Members Stories

Unsung Heroes

You will be wondering who I am going to write about. Wonder no longer. They are the bus drivers of our youth. Remember running madly to catch the bus knowing full well it had left the Depot and then have it stop well short of the Bus Stop to pick you up. We knew all the drivers by name, which one was rumoured to get out of bed the wrong way, etc. Wasn’t it nice to be dropped off outside your gate if you lived on the bus route. To have those same drivers – when the babies came along – to get out and fold our very heavy pushchairs, then to unfold them at the end of our trip. Speaking of friendly ones or otherwise, one in particular always stands out. I don’t think he was ever seen smiling, just grunted when wished good morning, etc. This particular day (pre babies), my girl friend and I decided to go to town – windowshopping of course. A week of skimming a little here and there off the housekeeping and we were ready. Into the bus we got and who should be on that morning? I’ll leave you to guess. I handed over my pennies. No comment. But when my friend offered hers, this loud comment was heard “Bring beer bottles next time!”

Years later when we had bought a beautiful 1939 Studebaker from Mr Wrightson, I was taught to drive by a bus driver, knowing full well that they were the best drivers of all. Do you remember, all you drivers, how after three lessons you swore never to get in the car again with me? Think of me behind the wheel and with this very large man beside me. About this time he decided that Birkenhead Wharf would be the best place to go. So off I roared in low gear, I bet doing almost 15 miles an hour down the wharf hill praying that I would remember, or rather my feet would, which was the clutch and which was the brake. There waiting for the ferry to berth were buses – with drivers standing outside waiting. Strangely enough as I stopped someone would say “Here she comes!” Into their buses they would go and back as far as possible to the far end of the wharf. And then I would give an exhibition of how not to turn and back, and roar back up the hill. Do you know that I was so naïve in those days I didn’t realise it could have been a put up job. Why else was I taken down there at that exact time.

Then the great day arrived, I was going for my licence. After a nerve racking tour of the back streets of Birkenhead, I passed. Out of the Borough Council office to the car. No instructors! I was on my own. Oh Boy! What to do, how to get in that great machine as big as a bus and DRIVE it home. After sending a little prayer for help, off I went. Wonder of wonders I remembered everything I had been taught. No wonder bus drivers are the best instructors.

Then came the time to venture to town via the vehicular ferry. Believe me word must have got round that I was a good driver, not a learner. Why? Because invariably I was put behind the funnel. How I hated those Mates. They would leave me til last. Picture a very shy (me) young thing, not knowing what to do, eventually winding down the window and asking meekly, “Which way do I turn the wheel?” Oh, the wonderful feeling of freedom when I could roll onto the ferry and watch some other poor thing being put behind the funnel.

I will finish this scrawl now but not before saying there must be hundreds of grandmothers like me who remember with affection those unsung heroes of yesteryear – the Birkenhead Bus drivers.

Kaye Bland 1992

A lineup of prewar buses in 1937: Graham Page, Stewart, Stewart Morris,
Morris, Reo, Stewart
(Inwards collection)