Open Writing

I once heard it quoted, but I don’t know where, that ‘Humour is born out of pain.’ Whether that is an acknowledged fact or not, it certainly applied to my life. After a prolonged stay in hospital with diphtheria, my recuperation and subsequent direction into war work in 1940 transformed my life. This transformation involved people who, though they were working and struggling to support themselves and our armed forces at home and overseas, were determined not only to grin and bear it but to let the British stiff upper lip slacken off into laughter.

Many comedians and series of comedy shows came into being during those war years, and with only the radio to listen to families and those serving in the forces gathered around the radio and listened avidly to all the regular shows. Many of those comedians are still alive today and are seen and heard on television. They can still ‘Raise a Laugh’, which was the name of one of the shows, hosted by Ted Ray.

My first day at the bus depot was far from humorous. I had my job interview on a Monday morning and was immediately accepted. It was usual during these days because of the shortage of manpower to employ anyone who was directed there. The general saying was, ‘If you’re breathing, you’re in.’

My father-in-law and brother-in-law had worked for this bus company before the war, the former as a driver on one of the first buses which had solid wheels and the latter as a bus conductor. Both of them had good safety records and were respected and valued members of the staff. So I suppose it was natural for the traffic inspector to take it for granted that a relative of the Kendall family would fit easily into the job previously held by her brother-in-law. Unfortunately, not many things could be taken for granted during these years. My first year of war service as a bus conductress rather besmirched the good record of my in-laws.

A boring start

Immediately I was engaged as a bus conductress, I was sent to get a uniform and then report back for duty rota. The uniform consisted of a heavy, dark navy overcoat, the weight of which lowered my height by at least an inch. My badge of authority to conduct the bus was pinned onto my coat lapel, also my number badge, plus a whistle which had to be carried attached to a chain in an upper pocket. A heavy leather money bag was hung around my neck, which contained a coin holder for silver money. Well, that was its intended use, but during my first week in action, working late into the evening in a very dimly lit bus by the light of a pen torch, I finished up with the best collection of foreign coins in the depot, all of which I had to make good to the exact value in English money.

Next I was given a ticket rack, a heavy piece of wood with a long spring clip which held in place both back and front an array of about sixteen packs of tickets, in groups of 50, and all different prices. Conductress 226 was ready to report back to the traffic inspector’s office for duty.

He handed me a clipboard with a sheet of paper covered in numbers and columns, which he referred to as my way bill. Also a book of about thirty pages covered in fares for all the different stages of the various routes. He told me to go home, study the book of fares and report back at 3.45. I took this to mean after my lunch and did so, only to discover he meant at 3.45 a.m. the next morning.

I went home and read the fare book until my eyes were crossed, but couldn’t memorise a single route. I went to bed with my brain in a state of rotational inertia (going around in circles getting nowhere) and afraid of sleeping in, despite my alarm clock. I never closed my eyes.

I crawled out of bed at 2.45 a.m. to dress and walk the fifteen minute journey to the depot, too tired to eat any breakfast and probably too weak to ring the bell on the bus. However, I didn’t have the opportunity to do that for three days. Walking to work at 3.15 a.m. on a winter’s morning through the dark streets (because of the blackout) is not an activity I would recommend. That is only because I couldn’t see where to put my feet, and not because I was afraid.

I certainly wouldn’t attempt it, even as a young woman, these days, even if the streets were fully lit. I find it rather strange on reflection that during the violence of war our streets were relatively safe to walk at any time and virtually free from violent attacks or grievous bodily harm. House doors were left open day and night without the fear of being burgled, although perhaps the latter was because we hadn’t much to steal in those days of utility. The clothing and food ration books were more valuable to thieves for sale on the black market (an illegal practice) than the goods themselves, and the books were easier to conceal.

This first morning I entered the bus depot at 3.30 a.m. The buses were revving up, and there was an atmosphere of great activity. The depot was as large as an aeroplane hangar but, owing to the blackout restrictions, looked very eerie in the dim light. Everyone seemed to know which bus was theirs and were on their journeys in quick style.

I stood about until the traffic inspector directed me to the women’s staff room. He explained to me that I was on what they called ‘four o’clock spare.’ This mysterious duty consisted of sitting in the staff room within call for four hours until 8.00 a.m. If anyone missed a duty, I would have to make it up. I soon learned if anyone missed a duty after 7.00 a.m. the conductress on duty would take up that duty and probably wouldn’t finish until 11.00 p.m. and then have to walk home.

