Trifter

I shall never forget the phone call, one evening back in the summer of ’93. Hugh, music master in a small private school I visited each week in Norfolk telephoned to tell me his news.

‘I’ve got another job. In London,’ he enthused. ‘It’s an all girls’ school. I start in September. The thing is, they don’t have a visiting teacher for brass at the moment and I wondered whether you’d like to come along and help out.’

I was pleased. For Hugh that is. He was a renowned organist, a highly respected musician and a good teacher. I was also flattered that he’d considered me as his first port of call when looking to fill his vacant brass tutoring position.

‘There’ll be about a day’s work and the girls will pay you directly. Each term – in advance.’

It was tempting. In fact the last statement could have sealed the deal. Just one thing though. ‘Where in London is it?’

‘It’s in Parsons Green. Very accessible. It’s on the District Line. The school is only about five minutes’ walk from the station.’

Not being too familiar with much of London’s geography at the time, I hesitated but accepted the invitation. After all, it was only an hour’s commute into Liverpool Street from my home in Essex and the Underground was fast. The prospect of working in London also appealed and I could do with the work. Why not. It’ll be worth the effort. But, where on Earth is Parsons Green?

Having little need of an A-Z there wasn’t one in my possession at that time so I called an ex-army acquaintance who had lived in London for a while.

‘Where’s Parsons Green?’   

‘Not sure’, came the reply. ‘Hammersmith way somewhere I think’.

I decided to give those nice people on the London travel helpline a call.

‘Liverpool Street to Parsons Green? Yeah. Take the Central Line to Notting Hill Gate and then a Wimbledon District Line train. Or take the first District Line and change at Earls Court. Parsons Green is one stop beyond Fulham Broadway on the Wimbledon branch’.

‘Really? I was told it was Hammersmith way.’

‘Hammersmith. Fulham. It’s all the same really mate!’

‘Is it? MATE!’. I’m not sure the people of Hammersmith and Fulham would see it that way. Anyway that was it. Easy.

September arrived and, armed with my one day travelcard I looked forward to making the journey to ‘one stop beyond Fulham’. It wasn’t too bad after all. Into Liverpool Street at just gone eight on the semi-fast and then down to the Central Line. The change at Notting Hill Gate Station was something of a surprise. The District & Circle Line platforms are inside a rather handsome glass covered train shed which wouldn’t be out of place on the East Coast Main Line. I almost half expected the Flying Scotsman to come thundering round the bend. Chesterfield Midland isn’t that big!

However, having navigated the first commute without a hitch, Parsons Green was reached each week more or less on time, Underground and First Great Eastern permitting. I shall refrain from mentioning the name of the establishment involved in this narrative but I dare say any reader familiar with educational matters in the Fulham area will know of the school in question.

Entering its Palladian Edwardian entrance hall in what was obviously once an original school house, one was greeted by the Headmistress, an ageing Miss Brodie type complete with mild Caledonian brogue who surveyed her seminary with an eagle like glare. She had an inbuilt suspicion of any member of the male species, especially those who entered her academy and doubly especially those who made repeated but infrequent visits.

After a term of weekly interrogations she finally got used to the idea that I was something to do with music and then I spent the next term convincing her that I wasn’t ‘the recorder man’! However, the young ladies of Putney and Pimlico took to their trumpet and tromboning with enthusiasm and things were going well in Parsons Green.

After a couple of terms of my weekly commute I was getting the hang of this travelling in London carry on. It wasn’t too disconcerting at all. With a new summer term looming and pleasant afternoon sunshine beckoning I decided that if an early return to Essex wasn’t required I would investigate alternative means of crossing London. Bus travel was always more desirable anyway and didn’t they still have those Routemasters running in London? Real buses (sort of) – buses which reminded one of happier times spent travelling on vehicles with open backs and drivers on their own in the front bit.

The 11 has been a well known cross-London bus route for generations and was Routemaster operated for four decades. Here RM 268 departs from Liverpool Street bound for Fulham Broadway in 2001 (photo- author)

I’m not sure how I made the discovery but I found out that a bus went all the way from Liverpool Street Station to Fulham Broadway Station. It was the 11 and it was a route operated by Routemasters. Time constraints never allowed the morning outward journey to be made in this fashion but, the return from Fulham to the City could be done in the Friday afternoon sunshine and it was all so tempting.

One Friday afternoon then, I made my way as usual to the District Line and travelled just one stop to Fulham Broadway. I ventured back out into the afternoon heat and set off in search of the nearest Routemaster. It didn’t take long to find one, tucked away in a back street behind the station.

