Clippy

Now, it's not what you might think; I'm not talking about that annoying Microsoft Office pop-up. No, I'm talking about the London Clippy, more properly known as a bus conductress. This was long before the Oyster Card method of payment that you wand as you board a bus, through concertina folding doors. Back then there was no door, just an open platform at the back left hand side (e.g. the side facing the pavement). A driver would pull up almost one bus length beyond the painted sign that was attached to a post. This was the 'bus stop' and people queued on the far side of it – and woe betide anybody trying to join the bus from the wrong side and not joining at the end of the queue.

That was the thing in those days; queues. The shortages and rationing meant that you had to queue for everything. There was no point in complaining, you just had to get on with it like everybody else. So queuing became a way of life and for many years after bus stop etiquette ruled. I've recently seen examples of where it works and where it doesn't; at Stratford Bus Station it was like a rugby scrum, but at Beamish Museum a group of German teenagers who naively walked in front of a group of more mature visitors in order to board a vintage bus where told in no uncertain terms to get to the back.

The story really begins before 1942, but that's where we'll come back to in due course.

Lillian Walters was twenty one when she married George Clarkin. As Lillian Clarkin, she immediately lost her job as a clerk. That was what happened then; some companies continued to employ a woman after marriage, but the moment she became pregnant she was expected to leave. Although millions of young men were killed during the 1914-1918 War, when the survivors came back they needed employment and it became even more vital that women move aside.

Of course, twenty one years later things had changed again and women found they were needed in the workplace, not just in the roles that were considered suitable for females, but also the more physical arenas that included engineering, farming and the military.

"I have to tell you now that no such undertaking has been received, and that
consequently this country is at war with Germany," said Neville Chamberlain.

They didn't need to hear anymore; what they had all been dreading had happened. George turned off the Pilot Maestro radio and sighed.

"Well, I guess we all saw it coming. I've already made up my mind Lil, I'm going to enlist."

"What?" she asked. "You must be joking! They don't want somebody of your age!"

"Listen, four years I was in the army for the last lot and did I see any action? Did I hell. Army Pay Corp, that's what they put me in. Oh, I know most men would have given their eye teeth to be in my place, but when people ask me, 'What did you do in the war?' I feel ashamed. I need to do something proper this time, so I'm going down first thing in the morning."

Of course, a man of forty three wouldn't have been accepted by the army. Most men of George's age would be volunteering for the Local Defence Volunteer (LDV) force, which later became the Home Guard (or Dad's Army). But George was wise to this and when he walked into the recruiting office, he gave his age as considerably lower. The sergeant raised his eyebrows, but accepted what he said without further question. He was told to report back three days later.

"But how am I going to manage without you?" asked Lil.

"Don't worry, Lil. The pay I get from the army will be better than I get from the gas works. I'll send you enough to get by."

Well, that was the theory. What actually happened was that when George boarded the Leyland Hippo transport vehicle, he failed to sit down before the driver hit the accelerator and as a result fell headlong over the tailboard and out the back, breaking his neck when he landed in the road.

So Lillian was left on her own, childless (they never did find out why) and without a husband to pay the bills. She was perhaps fortunate in this unfortunate time that men were standing up to be counted and that jobs for women were thus becoming available. Very quickly she was taken on by London Transport for training as a bus conductress. The job in its simplest form was relatively easy; passengers got on, stated their destination and the Clippy then told them the fare, took their money and gave them change, then extracted a ticket from the wooden ticket holder and then clipped it as having been paid (hence the derivation of the name Clippy). But the reality was a little different; a conductress had to signal for the driver to pull away from each stop once the passengers had boarded. She also had to deal with the occasional drunk, fare dodgers, the inevitable gropers and emergencies such as air raids, whereby the driver stopped at the nearest shelter and she then ushered everyone inside.

The route that Lillian had been put on started in Central London and then wound its way through East London and out to the edge of Epping Forest, where the bus stopped for a ten minute break during the morning and a half hour break at lunchtime. The longer break was to allow for hold-ups and problems that might be encountered en route). The worst period was during the blitz in 1940. The outer suburbs were relatively quiet, but the route could be changed at very short notice due to fallen buildings, craters, burst water mains or even unexploded bombs.

