Being driven by Carter – a reader’s memories
IN 1964, I landed a casual weekend job washing R.G. Carter’s buses using a broom, four-gallon can and a hose. The depot was a very ramshackle, dilapidated but fascinating place. Neither of its two buildings, a house and a former blacksmith’s forge, had been painted for decades. Carter’s had five old buses and five fairly new ones. Buses of the ’40s and ’50s were nothing like those of today. They were noisy; had no heating or air conditioning, some had no door; they were freezing in winter and often unbearably hot in summer.