I approached the bus and, seeing the blinds set to Liverpool Street and both crew sat inside, ventured on board.

‘Bus stop’s round there mate.’ A slightly agitated expression accompanied the nonchalantly pointed finger.

‘Sorry. I thought…’

‘We leave in a couple of minutes. Go back down this street and take a left. About a hundred and fifty yards.’ (Author’s note – I had been tempted to relate this transcript of events in the quasi-Cockney dialect in which it was spoken but thought better of it. How does one spell ‘anandredanfiftyards’ convincingly anyway?)

‘Right. Sorry.’

It felt as though I had infiltrated some inner sanctuary of a Masonic lodge. A Routemaster between turns is a hallowed place, open only to those who work within it and definitely off limits to those who merely travel on it. I had disturbed precious ‘down time’ – crossed the line and trespassed into a shrine dedicated to cola cans, Mars bars, and the Sun’s racing pages.

I skulked off in the direction of the indicated bus stop, only to be overtaken about thirty seconds later by the bus – my number 11, Liverpool Street bound and not a passenger on it! Either a couple of minutes is a very short time in Fulham or local bus crews have a strange idea of how long it should actually be.

It was also obvious that when buses in London reach a terminus, it isn’t really the same place that one is supposed to get on it. They don’t do it like they do in Derbyshire, or indeed in East Anglia. Where the bus route ends elsewhere in the country is usually where you get on it to go back the other way. They don’t drive round the corner and hide their bus away in the hope that nobody finds it for ten minutes while they have a crafty fag.

Apparently the start of the 11 from Fulham Broadway is however, exactly where it says on the front – in Fulham Broadway. Should have known really. Silly me.

It was almost a twenty minute wait for the next number 11 to arrive but the timetable on the bus stop sign read about every nine minutes. They really should think about developing some concept of time scales in Fulham.

When the Routemaster finally did turn up to collect what had developed into a substantial queue of eager travellers, one woman just behind me actually had the nerve to enquire exactly why we had all been waiting for so long. My word, I thought, she’s sticking her neck out a bit. The cheek of it! Questioning the conductor and even making a half hearted complaint about late running. How dare she. She wouldn’t do that in East Midland country but, then again, she probably wouldn’t need to – most buses run on time there. 

‘A broken down van on the King’s Road coming in love. Traffic hold ups.’

Yeah, right. A likely story. Bet they still went round the back of the railway arches for a smoke and a Coke though. They wouldn’t think about re-scheduling the layover time to present anything like a half decent service for Friday afternoon customers making their way home after a hard day’s graft. Besides, no doubt union rules, ‘Elfin’ Safety’ guidelines and flexible working agreements didn’t allow it.

Despite the rather dubious overtures, having finally got it under way my Friday afternoon sojourn soon turned out to be a pleasant adventure. The 11 was (still is?) branded as the ‘best sightseeing bus route in London’. After its rather insignificant departure from Fulham it takes in the King’s Road, Sloane Square, Victoria, Westminster, Whitehall, Trafalgar Square, Strand, Fleet Street, St. Paul’s Cathedral and Bank before ending up in Liverpool Street Station’s concourse. It is one of the oldest and most well known of all the Central London routes and started running almost a Century ago as a London General service between Bank and Shepherd’s Bush.

It is most likely that little had changed over the previous half century and what I experienced, on what were to become regular summer jaunts over the route, would no doubt have been familiar to anyone making the journey at any time during the previous fifty years or more. One was locked into a familiarity and ritual of events inside the bus which had probably altered very little as the World passing by on the outside changed so much over the decades – fashions, vehicles, architecture.

On board the Routemaster the conductor still made his regular passage along the gangway. Tickets were rarely issued in more modern times, replaced by travelcards and bus passes which were given cursory glances and when tickets were issued, they slickly emerged from a computerised machine which made little in the way of sound. None of the characteristic clicking and whirring of Gibson ratchets and gears to dispense tickets these days.

Depending on the conductor, passengers sometimes had notification of which stage was being approached or stopped at by way of a half discernable wail. They were also obligingly warned not to travel or stand on the rear platform. ‘Elfin’ Safety’ at work again, obviously.

One conductor, Dave, according to his lapel badge, became a half familiar face over time. Chatty and helpful, he would call out the stops en route and had an efficient but friendly air about him. One had the impression he had been in the job some time and, as I often travelled on the rear side-facing seat, he would recognise me and extend a welcome on board as if greeting a lifelong acquaintance. If his time allowed, the journey would then be passed with some occasional friendly banter.

