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BUS TRAVEL IN THE 'EIGHTIES

When Driver and Conductor were a Law unto Themselves. The High Status of the "Regular"

By WALTER GROVES, Editor, The Motor.

FOR one to admit that he can recall the time when he travelled regularly from the West End of London to the City on the top of a knife-board horsed-bus is to confess oneself a veteran road traveller. It is, in my case, a fact, and veteran I am, preferring the road to-day to any burrowing below ground.

Moreover, as a " regular " bus traveller of the early 'eighties, I am able still to remember the driver and conductor of the early-morning bus on which a seat was always reserved for me. At first I did not get that seat. Something, however, must have happened to some other " regular " which gave me my chance. Once initiated, both driver and conductor became my patrons. This was the way of it. On reaching the starting place the " regular " addressed the driver like this when taking his seat :— " Good morning, Mellish."

And Mellish, with the handle of his whip brought smartly to the salute on the brim of his top-hat, responded with " Mornin', sir ; nice mornin' sir." The same with the conductor. "Good morning, Palmer."

" Mornin' sir ; seat's all right, sir."

One would have thought they were coachman and footman respectively in the exclusive service of each and every regular passenger.

The Old and The New.

Now, the names I have given were actually those of the driver and conductor of the old bus that made its first journey from Hamnriersmith Broadway to town in 1884. You who are now conveyed to town on the latest pneumatic-tyred six-wheeler, or who prefer to burrow in less time through the tubes, cannot imagine what a leisurely performance a journey to town by bus was in those old days.

First of all, let me make it clear that Mellish and Palmer were a law unto themselves, and that strict adherence to a time schedule was unknown. At the start Palmer -would have anxious moments, watch in hand, scanning the offing for straggling regulars." Invariably several of these were minutes late, and gasped apologies while finishing their breakfasts on the run.

When they had all been shepherded to their places and Mellish had been given the "all clear," a stranger would have thought it queer that here was a bus departing with at least half a dOzen vacant places, D26 while there were still several people on the pavement obviously desirous of travelling. In these Palmer had no interest, sympathetic or commercial.

With a portentous wink and a reassuring smile he would wave them a farewell, saying, "Another bus along in a minute." Their docility was pathetic. To-day such highhandedness on the part of a conductor would cause a riot.

Mellish's first-journey horses were always a prime and mettlesome pair, and he was proud to talk about their points to his companions on the box seat. There were two of these seats on each side of the driver in the manner of the old stage coach. The coachman was perched about 2 ft. higher than the passengers, which gave him a commanding aspect as he looked down on either side and gossiped and yarned.

It is rather interesting here to digress for a moment to recall what Hammersmith Road was like at the time of which I write. St. Paul's School was nearing completion, and to those who have long known it as a landmark it may seem strange that beyond the building were Deadman's Fields stretching away to Fulham. The old "Red Cow "since rebuilt—stood on the right of the school, a picturesque red-tiled country inn with a horse-trough_ in front of a cobble-stoned pull-up.

At that time there was no Olympia. Addison Road Station—curiously enough, a much more important railway centre then than it is now—stood like an oasis surrounded by what the builders had left of a shrub-dotted heath. A year later, in 1885, the foundation stone of Olympia, known first as the National Agricultural Hall, West Kensington, was laid by the Earl of Zetland. It was opened in December, 1886.

After a short distance had been

covered on the road described the bus would draw up at a private house near Brook Green, and one of the "regulars," for whom one of the seats had been reserved, would take his place. I can remember that this Brook Green traveller and another who was picked up at a house in St. Mary Abbott's Terrace, Kensington, were privileged box-seat "regulars," who always had their places reserved. Personally, I never attained the dignity of a box-seatet on that first journey, which was not, perhaps, surprising, as I was very young and box-seat " regulars " were generally old and well-seasoned travellers.

Before Kensington Church was reached we had made up our complement of passengers—all " regulars "—and Mellish would flick his horses into a canter and chat and yarn away to his box-seat gods as we bowled along by Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park ; and Palmer would climb by narrow projecting iron steps to the top and talk to the knife-boarders, imparting much Sam Weller-like wit and wisdom on many subjects, domestic and political.

Contrasted with modern travel, it may be thought that the journey was tedious, but those who braved it daily in all weathers knew of nothing else so far as the road was concerned. There were times• when there was plenty of exhilaration, as when Mellish let the horses get on with it down the Knightsbridge slope, to come up steaming at the end of Sloane Street.

To give you an idea of the casual way in which things were done, I may mention that we " regutars " had a status quite distinct from the chance passenger. Our fares were not collected on each journey. We all .paid once a week.

Highway Piracy.

