BILL PETERS spent ten years guarding and driving buses for Liverpool Corporation Passenger Transport department. Some time ago he was invited to submit an article on his experiences to an enthusiasts' magazine. It was so well received that he was persuaded to do more. His book of memoirs, Busman, is the result.
The publisher's blurb says: "Here is a rare insight into a vanished way of life." And it's true. The book has such a wealth of anecdote that it must be interesting even to those who have never or only rarely travelled on a bus. But for those who remember the old rear-loader buses it's a fascinating tale, and especially for old codgers like me, who actually worked on them.
Bill Peters' reminiscences awakened memories of my own of this "vanished way of life". It was a time when buses had no doors and no heaters and an open platform that enabled passengers to drop off at a convenient corner. To boarding passengers the driver was nothing more than a crouching hermit skulking in the half-shadows of his isolated cab. Which was how it should be. If the passengers ever became aware of him it meant he wasn't doing his job properly. The guard was right there among them, though. Some of them were personalities who felt it their duty to lighten the passengers' daily trudge to work.
In the days of sailing ships the rule for crews working aloft was "one hand for the ship and one for yourself." Bus guards, though, needed both hands for the job of issuing tickets and counting change. As a consequence the guard was most often seen, or felt, by his passengers as nothing but an intrusive butt. For most guards one hand was permanently disabled as a steadying device by his habit of carrying a line of pennies in it. This often left a green patina on the skin of the palm. In these pages I refer to conductors generally as masculine. We did have a few clippies—and they were always a pleasure to work with—but they represented only a tiny majority of platform staff of those days. And there wasn't a single woman driver.
According to the dates given in Bill Peters' book he and I served at Speke depot at the same time. I was there two and a half years, from late 1960 to May 1963, only the first six months of which was spent as a guard. It's only in that short time that Bill and I could have crewed the same bus and, with the way the rota sheets contra-rotated, that might have happened only once or twice. Afterwards we might have nodded as we passed on the road or exchanged a few words while queueing for sausage toast in the canteen, but that would be about it.
Nor did I socialise much while I was on the buses, as I was generally too busy grabbing overtime. I visited the recreation club at Finch Lane only once and even my own family didn't see much of me. I was what we called a buck king.
These are some notes of my own memories of that time. It's not a chronologically structured document, like Bill Peters' book, but odd jottings as they occurred to me. I hope they are of some interest, though.

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