The inspector and I made our way to the staff room, which looked like a room they didn’t know what to do with. The only place to relax was on old bus seats that looked as if they were on their way to the scrap heap. I kept trying to impress on him that I couldn’t go up and down the bus steps while it was in motion and, in fact, I wasn’t sure that, hung about with all this equipment, I would be able to walk up and down the moving bus and sell tickets. He seemed really understanding, but kept stressing that I was never to ask the passengers how much the fare was, as they wouldn’t tell me the correct amounts. He was a trusting little soul, obsessed with hammering the valuable use of the fare book into my mind. He left me in the female staff room with instructions to study the fares until I was needed.

This I did for the next three days, going home after working four hours each day, and only getting paid for the hours I had waited. I don’t think I have ever spent a more dreary three mornings in my life. Up in the middle of the night to walk to work, wait four hours and then go home at 8.00 a.m. when everyone else was on their way to work.

The real work begins.

Day four was definitely different. I was sat concentrating on my fare book for short bus journeys and had really got them fixed in my mind when the door of the staff room opened and a voice called out, “226, you’re wanted in the bus shed.” I was hoping it was the sack. We weren’t allowed to leave otherwise. But no, it was my friendly traffic inspector motioning me to follow him.

We went into what was called the cash office. This consisted of a counter similar to a post office with a grill across the front. From this, dividing the room in half, was row upon row of metal lockers about two feet square. The key to number 226 was given to me, and as I opened it, I found myself face to face with someone else. It was a through locker, from which I took a metal box about 12 inches by 18 inches. This contained spare bus tickets and my money float (five shillings), also my ticket rack. I was told to take the box and instructed to return it at the end of my duty with all the money I had taken counted and put in the money bags provided. I was also to record on my waybill how many tickets of each price I had sold and the sequence of ticket numbers.

As the inspector and I walked across the bus depot he stopped by a green double decker which read ‘Leeds to Hemsworth’ and said, “This is your bus and driver.” He didn’t really introduce us, or if he did I didn’t hear him. I was busy collecting my thoughts together. The driver climbed into his seat. I started protesting I was no good on a double decker bus, and I had never been to Hemsworth before and didn’t know the way. The understanding traffic inspector just said, “Get on the bus, Mrs. Kendall -- you’ll soon find out.”

The drive on these buses was separated from the passengers and conductress in an enclosed area. The bus conductress stood on an open platform at the back of the bus. I climbed aboard and stood like a statue cemented to the back rail of the bus. I could see the driver looking at me through the window of his cabin. He looked a bit flushed and started prodding the air with his finger.

Suddenly he jumped out of his compartment and came to the back of the bus and shouted, “Ring the bell. I can’t go until you do!” Stamping his way back to his seat, he slammed the bus door very hard and revved up the engine. The understanding inspector shouted, “Don’t forget the bell, Mrs. Kendall. One for stop, two for go, three for emergencies.” As we pulled out of the depot, he was still shouting, “And don’t forget to look at your fare sheet!” As we left him, I’m sure he was laughing, while we went on our way to Hemsworth.

It was very early morning, and only a few people got on the bus. I noted a couple of people went up the steps and thought, ‘I’ll collect their fares when they come down.’ However, more passengers boarded the bus and went to the upper deck. I knew I would have to collect their fares, so waited until the bus stopped and went above as quickly as I could.

Issuing tickets was a very slow process for me, and the passengers downstairs wanted to get off the bus. They couldn’t see me, and I knew I couldn’t go down the steps while the bus was in motion. Neither could I reach the upstairs bell. Anxious to get off the bus, passengers began to ring the bell form all parts of the bus. The driver, hearing them, thought it was an emergency and quickly put his foot on the brake, throwing the passengers around.

The bus door slammed, and the driver came round to the back of the bus and enquired what was the emergency. When he found there wasn’t one, he went mad with anger and shouted to the upper and lower decks, “Who is ringing that bell?” The passengers in reply were suddenly occupied in conversation with their neighbours, and I began to hate the sight and sound of him. Then in a voice of authority he announced, “No one rings that bell but the conductress. She is in charge of this bus. Ask her if you want to get off.”