Jim was Lil's driver. He was sixty five and was like a father figure to her. It was 1942 and he had been Lil's driver for the last three years. So she was saddened when Jim fell ill and couldn't work anymore. She was told that a temporary driver would be assigned to her for the next day.

It was bright sunny day in June, when she walked into the Bus Garage. The radio was on in the canteen, giving news of the Battle of Midway out in the Pacific Ocean. It sounded like an important victory for the Allies, perhaps tempering the not so good news from North Africa. She took a cup of tea and sat down, waiting for the Inspector to come in and tell her who her driver was.

The door opened and Inspector Daily walked in.

"Ah, Lil, there you are. This is your new driver Charlie," he indicated the tall dark-haired man standing behind him, cap set at a jaunty angle and with lop-sided grin on his face.

"Hello Lil," he said, voice rising and falling in a sing-song manner.

"Um, hello...Charlie," she replied. Her eyes took him in quickly. He was probably in his late twenties and looked pretty handsome. She found her mouth going dry.

"I believe that were due out in five minutes, so if you're ready?"

"Oh, yes. Just let me get my float and tickets and I'll be ready."

Lillian walked into the office where there was a section that was chicken wired off. This was where the Clippies handed in their takings and unsold tickets at the end of the day and picked up a float of change and their tickets in the morning.

"Morning Bert," she called.

"Morning Lil. Number 38 tickets and float. Sign here." He pushed them across the counter and she scribbled her signature.

"Thanks Bert."

She turned and walked away, stopping to check her almost military appearing uniform in the mirror; dark blue peaked cap with the metal London Transport badge, red hair flowing out in natural curls. The jacket although off the peg and of a heavy woollen material, could have been made for her, accentuating her slim waist, wide hips and proportionately sized breasts. The matching skirt was a devilishly clever design; the pleat in the front hid the fact that these were, in fact, culottes, with separate legs (one of the problems with the open rear deck of the modern bus, was that a woman walking up the curved stairs would be in danger of revealing a lot more than she wished to). The stockings were plain, grey and thick and unfortunately not particularly attractive, but it was almost impossible to get anything decent nowadays, except on the black market – at considerably inflated prices. The shoes were black, flat and sensible – she spent a major part of her day on her feet and these were probably the most vital piece of the uniform.

When she approached her Bus, the Inspector was just checking the route with Charlie to make sure he understood it. It had been a few years ago, but he had filled in on this one and knew it well enough for it to not require an Inspector on board for the first trip.

The Inspector walked away and Charlie spoke as she approached, "Is that really his name? Inspector Daily? Sounds like a music hall joke."

Lil giggled, "Well, behind his back we call him Inpect-her Daily."

Charlie chuckled.

"It gets worse; his first name is Thomas!" she whispered.

Charlie's mouth dropped open and then he said, "That doesn't sound right does it?"

They both continued giggling while Charlie went round to the front and climbed into the driver's seat and Lil stepped up onto the platform. The engine started and she checked the clock. As it ticked up to 5:50, she reached up to the button and pressed it twice in quick succession – the signal to start off.

That first trip was uneventful; Charlie had to slow his speed through Leyton to avoid getting ahead of the timetable and they arrived at the forest almost precisely on-time. Charlie switched off, then came round and sat down in the lower deck with Lil. They chatted and she told him about losing her husband. He listened attentively and asked questions, but by the time the ten minutes was up and they were on their way again, she realised that he had told her very little about himself. For instance; why was he not in the forces?

Back at the depot they took in a welcome cup of tea, before making the next run.

"So, why aren't you in the army Charlie?" she asked.

"I was – until my mate trod on a mine. I was lucky to be just far enough away not to lose my leg, but although it works, I've got very little feeling below the knee." He patted his left calf to indicate which limb he was talking about.

Before she could stop herself, Lil said, "What about your mate?"

