for everybody. We stop at five.”

“But you still have to decide which five, sir.”

“You should allow the first five on. It’s only fair.”

“I’m afraid I can’t agree with you, sir,” said Fletcher. He was frightened of saying this, but there could be no stopping, now that he had taken the plunge.

“No?”

“It seems very unfair to penalise the second five for the fact that there are already five people on the bus. The first five are entirely to blame for that.”

There was a pause, which the Chief Inspector broke very lamely. “It is necessary to have rules sometimes, you know,” he said.

Fletcher said nothing. He was not convinced, nor was Chief Inspector Wilkins.

“I’m going to tell you something,” said the Chief Inspector. “I have never myself regarded buses as being for the use of the public. I don’t think it’s hard-heartedness, although as I told you the idea of service has never appealed to me. I think I like the public tolerably well, on the whole. I wish them well, generally speaking. But I have never been able to accept, in my heart of hearts, that buses are functional. I love them. I love them for themselves. You understand what I mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I love my wife, I suppose, but I love buses more. Hilda’s a very good woman, in her way, and we get on well, but you couldn’t love her for herself. I love her for her meals, her children, the home she runs. Take all that away and our marriage would collapse. But buses are different. I’d like to drive them around empty. I like their elegant, gently sloping fronts and their comforting square radiators. I—well, I love them. It’s monstrous that they should be used to carry people to cemeteries and supermarkets. Monstrous. Quite, quite monstrous.” Chief Inspector Wilkins recovered himself and resumed in a more conversational, less emotional manner. “I once wrote a paper arguing that the public were a penance paid by all bus people for the original sin implicit in the erection of the first bus stop. That sort of thing doesn’t go down too well in Omnibus Mansions. My attitude to buses is oriental. I admire their purity, their serenity, their detachment. Press the self starter and all that is lost.” He smiled at Fletcher. “I’ve kept all this to myself for twenty years, and now I’ve told you, so you see you have achieved something,” he said. Fletcher smiled back, shyly, and the Chief Inspector continued. “Yes, Fletcher, I was forced to admit, for the purpose of my life on earth, that buses have a function. If I’d told anyone what I’ve told you, I’d have been certified. One has to be careful, Fletcher, and that goes for you too, you know. So, please, go away, get another job, and be careful.” The Chief Inspector stood up and held out his hand. “I’ve spoken to you as a man. Now I appeal to you as a Chief Inspector. You’re fired. You’ll get a week’s pay in lieu of notice.”

Fletcher felt immeasurably betrayed. He had told this man of his opinions openly and without hesitation, and that was a miracle. He had listened to a confidence without embarrassment, and that was a miracle too. And then he had been sacked. As he went out into the late morning he felt a broken man. The sky was the colour of slush, and the wind was cold, and there was one week’s pay in his pocket, as he tacked through the cold, grey nothing.

Chapter 10

“WHAT I ALWAYS SAY,” SAID MRS POLLARD, “IS THAT if a man can’t face these setbacks with a smile he isn’t a man.”

Fletcher faced this setback with a thin, wan smile. Mrs Pollard, who had seen little of him during the past fortnight, what with his shift work and everything, had been surprised to see him back so early, but she had not been nearly so surprised when he told her that he had lost his job. She had given the impression that she had known all along that he wasn’t the man for bus conducting. There was something, she let it be felt, too intelligent about him. It was not that he had told her anything about his schemes, but she had not failed to notice his studious and distant manner in the evenings. There had been nothing she could do. It had been man’s work, and Mrs Pollard had been a landlady far too long to interfere with that. She knew that she must wait until the moment came for her to swing into action, and that when the moment did finally come she must swing with all her might.

“I’ll have a nice bowl of stew ready for you in a jiffy,” she said. “Pollard always used to say there’s nothing like a nice hot stew to cheer a man when he’s down. Warm the stomach and you warm the heart.”

While Mrs Pollard was making the stew, Fletcher sat before his table, as motionless as possible, patiently awaiting the upsurge of some new emotion. Very soon he found himself in a silent world. He rolled the silence smoothly round his brain. It was a silence that might never end. It was his own silence, his great eternity, in which he might sit whenever he wanted, in his usual chair. Whenever the mood took him, whenever he felt unusually battered and bruised, he could return to it and find himself sitting there. As a point of reference it had few equals, but as a refuge it had a draw-back. It could be—and invariably was—interrupted. Perhaps he would never know what had interrupted it, and he would slide gently out of the silence. He would hear all the noises of the world as if they were far away, but coming closer, and he would begin to feel, faintly at first, like the light from the distant opening of a tunnel, his hunger. And then it would get nearer and nearer until he was suddenly out again in the sunlight, fully exposed to all his needs and fears.

On this occasion he did know what had interrupted it. It was Mrs Pollard, coming in to tell him: “It’s about the stew. It’s not coming along too well.”

“What?”

“It’s about the stew. It’s not coming along too well.”

“Oh, dear.”

“There are things in it that I wouldn’t advise. You know how it is. I thought it was going to be one kind of stew and then I realised that it was going to be a completely different sort. And now it’s got stuck at the awkward stage, and I don’t quite know what to do.” She paused, and then, when nothing happened, she went on: “I wondered if you’d come and have a look. It takes a man to understand these things.”

A ruse, to secure him to her boudoir! Well, why not go? It would be nice to sit by her fire. These coal ranges were quite delightful, and there was no time to lose. Soon they would be making it into a smokeless zone. Go then. Blossom forth. Old smokeless Fletcher, thirty-nine, of no fixed coal fire, be off with you.