I was rather alarmed by his anger, but as he turned his back to the passengers he looked straight at me and winked. It was like a friendly act of encouragement, and suddenly being in charge of a double decker bus became a magnificent achievement, even if I didn’t know the way and fares to Hemsworth and couldn’t manage to go up and down the steps while the bus was in motion. I never did master the latter that day and stood at the bottom of the steps collecting the money.

I didn’t realise until later that tickets must be issued to every passenger, and thinking it was better to collect the money if I couldn’t get up the steps, I continued to stand below and collect it. At the end of the day when I came to reconcile my money with the tickets, I was way out but paid the lot in over the counter and walked, or staggered, home at 11.00 p.m. I had been at work since 3.45 a.m. with only two short breaks, which didn’t give me time to go home.

My reward came next morning when I opened my locker. There was a note, ‘Conductress 226 report to traffic inspector’s office before going on duty.’ There I had to explain why I had so much more money than issued tickets and received a warning not to do it again, as it was illegal. My hopes were dashed. He still didn’t sack me.

I discover a quicker way to distribute bus tickets.

After a day or two I began to feel more confident in my work. It was usual at the start of a duty to take a busload of miners to their various pits at 6:00 a.m. On afternoon shifts we brought a load of different miners back from their work. Those going on duty were not full of the joys of spring at that time of the morning, especially in winter, and those coming off duty were obviously tired and exhausted and couldn’t wait to get home and have a bath and a meal. Their main meal underground would probably have been cold tea and an assortment of sandwiches or chunks of bread. Although we didn’t have much conversation, we recognised the same miners and exchanged greetings.

However, the miners coming off duty were barely recognisable. They were covered in coal dust, black from head to toe. Their eyes looked like two white sockets looking out of a black face, with streaks of white down their faces from the sweat of their work. There were no pit head baths in those days or canteen facilities. When they got home, it was usually to wash in a tin bath which hung on a hook outside the house when not in use. They usually bathed in front of a roaring fire on which every drop of water had to be boiled.

Both of my grandfathers were miners, one working on the Durham coalface and the other at Crigglestone Coke Ovens, so I knew the procedure. All the children had to go out to play while the miner had his bath, and I mean ‘all’. One pair of grandparents had 14 children, the other had 10. A miner’s wife would invariably scrub her husband’s back, which would be pitted with dirt and dust. From under the dirt would emerge a back scarred and injured by falls of coal, a reminder to both of them of the danger he faced every second he worked underground by the light of a small pit lamp!

After the miners’ run, as it was called, we went on to general duties (regular routes) at about 7:00 a.m. There was usually a quiet half hour before the rush of passengers wanting to catch the bus to work.

One morning I was on the back seat of the bus filling in my precious waybill, after which I picked up my ticket rack to check I had sufficient tickets at hand for the journey. The tickets were stapled together in 50’s and held in place by a very strong clip. Issuing them was quite difficult, and for a few days I had very sore and tender fingertips. With the wisdom of a novice, I decided to take out the staple from a bunch of three shilling returns. These were the most expensive ones, but also used very regularly.

The bus stopped. Passengers for Leeds boarded the bus, and the first one asked for a return ticket. Forgetting that I had taken out the staple, I pulled hard on the top ticket. This came out with a flourish, followed by 49 others in a shower from the back to the front of the bus in every direction over everyone. Rapidly calculating 50 times three shillings, I bent down to pick them up without thinking to close my money bag. Consequently, all the money spilled out onto the floor. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. At least I say that now. Then, I knew exactly what I felt like doing.

I started to collect both the tickets and the money from the floor. Some passengers were kind enough to help me. Others were getting on and off the bus without paying. Others, wanting to pass me as I crawled around the floor, were not averse to using the middle of my back to stride over me.

I collected both money and tickets from the floor. All the tickets were there. The money went into the bag. I hadn’t time to comfort my pride. We were busy from then until we finished, after which I had to sort it all out to pay in before I could go home. By which time, I didn’t care if I’d lost the bus as well. I never had another inspirational thought on how to save the bus company time and energy for the remainder of my bus service.

Look before you leap.