He looked down at his tea and shook his head, "They reckon it was one of his bones that damaged me, rather than the shrapnel. They didn't find enough of him to put in a coffin."

A couple of hours later, they were back at the Forest turn around. Charlie jumped up on the platform and Lil pulled a tape across indicating that nobody should board the bus. She then led the way upstairs to the top deck, where the bus crew normally had their lunch. Charlie hadn't brought any with him so Lil shared what little she had. As a precaution the RT8 bus had netting covering the windows, with just a small diamond shaped hole for passengers to see out of. The result was that nobody could see in.

"So, how old are you Lil?" he asked.

She coloured, almost choking on her corned beef sandwich, "You're not supposed to ask a lady that!"

"Oh, right. So, how old are you then Lil?" he grinned as he spoke.

Lil giggled. "So you don't think I'm a lady then?"

"Well, you can't blame me for hoping."

She was used to such risqué talk from passengers, but Jim her previous driver would never have said such things. However, she found she liked being chatted up like this.

"I'm forty five," she said. "Old enough to be your mother."

"If my mother had looked like you, I'd never have left home!"

"Oh, go on with you! Listen, it's time to get going again."

He smiled at the light admonishment and trotted down the stairs.

Back at her rented flat that night, she couldn't stop thinking about Charlie. Since George had walked out the door, she hadn't thought seriously about sex. While he was alive George was never exactly an athlete in bed, but at least she could rely on him to release some of her tension on a regular basis.

She undressed for bed, pausing once she had removed her uniform, blouse, skirt, stockings and suspender belt. The light was not very bright, but she looked at herself in the small mirror on the wall. She didn't wear a lot of make-up simply because it wasn't available, but she had been fortunate to remain fairly youthful looking. The red hair probably helped. Looking at her body with a critical eye, she appreciated that her breasts possibly weren't as large as a lot of men seemed to like (she had overheard the other driver's conversations) and her tummy bulged a little – but not too much - it was difficult to be overweight with the diet that the enforced rationing dictated.

Lil turned side on to the mirror and looked at her bum. The outline didn't look too bad, but the tap pants she wore might hide some flab, so she unfastened the buttons at the side and dropped them to the floor. She was pleased with what she saw; her bottom hadn't yet sagged and actually looked quite pert – possibly a side effect of being on her feet for long hours.

Not at all self-consciously, she unhooked her brassiere and dropped it to the floor. The view of her breasts from the side showed that they had sagged a little from their firmer days, but she thought they were still pretty good. She turned back to face the mirror full on and stood looking at her naked body, possibly for the first time in over ten years. Now she imagined Charlie seeing her like this and her body's reaction was instant; her nipples grew hard and she felt the need to squeeze her knees together. Fascinated by the dark red nubs poking out from the pale, soft flesh, she reached up with both hands and extended her forefinger to each one. She gasped as the touch sent a tingling from the sensitive buttons, down though her body to centre between her legs, where she could feel something happening.

Lil closed her eyes as her right hand wandered down to investigate. Her fingertips slipped across the soft smooth flesh of her tummy, on further into the downy red fur of her pubic hair. Her middle finger stroked across her clitoris and she moaned as it did so. The fingertip then slipped between her labia to find that her vagina was soaking wet. She opened her eyes again and saw the image of a lust-filled woman on the verge of an orgasm - which came quickly thereafter.

Rrrrrrrrriiiiinnnnnnggggg.

Her arm slid out from under the bed covers and slapped the top of the alarm clock in a precise and practiced movement. It was 4.45am and Lil had just over an hour to get washed, dressed and down to the Depot. Her legs rotated as she sat up and her toes searched for the slippers that had been left there the night before. Slipping them on, Lil pushed the sheet and blankets back and stood up, stretching and yawning.

She walked across to the cooker (it was a single room flat, with a tiny bathroom down the corridor). The kettle had already been filled the night before, in preparation for the morning ritual. She opened the matchbox and extracted a phosphorous coated stick. Praying that the gas supply hadn't been disrupted again, she turned the knob, heard the hiss with satisfaction and struck the match. The gas ignited and filled the room with a feeble yellow light, which disappeared when the kettle was placed over it. She blew the match out and placed it to one side.

