AGAINST THE ODDS:SOCKET TWOMEY, the chief controller, shook his head sadly as he addressed the 260 bus drivers at Clontarf garage at dawn on Monday morning.
“Sorry to break the news lads, but some of ye are going to be let go. It’s a shame, because you’re among the finest crews I’ve worked with in 35 years,” he said.
As Socket shuffled off back to his eyrie, the drivers dispersed into groups around the canteen and considered their plight. Many questions were asked, few answers given. The overriding feeling was one of anxiety.
Vinny Fitzpatrick ambled off towards the forecourt, where he opened the doors of a 43 bus and hauled himself into the driver’s seat.
A devotee of nostalgia, Vinny was glad it was a 43, as it happened to be the same number of Dublin’s first bus route, established in 1925, which ran from the city centre to Killester via Clontarf.
The bus was facing towards the seafront, and Vinny, who had 10 minutes before departure, watched the seagulls pitch and swoop and heard their plaintive cries as he contemplated his odds of avoiding redundancy.
With 290 jobs to go, it meant each Dublin garage would lose over 40 workers. Drivers would be most affected, as 120 buses were being culled – and Vinny was convinced he was in the firing line.
First, he considered his profile. At 51, he was grossly overweight, with high blood pressure and high cholesterol.
If all the drivers were asked to run from the garage gates to Foley’s pub and back, Vinny would back himself to finish paddy last. He’d even put himself in a double to have a heart attack.
On health grounds, he knew he was high risk – if the company doctor got hold of his medical chart, he’d be shot out like a bullet.
In his favour, there was his old-school attitude to driving, which he knew grated with the young boy racers but nevertheless made him popular with his superiors.
Take the nightly half-eleven bus from town, for example. Most drivers edged away from the terminus two or three minutes early, but not Vinny.
He would keep the doors open, wait until his watch, complete with Everton logo, ticked to half-past, then have a final check of his mirrors, indicate and pull away slowly.
He was always keen to avoid the helter skelter through Amiens Street, past The Five Lamps and out the North Strand which reminded him of the old TV series The Wacky Races.
Going at full pelt was bad enough, but there had been occasions when some Dick Dastardly-types committed the unforgivable sin of overtaking at stops and leaving passengers stranded.
As the tail-end Charlie plodding along at 30 miles per hour, Vinny always made a point of stopping to pick up those left in the wake of the Wacky Races crew. If he could bring them any closer to their destination, he would.
For Vinny, it wasn’t about trying to beat the land speed record from A to B, or having more time for a cuppa and a fag between shifts; rather, it was about providing a service for the paying punter.
He was also notorious for pulling in between stops whenever he saw an outstretched hand, and had steadfastly refused to be part of the cosy cartel of drivers who conspired to travel in “banana bunches”, mostly on cross-city routes such as the disreputable 16A.
“If they were drawing up a shortlist of drivers to go, God knows where they’d put me,” he muttered to himself as he nosed the 43 out of the depot and headed towards town.
His melancholic mood continued through the day as he shunted to and from Swords, his mind distracted by the possibility he might lose his job.
“What would I do?” he thought. “I’m useless at DIY, gardening and haven’t a breeze what goes on in an engine. Even Angie was slagging me the other day because I couldn’t change a plug,” he sighed.
He wasn’t an academic either, while, when it came to information technology – his computer – he was able to place a bet on his Betfair account, but not much else.
Working the buses was all he had ever known, all he had ever felt comfortable doing. He was too old to learn new tricks.
True, he had 30 years’ service, but no one in the union knew what deals, if any, would be on the table. And even if he were given a few bob to go, what was he supposed to do for the rest of his working life?
For all the time he enjoyed in Foley’s, the gargle with the lads, and the gambling, Vinny’s sense of self-worth was built around his work behind the wheel.
“If I lose the buses, I lose everything,” he thought.
That night, he slipped into his new den in Mount Prospect Avenue and switched on the telly. Angie was at a Scrabble evening with old school pals from Sutton and wouldn’t be home till late.
Plonking down to watch his beloved Everton play Liverpool, Vinny’s apathy was such that he had almost forgotten he had tipped into Boru Betting at lunch-time to put a nifty 50 on the draw at 5 to 2.
Sitting in the dark, shoving fistfuls of popcorn into his gob and guzzling the last of the festive beer – he felt he deserved a mini break-out – his despair plumbed new depths when Everton fell behind to Steven Gerrard’s goal.
He groaned, reached down for another beer and was fumbling for a popcorn refill when Tim Cahill scored a late equaliser.
“Yes! You beauty!” cried Vinny, jumping to his feet and sending a scatter of popcorn all over the place.
“Ev-er-ton, Ev-er-ton, Ev-er-ton,” he shouted at the top of his voice as a little light shone into his dark, uncertain world, and a little extra cash became destined for his wallet.
Bets of the Week
1pte/w Boo Weekley to win Qatar Masters (50/1, Boylesports)
2ptNemanja Vidic to win PFA Player of the Year (10/1, Paddy Power)
Vinny's Bismarck
1pt LaySizing Europe to win Irish Champion Hurdle (4/1, general, liability 4pts)