These days you don’t see many bus inspectors, but during the war years the buses were swarming with them. As one hopped off your bus, another hopped on. The yard of the bus depot was a kind of arena. On one side, quite elevated, was a bungalow strategically placed to look down on the buses and the comings and goings in the depot. Here lived the chief inspector, who was neither short-sighted nor hard of hearing. Despite the fact that his house could only be reached by about 14 steps, at the slightest sign or sound of trouble in the yard, he could be right down these quicker than Superman. I often wondered how he kept going for such long hours. He certainly never seemed to need any sleep. He was a small but portly man, who only needed a Victoria Cross on his chest to complete the picture. He had a very brisk way of giving orders, which he always wanted doing the day before. He and his wife must have worked in partnership, which means what he missed about the depot, she certainly didn’t.

The way into the depot was meant for single in-and-out traffic. The last bus to return had to queue to enter, and late at night the drivers didn’t want to queue for very long, especially as the conductress had to pay in. During the previous couple of weeks I had watched the buses as they slowed down to enter the yard. Then, box under arm, the conductress would jump off the bus as it continued on its way into the shed. It looked very easy.

So on our last journey, box under arm with money and tickets inside, as the bus slowed down, I leaped off. It was a mistake. In the dark I had misjudged the speed and had a very painful encounter with the floor. The contents of the box went all over the depot yard. My driver, unaware that I had ‘bit the dust’, continued on his way. By the light of the following bus I tried to gather up the money and contents of the box. Of course, this meant all the buses behind couldn’t enter the yard. Headlights were switched on and off, bus horns were sounded, and I wished they would all run over me. But people never really do what you want, do they?

Then the driver from behind came to help me up, and other bus conductresses came to assist me. I suddenly realised the other bus teams were not impatient with me but sympathised with me. I had ‘arrived’ and was one of them. I looked down at the holes in my stockings, the blood on my knees and the feet of the chief inspector. He vanished without a word and was probably having his mug of cocoa before I cashed in, and at the same time was writing a notice forbidding conductresses to alight from the bus when it was still in motion.

A conglomeration of dogs.

After a few weeks I was introduced to Percy, my driver. In his early forties, because of a pronounced limp, he was exempt from national service. I was to be his permanent conductress on the route Leeds to Wakefield and Hemsworth. I had worked the Hemsworth route quite a few times since my first day at work and had begun to enjoy the run. From Wakefield to Crofton and over the common at Belle Vue could be very pleasant, also over the bridge at Nostell Priory at 5:00 a.m. was a real treat as the early morning light reflected on the water.

The route was around the villages where most of the inhabitants relied on the pits in their area for work. The miners, both on and off duty, were a great bunch of men. They worked hard, and they played hard. Apart from billiards, snooker and miners’ welfare halls, their next love was the dog track. On the nights the track was open there would be a queue of men to get on the bus. This, of course, was good for company trade but bad for the conductress, because along with their love for the track came their love for the dogs.

Every miner seemed to own a dog, some three or four (whippets and greyhounds). We had to charge half price for each dog, and approaching the queue of men with their dogs on leads seemed to pose no problems. However, these men weren’t born yesterday. As soon as they put their feet on the bus platform, they slipped the lead from the dog’s neck. The highly trained canines were in the bus and up the steps quicker than the hare out of the trap.

The bus was in an uproar, with sometimes over 30 dogs running about. It was hopeless trying to count them, and all the owners denied any dog was theirs. They were on the seats, under the seats and very adept at climbing the steps while the bus was in motion, which did nothing for my ego. As we approached the dog track, the miners would get up from their seats without collecting their dogs and get off the bus. Then, to my frustration, they would stand on the pavement and whistle for the dogs. Talk about 101 Dalmatians, every dog left that bus and went straight to its owner, who very quickly slipped a collar over its head. I was very rarely able to collect a fare for the dogs, as no one laid claim to them.

The final straw came when one miner, who must have drawn the short straw, gave me a half price fare for a dog on his lead with the words, “Here you are, lass. I don’t want to diddle you.” I bet that was the winning dog, too, but he never told me the dog’s name.

Lead kindly light amidst the encircling gloom.

During the war all the buses on normal services finished at 9:00 p.m. for the general public, but then we went on to special services. The miners were on this special list, and so were the soldiers either going on leave or coming back. Returning from leave they were met by bus at the railway station and taken back to their barracks. Some were stationed at Nostell Priory.