Even in the early 'eighties, however, there were signs a changes. The old " Generala " had had a good run, free almost entirely from cornpetition of a serious character. There came a time when piracy on the high roads commenced. At first the pirate vehicles (cleverly got up to resemble " Generals," and often mistaken for them by old ladies) were few and far between, but it has to be admitted that when one of these did appear on the scene hectic times were expected, and passengers braced themselves for what was coming. Sometimes positively dangerous driving and cutting-in and off occurred, for, the "General" and the pirate would race desperately for a lead at the next point.. At times free fights between rival conductors took place, while both drivers halted their buses and awaited results.

It has to be admitted that the worst of the pirates were a bad and unscrupulous lot. Driver and conductor were ever watching the main chance. The latter would think nothing of turning a few passengers out far short of the destination they had paid to reach if a fair picking was observed at a point on the other side of the road. The bus would then be turned around deliberately to commence a more remunerative journey in the opposite direction.

Then there came a time when real competition began. The " General " concern was of French origin, and the Road Car Co. started a rival service, at first with weird vehicles that looked like buses running the wrong way around. In order to distinguish them the Road Cars carried a Union Jack in front. Now began the period of garden seats, for the Road Car Co. led the way with these and the " General " was forced to follow, much to the disgust of the older type of driver of the knife-board bus. Now, too, began the ticket era, and the easygoing life of the old conductors reached its end, for with the tickets came the "jumpers" (travelling in

spectors), and with them an organized check upon the finances of each bus.

It is not the purpose of the writer in any way to overlap those other articles in this issue which deal exclusively with the modern motor era, except to say that times have changed in one particular respect— the old-time camaraderie of the road has gone. Passed on from the coach to the horsed-bus period, this survived all stages until the motorbus brought about the isolation of the driver.

Wit invariably, wisdom often and pathos sometimes flowed from the old Jehus on the box seats, and they would enliven the most tedious journey with their stories and chaff, and the repartee which they would hurl at other drivers with a robustness that was always most diverting.

I remember on one occasion being the occupant of a box seat with a driver who had been annoyed by an ancient " growler " (four-wheeled cab), the driver of which—a very old man wrapped about with a huge shawl—persisted in steering an erratic course. At last the opportunity occurred for drawing level with the cab, when our bus driver, throwing discretion to the winds, hurled a torrent of invective at the old driver of the cab, finally advising him to take his — rabbit-hutch home to the back yard The old man in the shawl seemed entirely impervious to the storm, but there emerged from the window of the cab the pale, shocked face of a curate, the exact counterpart of Penley in his character of the "Private Secretary."

"Dreadful language; dreadful!" he gasped in horror.

"Beg pardon, bunny," said the bus driver. "I didn't know you was in the 'utch."

It is something of an extreme to recall another witty remark. I was on the front seat of a Road Car bearing the Union Jack on the right of the driver. The latter seemed in a more than usually subdued and re

flective mood. After a time, however, he ventured to open a desultory conversation. He told me he was what was known as an odd man. He usually worked a Chelsea bus, but on this occasion was relieving a driver who had had the misfortune to knock down and kill a man on the previous day. He explained with great detail and obvious sympathy how it had occurred, finally telling me that it had upset the regular driver so much that he could not carry on.

With a few words of sympathy for the victim of the accident he lapsed into a contemplative mood. From this he emerged after a time with a final consolatory remark :— " Ah, well, sir," he said, "there's one consolation—he died under the flag."

A " Sport " Loses Interest.

Invariably the old bus drivers were keen sportsmen, who passed on tips concerning certain or possible winners all "straight from the stable," and in special eases "from the horse's mouth." I remember one fine summer evening being lucky enough to get a box seat at Charing Cross. The driver banded me the strap with which to haul myself up to my seat by way of the front wheel.

He was in resplendent garb, white top hat, cream-coloured doublebreasted coat with carnation in buttonhole, brand-new driving gloves, face rubicund and. shiny. As I took my seat, he said heartily, "Going to be a fine day to-morrow." I agreed.

"Going up in the morning, sir?

For a moment I was floored. Why should he ask me if I were going up in the morning? I thought he must have seen me often on my way to business, and said "Yes."

Then, seeing a poster, I recalled that the next day was the great day of the Derby.

"Going to be a great race, according to the papers," he said. "Do you know what's going to win?"

Here I was stumped. I was no follower of the "gee-gees." "I don't know what's going to start," I replied.

That ended a promising prospect —at any rate, for my driver companion, He gave me one downward look and I detected pity in it ; but, as for interest, his elves assumed the look of those of a codfish on a slab. He made no single remark in five miles, and we parted in complete estrangement. He had discovered—not a kindred spirit, but a lost soul!

They may have been days of slower travel, but there was a lot of joy in life. If there was less of hectic bustle and an entire absence of the mechanical noises which surround us on our travels to-day, there were the touches of human companionship which I have endeavoured to describe, and these made us forget the real hardships that often accompanied us in our road travel of 40 years ago.