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The top deck of the 73 bus is the site of many trials of strength.
There's the seat-sharing scenario where you try vainly to persuade an obstinate schoolboy
that he's only paid for one ticket and could he move over please. There's the dilemma of
the personal stereo where you spend your whole journey plucking up the courage to tell him
to turn it down and are just about to do so (you convince yourself) when your stop
arrives. And then there's the one which rarely has a happy ending, the obstinate conductor
versus the bloody-minded passenger. This is about one of those rare happy endings.
It took place in the bus lay-by at Euston Station on a soggy Wednesday night. It was
eleven o'clock and the bus was packed, with standing room only on the ground floor and
just one seat free on the top deck. A young man, perhaps 18 or 19 but big with it, took up
both places, his thighs spread akimbo. Even if the seatless passengers down below had been
able to see the spare seat it would have taken a brave one to claim it. So he sat alone,
travelcard at the ready as the conductor worked his way up the aisle.
The conductor seemed as keen to get home as the rest of the bus. He barely glanced at the
forest of tickets and passes and took up that familiar languid posture at the front above
the driver's cabin, leaning against the window and facing back down the aisle. He was just
about to do the double foot tap on the wooden slats to tell the driver to move off when he
stopped, his heel frozen in mid-air. 'Still got 30p to pay on that,' he said to the young
man, and held out his hand.
The young man shrugged and looked straight ahead, propping his pass open as before and
making no obvious sign of reaching for his loose change. He was digging in for the
duration. 'Well, have it your own way', said the conductor. 'The bus isn't moving until
you pay up', and he walked calmly back down the aisle.
That seemed to be that. The stand-off was complete. Neither man would budge. The driver
joined the conductor in solidarity and the engine died with that familiar death rattle as
he switched off. The lights soon followed, plunging the top deck into gloom. The bus was
stranded.
The stand-off had been a mild one, conducted in low voices and without any imploring
gestures or sharp words. Amidst the chatter of late night adventures on the top deck most
people had only half-noticed it. Once the engine and the lights died, however, a ripple of
agitation spread slowly towards the back of the bus. People started to shuffle in their
seats, turn round, whisper to each other. There was much discreet pointing and glancing.
It was like a hen house reacting to the first scent of a fox in the farmyard.
Some passengers sighed, others got up and stared out of the windows, a few got off and
wandered around the concourse looking for other buses to catch. Most stayed put, resolute
in their refusal to acknowledge that anything was wrong or that, if it was, they could do
anything about it. Ignore it and it will go away seemed to be the unspoken consensus.
It was a depressing scene. Grown men and women, most no doubt with career plans,
empowerment strategies and a positive self-image turned into helpless sheep by one
obstinate man and a principled conductor. Here was a dictionary definition of inertia.
For want of 30 pence or a quiet word in the man's ear a bus full of North Londoners was
stuck.You would have thought a poisonous snake was on the front seat ready to hiss and
bare its fangs at anybody who approached it.
After ten minutes or so of stewing with the rest of the top deck and with no sign of any
outside intervention, I decided to play God. What a marvellous chance, I thought, to
influence the fate of a 73 bus and its occupants and boost my ego at the same time. It
would also be nice to get home. I did have the dubious advantage of having done a little
neighbourhood mediation some time ago. Quite some time ago, actually.
With as much decorum as I could muster I went downstairs to the boarding deck where the
conductor and driver were beefing up each others courage, determined not to give an inch
but looking just a little worried. 'We're in a bit of a hole here', their expressions
seemed to say. 'Help!' They both nodded eagerly at my offer of intervention and I made my
way back up to the top deck, the conductor following cautiously behind.
Walking up the aisle was a strange feeling, a bit like Wyatt Earp must have felt at the OK
Corral. The brief conversation had been audible upstairs and passengers heads turned to
scrutinise me as I approached the man on the front seat. I felt my stomach turning over
and wondered if perhaps playing God wasn't a mite too ambitious. Those mediation skills
suddenly seemed very rusty.
I stopped just behind the man's shoulder as he slouched back on the seat, bent forward and
said quietly in his ear. 'They're saying that the bus isn't going to move until you pay
up. It's up to you.' That sounded good enough. It put the ball in his court and avoided
any moral censorship but the man hardly moved. He just said meekly, 'I've got the money
here. He (meaning the conductor) just has to come and get it'.
As in all conflict resolution, then, it was mainly a matter of saving face. The conductor
took the money without complaint, printed the ticket, double-stamped on the floor and the
engine coughed back into life. The top deck sat back in their seats, their destiny once
more assured, and I smirked smugly. The victory was worth at least a couple of drinks and
a good few brownie points. What it said about the top deck of the 73 bus, well.....
N16 invites readers to send us short articles about their local experiences humour
welcome for possible publication.
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