I was never fond of this trip. It was 10.00 p.m., and some of the soldiers were as high as kites, probably having spent what was left of their leave money to drown their sorrows at having to return to their base. They all carried full kit, which meant a large rucksack, a kit bag, a palliasse (mattress) and also an assortment of personal things. As they were all fully equipped for marching orders, which meant ready to move off at short notice, they also had a gasmask and a rifle over one shoulder. Every square inch of the bus was piled high with their kit, including the centre aisle. I only once tried mountaineering over that lot to collect fares and then, for obvious reasons, like an occasional pinched bottom, I abandoned this practice and collected the fares as they got off the bus.

One night we arrived at Nostell Priory at 11.00 p.m. It was pitch black. There were no street lights during the war. The soldiers all got off the bus, and off they trooped into their barracks. With a sigh of relief, I jumped off the bus and took the whistle out of my top pocket ready to blow and indicate to Percy that he could safely reverse the bus. This was done by blowing once on the whistle. However, Percy wanted to get home. He neither waited until he heard the whistle, nor checked that I was on the bus. He quickly reversed on his own and was off into the dark.

I was left standing there with a few soldiers and no transport. Firmly refusing the soldiers’ invitation to join them in the barracks, I stood petrified as the last one disappeared, and I was alone. Petrol being short in those days, most private cars were off the road. Percy’s name went through my mind in a series of unmentionable words as I stood there. I decided I would have to walk, and clutched the whistle for comfort.

I had been walking for about 15 minutes when, out of the darkness, I saw two headlights coming towards me. It looked like a large car. It was, in fact, a double decker bus with all the inside lights out because it wasn’t in service. It shot past me, and I shouted with frustration. However, the driver had seen me and had gone to turn round. He drew up beside me. Guess what! It was the traffic inspector.

We didn’t communicate on the return journey, and I sat in splendid isolation in the empty bus. Back at the depot, I found out that Percy hadn’t missed me until I didn’t cash in. When asked where I was, he of course didn’t know. And the inspector came to find me. I thought it was kind of him to offer to do this, for by this time it was nearly midnight. However, when I got out of the bus at the depot I had to revise my thoughts. There was only the inspector, me and the cashier left in the depot.

I set off to walk home. Percy, I was sure, would be in bed -- I hoped with indigestion.

I am made redundant.

As I have mentioned before, I quite enjoyed the route to Hemsworth, although it could be confusing, as we never went the same way there and back but travelled around the villages. The service was not very good, but essential to those who lived there. Because of the shortage of petrol, the bus company ran a parcel service. People would hand over their letters and parcels to be delivered at the village shop. This was usually the post office. There they would be signed for and collected by their owners.

One such parcel depot was at a little village (at least it was then) called Havercroft. The terminus was at Havercroft Green, a large area of common land. Here the parcels had to be taken down a lane to the post office. There we received a signature and left them.

On the morning in question we stopped at the Green, and I held up a small parcel to indicate to Percy that I had something to deliver. He acknowledged this with a wave of his hand. The post office was quite a way down the lane, and I ran there and back. When I reached the Green, there was no sign of the bus. I couldn’t believe my eyes. On one of the seats by the Green sat two elderly men. I asked them if they’d seen a green double decker bus. Their reply was, “Yes, lass, but you’ve just missed it.” I replied, “I can’t have. I’m the conductress!” They looked neither impressed nor interested.

I stood in the middle of the empty road with my hands on my hips. This was the second time Percy had left me. If he was trying to tell me something, he wasn’t very subtle. A loud horn sounded behind me. I jumped onto the pavement as a van drew up. It was a butcher delivering meat. I told him what had happened and besides laughing he offered to help me find the bus. Unfortunately, I hadn’t a clue as to the direction it might have taken, except that I knew it was going back to Wakefield.

He was an exceptionally kind man, and we drove many miles until we came to a little place called Crofton, not far out of Wakefield. There outside the pub was a stationary green bus and next to it, with the body language of a very angry man, stamped Percy.

I had barely time to thank the butcher when Percy charged up to me with the words, “Where the h… have you been?”

I said to him, “Not very far -- you’ve had the bus, haven’t you? Besides, who’s been ringing the bell?”