Often it was necessary to travel with a trombone for my work. A trombone bag is not the smallest item of luggage and I would sometimes struggle in negotiating its stowage in the under stairs cubby-hole. Dave was the only conductor I met who assisted with this operation, no doubt another reason for him remembering me on repeated occasions. He would also assure me the instrument was safe with him and he would keep an eye on it if I wished to travel further down inside the saloon. I accepted the invitation once, really out of politeness, but if possible my choice of seat was always in order that I could stretch my legs slightly, keep a discrete watch over my instrument and, observe the comings and goings of other passengers and the occupation of the conductor on the platform. It was after all, part of the entertainment of traditional bus travel and besides, a seventeen stone, six feet-odd frame pressed into the front seats behind the front bulkhead never made for the most comfortable trip.

Riding on the 11 most spring and summer Friday afternoons became a pleasant and enjoyable weekly experience. It brought back many memories and reminded me why such bus journeys are fondly recalled by many people and why no doubt so many wished to see the Routemasters retained in London. As it made its journey, each bus became a travelling community, forever changing residents but maintaining a sense of belonging and pride almost. There were unwritten rules, procedures, conformity and an overwhelming feeling that by simply by being a part of it all, one contributed to lifelong rituals and traditions without which London would ever be the same. No one-person-operated ugly box could ever be like this – too anonymous. Too uninviting.

Forget the arguments about bus versus bus, Leyland versus AEC, Weymann versus Park Royal. These were journeys to be cherished – regardless of who built the body or put the engine and chassis together. This was time travel of the highest order. Vintage style commuting with a foot in the past. This little piece of our great British heritage was comforting and secure. Long should it have continued, alongside if necessary,  the human-righters’ modern kneeling glass and plastic noise factories. Let those who need a low access bus have it. Let those who like time-honoured traditions and who enjoy some respect for what’s left of our once great British engineering industry have them. There is an argument for each so let each be at one with the other. Whatever happened to freedom of choice anyway?  (Probably got lost turning left somewhere between Brussels and Strasbourg).

I spent three years in all negotiating London each term-time Friday to make music in Parsons Green. They were pleasant times and made all the more so by a regular dose of the number 11 Routemasters. I had become, albeit on an infrequent basis, a member of a special club, an order of fellow travellers who could call themselves Routemaster regulars. They were comrades in arms who were proud to have been a part of it all – unknown to one another but all sharing that same sense of unspoken loyalty and belonging. They were the passengers of fate. Part of the fabric of London and each a miniature morsel of one of the most well known aspects of Britain’s great public transport story. And I was starting to get hooked. The Routemaster in all its red, iconic glory was finally growing on me.

From that time, the 11 remained in my subconscious as being one of London’s more memorable and significant bus routes. For some reason the bus services which cross the centre of the Capital have never made any sense to me or been particularly noteworthy. I know where the 11 goes to and from. I am familiar with its route and what it passes. I know nothing or can remember anything about the other routes, save for some reason the 13 (Golders Green to Aldwych, another well known and erstwhile Routemaster operated service) and those which pass close to my home. The 11 however was my favourite, my own.

Another ewll known Central London route, operated for a long time by Routemasters was the 13 which went from Golders Green to Aldwych where Routemasters could be seen resting as here in 2003 (photo – author)

The northern terminus of the 13 at Golders Green Station where a newly re-furbished Sovereign operated Routemaster rests between duties in 2003 (photo – author) 

At 23.30 on Halloween night in 2003 the last Routemaster to work the 11 set off from Liverpool Street. That bus was an immaculate looking RM9, specially turned out for the occasion and only usually operated by its owner, the modern day London General, for private hire. As with all the final Routemaster services over the following two years, there were a couple of ‘special’ buses operating on the last day of the 11, ‘heritage’ vehicles which gave the occasion a certain significance. They brought to a close over seven decades of AEC buses working the route, four of them with Routmasters.

I haven’t been to Parsons Green since I ended my work there. There was never any need, or indeed any point. I dare say that if I ever did venture beyond Fulham Broadway again things would probably look much the same – but without a Routemaster or two lurking behind the station’s back alleys, there might just be a feeling that something wasn’t quite as it should be!  

For more Routemaster related articles and photos see links below:-

The Routemaster Bus: Why All the Fuss Introduction

The Routemaster Bus: Why All the Fuss 4 

The Routemaster Bus: Why All the Fuss One