Lil crossed to the door and flicked the light switch, but alas, the power supply was off again, so she moved to the single window and pulled the curtains back. The sun was already rising, but the view was obscured by the close-packed tenement buildings opposite and the grime of years on the outside of the window. She didn't have net curtains, but observers opposite would have had difficulty peering through the opaque glass, so she felt no fear of observation as she walked around in her pink flannelette nightie. While the kettle was heating, she opened the bread bin, extracted the loaf and cut four slices from the almost stale loaf.

Reversing the already used match, she lit the unburned end and held it to the grill burner (which sat beneath the hob) and turned another knob on the front of the cooker. It burst into life and she extracted the tray and placed two of the slices on it, then slid it back in to toast.

Another yawn, another stretch and her mind wandered. To last night and the orgasm that she had experienced. A feeling of cringing embarrassment overtook her and she wondered why, after all these years, such a thing had happened. The whistle on the kettle began to scream, so she quickly turned it off, not wanting to disturb the neighbours. The tiny teapot was waiting nearby, so she pulled the whistle from the kettle, poured a small amount into the teapot, swirled it round as she walked to the sink and then tipped the water away. Two spoons of leaves were tipped into the china pot, the water poured in and the lid replaced.

By now the bread needed to be turned, to allow it to brown on the other side. The teapot was placed on the small table, where a cup and plate awaited. She then extracted a small jug of milk (which she sniffed, just to make sure) and a butter dish from the larder cupboard, before taking the plate over to the stove. The bread was ready, so she switched off the gas and using her finger and thumb carefully pulled the toast onto the plate.

She sat down at the table, poured a little milk into the cup and then placed the tea strainer on it. The steaming brown liquid filtered through the strainer, filling the cup with a dose of 'cha' that would help to wake her up. There was no sugar available, but Lil was used to that. And the butter dish only held margarine, but again, she was used to that. She hadn't been able to get any preserve, so it would have to be plain again today.

Lillian ate her toast and drank her tea and then made her sandwich for lunch and wrapped it in greaseproof paper. Her routine had been the same for some time, only interrupted by air raids. At first, like other people, she had made her way to the nearby Underground station, but as the raids became fewer, she decided to stay in her own flat. If she was going to die in a bombing raid, so be it, be she would damned if she would spend another uncomfortable night in the company of so many others in the cold, drafty corridors and platforms of the station. And the smell; as you walked in it was enough to knock out an elephant!

So, Lil stayed in her room, cowering under the bed for added protection when the sirens went.

The clock showed 5.10, she finished her cup of tea and placed the cup back in the saucer. She put the plate and cup on the drainer and picked up the metal bowl from the sink. She filled it with a small amount of cold water and then carried it across to the stove, where she poured the remains of the hot water from the kettle into it.

Leaving the bowl on the hob, she went back to the sink to fetch a bar of soap, a flannel and a towel. Thus prepared, she unbuttoned the front of her nightie and slipped it from her shoulders. She stepped out of the garment, trying to ignore her nakedness, not wanting to remind herself of last night.

Using the flannel and soap, she washed her face, neck, arms and breasts and then rinsed them off. With more soap and water on the flannel and she then proceeded to wash her legs. Finally, she washed between her legs and along the crack of her arse, knowing that these areas would likely be very sensitive. She wasn't wrong; she could feel the pleasure in the movement of the rough flannel across her labia. She didn't press to hard for fear of starting something. Rinsing and towelling weren't much better either.

Finally finished, she walked back across the sink and poured the contents of the bowl away. She rinsed the flannel under the tap and then wrung it out and placed it on a rail to dry, along with the towel.

Opening the chest of drawers, she extracted a fresh pair of knickers. They were her last clean pair and she made a metal note that she would have to do her washing that evening. The brassiere had only been put on the day before and as she only had three, she couldn't afford to change them daily. The same could be said for the blouse – although she only had two that she used for work.