There was a long pause. Then he said, “ A policeman, but he’s just got off the bus. He kept pointing upstairs to indicate you were taking tickets above.” Muttering, “That’s it. We’ve missed our tea break,” he climbed aboard the bus, vented his anger on the gears, and we were off. Of course we didn’t miss our break. Although still a safe driver, he drove back as if a tribe of Indians were after us.

I wonder if this incident partly contributed to the decision to dispense with conductresses soon after the war and have driver only buses. But I’m certain I wasn’t wholly responsible for the bus company’s change of policy. And I’m sure the buses these days are not as enjoyable to travel on without the humour and friendliness of a conductress.

Bottomoffbus at Bottomboat

My marriage to Richard in January 1941 amounted to a day off work. He was in the army and stationed in a big house which belonged to the Wills family, of tobacco fame. It was called Littlecote, a house of great historical interest, sited in a place called Chilton Foliat. Soldiers were billeted in part of the house, and the family lived in another part.

Richard had a weekend leave, and I had the day off. We were both 21, had met at the church youth club at 15, and neither of us from then onwards had another boy or girlfriend. Up to the present day we have been married 60 years.

Taking time off work because a relative was on leave was frowned upon. So when Richard came home on leave, we spent most of the time riding on my bus, he as a passenger and I the conductress. It was a strange beginning to a marriage, but we were no different to thousands of other couples parted by the war.

Soon after I was married, Percy and I were put on another bus route, Leeds to Wakefield and then Barnsley. Having mastered the Leeds to Wakefield route, I anticipated no problem with the bit between Wakefield and Barnsley, but I was wrong. That was because of a little village called Woolley. In spite of its size, Woolley was a very important bus stage with a peculiar function. It was the half-way stage between Wakefield and Barnsley, and both towns shared the income.

This meant double booking at Woolley. I had to make out a detailed sheet for the West Riding Company and then re-issue tickets and write up the new waybill for Barnsley. This, of course, was double the work. Consequently it was not a favourite route with most conductresses.

However, there was one compensation. When we got to the bus station at Barnsley, which, incidentally, at that time had the last word in amenities, including a very good canteen, we had a break of one-and-a-half hours, for which we were paid. Barnsley also had an excellent market, and I spent many hours shopping there. Percy had relatives who lived in Barnsley and disappeared to visit them as soon as we had parked the bus.

I had been working on the buses for over a year when we were allocated the new route, and in spite of the few problems which I have previously recounted, I was not as apprehensive when we were sent on other, shorter journeys between the regular runs.

One of these journeys was to a little place between Wakefield and Stanley. It had the strange name of Bottomboat, famous I believe for growing watercress. It was usually dark on the occasions we made this short run, but I sensed it was down a long country lane. No one ever got on or off the bus between the top and bottom stages.

Arriving one night on the last journey before going back to the depot, we halted in order that Percy could reverse the bus. I got off the bus as usual to ‘help’ him. I couldn’t see anything in the dark, and I couldn’t hear any passengers, so I blew my whistle to give him the all clear.

He reversed quickly, then with a grinding noise came to a sudden halt. Percy shot out of the driver’s seat and came around the bus. I shone my torch on the scene. It was unbelievable. I had reversed him up the side of a banking. We both stood speechless. then Percy, still silent, got back into the bus and drove it forward. It came off the banking with a grinding and scrunching noise. Stopping the engine, he came to look at the damage, and there was damage indeed. The running board attached to the length of the bus and also half a side panel fell off onto the road.

Still no word from Percy. He bent down, picked up the pieces and flung them onto the bus floor through the back door. Without a glance my way, he climbed into the bus and started the engine. I jumped quickly onto the back platform, not wishing to be left behind again, and we were off to the depot.

Arriving there, I now expertly jumped off the back platform and went to pay in. After parking the bus, Percy came into the cash office to sign off. Then without a goodnight or glance my way he went home. Next day nothing was mentioned about the incident.

I think working with me really did Percy good. He learned to keep his temper -- well at least for the rest of that week.

A load of tripe.

I was fortunate to be paired with Percy. He was a very good and safe driver. I doubt he felt he was as fortunate with his conductress, but I’m sure he realised that I was trying -- very trying! My working relationship with him was fraught or lightened by many such episodes as I have recalled, but the final one, I am sure, was to him the most irritating.