But after all he had only known her for a matter of a few weeks. And it might be that she really did want his advice on the stew. A fine fool he’d look, in that case. What advice could he possibly give?

On the other hand if it was just to give some advice, well, there was no harm in that. Wise old Fletcher, what advice you could give if you put your mind to it!

No. She would make demands on him. He would be drawn in, closer and closer. He would become a part of her hearth, and of her life. He had not had time to think much of Mrs Pollard since his work had begun, but now there was time and as he thought about her his uneasiness returned. He wanted to be away from her, safe and free, out of the house, out of her reach, out on the open road, far from the open fire.

And yet to accept an invitation to advise her on a stew could hardly be said to commit him to anything. There would be no question of intimacy. A curt piece of advice, an ingredient or two suggested, and ta-ta for now. It would be churlish to refuse, and besides, it would suggest that he had read into the invitation more than was there.

So he decided that he would go. He thought he would rise from his chair, but he didn’t. He thought that perhaps if he applied an absence of pressure to his buttocks and raised the top of his head towards the ceiling, he might stand up. But it was not to be, and for about forty minutes he remained seated. Mrs Pollard left long before the end.

And then, just when he had given up all hope, he was on his feet. He was at the door, opening it. He was in the corridor, and once there he had either to walk down it or to return to his room, which seemed foolish. So he walked down it, and knocked on the kitchen door.

“Come in,” said Mrs Pollard. She was standing over the casserole, and she smiled when she saw him. “I thought you were never coming,” she said.

Stiff with self-consciousness, Fletcher walked over to the bubbling, aromatic cauldron and gazed into its depths. “It looks very good,” he said.

“But it isn’t finished.”

“I’m hungry.”

“It needs improving.”

“No. It’s all right.”

“It would have been such a lovely stew,” said Mrs Pollard, with an air of grumpy wistfulness more suited to a schoolgirl.

“I know.” For a moment their eyes met, but Fletcher quickly lowered his and the moment was gone. His heart was beating fast and he was on the verge of panicking.

“I’ll get my table ready,” he said, and he walked towards the door.

“Won’t you have it in here, then?”

“No, I—really.” He left the room as slowly as he dared, and rushed to his room. His hands were shaking.

Mrs Pollard followed with the stew, and to his annoyance she once again remained in his room.

“You aren’t happy, are you?” she asked with startling suddenness.

“Well, I’ve just lost my job.”

“There are plenty more.”

“I had hopes. Little hopes, you know. It’s always a shock when they come to nothing.”

“If there’s anything I can do…”

“No. That’s all right. It’s very kind of you. I just need a bit of quiet, that’s all.”

“What you need is another job. It’s no use moping.”

“Not yet. A bit of quiet makes a new man of me. I’ll just stay here for a while, being quiet, if you don’t mind. Nothing serious, you know. Just a week or two.”

“Well, you know best, I suppose. Though there are some that don’t. Some of you bachelors. If you ask me you ought to be out and about a bit, even if it’s only the pictures. It’s not right for a grown man like you to just sit there.”

“I shan’t be just sitting. I’d rather call it a period of recreation.”

“You call it what you like, and I’ll listen. Well, I’ll leave you in peace, then, if you’ve finished your meal.”

Don’t go. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t fluster me. Go.

“Yes,” said Fletcher.

“I’ll be off and see to Mr Veal.” She walked slowly to the door with the casserole. “Anyway,” she said awkwardly, “you’ll know where to find me, if you want me. And don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Left to himself, Fletcher found that he was thinking of Veal. He wondered why he never saw the man, and he felt jealous. Why were they never allowed to meet? What did Mrs Pollard do on her visits to him?

It was only when he caught sight of himself in the hexagonal glass mirror which hung above the mantelshelf that he managed to forget these questions. The mirror had cut-glass borders, and in the borders he could see a thousand faces, long, short and twisted, faces with five mouths and four chins, square mouths and round mouths and oval mouths and some with no mouths at all, all staring back at him with looks of grotesque horror.

He stood up, and placed himself in front of the mirror, with his eyes shut. All he had to do was to open those eyes of his and gaze straight into the centre of the mirror. He began to lower the pressure on his lids, and the black became tinged with red. Open them! He felt his brain giving out the order. He could feel an opening of his eyes travelling slowly from his brain towards his eyes, but before it could reach them a hasty command was issued to them to remain shut. A series of commands followed, and each time he could feel the command to remain shut catching up with the command to open. He was blind.

And then his eyes were open, as if they had never been shut. They were gazing at the centre of the mirror, and the face that met them was his own. The cheeks were pale and rather hollow, he had not shaved well, his hair was receding, there were a few blackheads on his nose, and in the centre of his chin there was one white-headed pimple.

There were signs of approaching age in the lines on his face. Soon he would be too old to be mothered, as in the past he had been mothered by all those mothers of his. All of them, all except one, they had all been mothering him. Just one there had been who had not been mothering him, who had threatened him with something more than that. It had been fifteen years ago, when he was Lewis. He’d been fifteen years younger then.

He sat down again. Separated from him only by two doors sat Mrs Pollard with her memories, and with her expectations. The logs glowed. Now she rose and bent over the fire, her outline illuminated for nobody to see by the sudden jumping of the flames she had disturbed as she heaped the wood. Then she sat again, with her knitting and her thoughts. What did she think of? What could she possibly knit? She threatened him, there could be no escaping the fact. She wanted him to be more than a son. How desirable all those past years seemed to Fletcher, with all those mothers. He began again to think about his mothers, and of that night, long ago, when he was Lewis.

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