As we continued on our journeys to Leeds and Barnsley, we met many passengers who we came to regard as casual friends. Some of them were regular users of our buses. Among these were the market traders who, because they had no private transport, travelled with us between the Leeds, Wakefield and Barnsley markets, carrying all their goods in very heavy suitcases. If the buses were really crowded, and they often were, we would anticipate that they would need a place on the bus and save it for them.

One passenger, however not a market trader, used our bus daily. He would board the bus at Tingley crossroads carrying a large white enamel bucket with a lid on and ask if it was all right to leave the bucket under the bus steps and would I keep an eye on it. I invariably forgot it until he wanted to get off the bus. Then I hoped it was still there. One day, unable to contain my curiosity, I asked what he carried in the bucket. He made some trite remark, and I assumed he didn’t want to tell me.

Some time later he asked if I had a newspaper. Being used to the miners reading horse and dog track records, I thought he wanted to check some results. I went to the front of the bus and tapped on the window that divided us to attract Percy’s attention. He opened the little hatch and, in answer to my request, passed his newspaper. Up until this time I had never realised how obsessed he was with his newspaper. It became quite clear to me, however, as they day progressed.

Because the time of our journey was arranged to coincide with the arrival and exchange of other passengers and buses, it was not unusual to have a short break of about fifteen minutes until the other buses arrived. We would use this time to have our sandwiches and a drink of tea. The bus was open-ended so passengers had easy access, and it became impossible to have a quiet drink without passengers besieging us with enquiries. It became our practice to sit upstairs on the front seats of the bus. Percy would take out his lunch box, pour a drink from his flask, then take his newspaper out of his inside pocket, open it, and from then on all was silence. I sat on the opposite seat eating and drinking at the same time as catching up on my paper work.

Back to the passenger, the bucket and the newspaper. As we approached the place where he usually alighted, he stood up and handed me a newspaper parcel with the words, “Here you are, lass. I hope you like tripe. Here’s some for your supper.” Yes, he was a tripe dresser, and he was delivering it to various shops. Unfortunately, he had wrapped it in Percy’s newspaper, but as food was in short supply, I thought he wouldn’t mind.

When we had our next break and were sat on the two front upstairs seats, Percy asked for his newspaper. As I handed him the parcel, he said, “What’s this?” I explained the situation to him and offered to let him keep all the tripe. At this he exploded and left me in no doubt that he hated the sight and taste of tripe and wanted his newspaper.

Hoping to improve the situation, I began to unwrap the tripe but didn’t realise how wet it would be. It slid onto the bus floor, and the newspaper was a mangled wet object. Trying to placate him, I offered to buy him another newspaper when we arrived in Wakefield, but he was determined to let the episode upset him and refused my offer.

The silence of the break deepened and continued for the rest of our working day and also through our clocking off and departure home. Fortunately, we both had the next day off, and when we returned to work he seemed his old self -- touchy. I suspect he had bought another newspaper. Poor Percy!

My last bus into the depot

My own final clocking off time came in September 1942. Earlier in the year I became pregnant, not, I hasten to say, by kind permission of the bus company. I thought I would soon be able to leave, but the government rule for all employed women, including those in the forces, meant we had to work until seven months pregnant, unless we had a medical certificate to advise against our working.

By this time I must have looked like a balloon (and a very tired one at that) bouncing down the bus steps. I gave birth to a son, Richard Anthony, on 13th November, 1942, and on the 19th August, 1944, to another son, Michael John.

My very last day at work was a late duty. I stepped, for obvious reasons, very gingerly off the bus and made my way to the cash office to pay in. Percy came in later to say goodbye and was greeted by the traffic inspector, who handed him the name of his new conductress for the next day. As he looked at the sheet, I felt very sorry for him. After all, not every conductress would learn as quickly as I did. He could really be in for a rough time and would probably need to have all his wits about him, as well as an even temper. My guess is he wouldn’t.

Incidentally, Percy was much older than me and is probably not around today -- well at least not driving a bus. But if by chance he isn’t, I’ll finish the way he always did before our last run. He’d look at his watch, carefully fold his newspaper, put it in his inside pocket, stand up and say, “Right then, Vi, if you’re ready we’ll be off on our way, nearer to home and clocking off time.”

Needless to say, on these occasions I never argued with him.