Chipping Norton Times - Issue 26 - November 2012 (PDF)

We laughed and laughed and exchanged knowing looks. How this
lady, like, s-o-o-o didn’t know us! Sitting by the sun-kissed, hazy, lazy
blue waters of the hotel pool, she was of elderly, yet indeterminate
age, decked out in yards of flowing, coloured chiffon, effortlessly
achieving the poised look that Bette Davis had perfected in her
twilight years. Our poolside companion had just (in the course of
relating a selection of enviable travelling anecdotes), let slip the
immortal phrase “First Class: it’s the only way to travel.” Naturally,
we'd nodded in complete agreement and I hoped I'd peeled the price
sticker off the bottom of my Poundland flip-flops. Bette Davis’ twin
sister did everything and everyone First Class - we'd won a
competition in the local rag and, well, we were going to mention it,
but…y'know how it is.
It's impolite to interrupt a lady.
---O---
I didn’t mind the walk in the drizzle, dodging the crowds,
stepping on and off the kerb, face bent into the cold, but the London
Underground in rush-hour is grim and smelly. It’s borderline freezing
on the streets of the capital, but down below the air is fetid, a heavy
rush of hot wind as trains surge through the tunnels. Each train that
squeals to a clattering stop at Euston Square is hideously overcrowded
and finding a six-inch square of floor space means getting
to know the bloke next to me more personally than is decent.
At seven in the evening, Paddington is a heaving mass. The
Departure board is surrounded by hundreds of grey faces, clammy
foreheads, necks tilted, eyes scanning the flickering yellow digits.
Somewhere, in this metal-ribbed cathedral, the 7-22 to Hereford
stands empty and waiting. And, when the board finally announces
at 7-17 that it's at platform 2, the faithful respond to the call. I've
never seen fat men run so fast! They pass me in a whirl of blue
pinstripe, hugging laptops to rolling chests, shiny shoes skimming
the concrete. Strictly Come Commuting.
There are six carriages on the 7-22 to Hereford. The
nearest two are First Class, the next four Cattle Class. First Class is
presumably nearest so rich people don't have so far to walk, but,
providing I get on in the next three and a half minutes, I've got all
the time in the world, and I've certainly got time to adopt an
indifferent attitude. So I pass the First Class carriages (where no
doubt Oriental handmaidens will soon be washing the tired feet of
Company Director A and Chief Executive B) and I saunter slowly and
deliberately down the platform, my boots clumping on cold
concrete.
"Slowly and deliberately" means no seat. I was actually hoping to
actually sit in a seat that I’d paid for, but, forget it. No seat in four
carriages. So much for indifference. I prop myself in a corner next to
the toilet, trying to look like a man who wants to stand all the way
home. In the space between compartments there are seven of us,
all men, four already roaring into their phones. Mobile Man closest
is telling some poor soul about his mother’s illness and, with each
expulsion of breath, I get a fairly good idea of what each course of
his lunch has been. We’re not on kissing terms yet, so I turn away
and read the notices:
18
THE ONLY WAY
TO TRAVEL
A short story by Nicholas John
Do Not Obstruct Door. Do Not Attempt To Open Door
While Train Is Moving. Do Not Lean Against Door And
Plunge Into Oblivion.
I'm not a great believer in the stars or the planets, but some cosmic
alignment must have happened over my head. At the precise
instance, I hear the tannoy mumble something about "upgrades", I
also hear some long-forgotten words from an earlier life: “First Class,
it’s the only way to travel." Bless Bette and her sister! I'll get an
upgrade!
I hesitate, but not for long. Mobile Man is now describing
his mother’s ailments in capital letters. I can argue with my
principles later, when I'm in Comfort Class. Besides, in the
intervening twenty years, Bette has surely gone to that Great Hotel
Suite In The Sky, so I'll do this in remembrance of her. Seems only
right and proper.
I push and squeeze my way back along the train, heading
for nirvana. One bloke wittily says “Not much room down that way
mate” but he knows jack. I've got a grim “isn’t this awful” expression
and a "but we're all in this together" look about me, or so I hope.
And then it dawns on me: if I’m going to get an upgrade, surely
every right-thinking person on the train is too? Everyone forced to
stand with their noses pressed to toilet doors or into someone’s
armpit will rush into First Class and, throwing roubles around,
demand a seat there.
When I burst into First Class, it's at a run. Blimey, it’s
almost empty! There are a few occupied places, but only about
fifteen in the whole carriage. A choice of seats - in fact, I could
lounge across a couple at the very least. No trilling mobiles with
stupid answer tones, no clattering laptops, no body odour; just
Mozart soothing my furrowed brow. Like reaching an oasis in the
middle of the Sahara.
As a newcomer, however, to the hallowed halls of First
Class, I’m not quite sure exactly what to do, so I select a plush
recliner (ooh, how soft and so very, very comfortable) and wait to be
upgraded by whoever next arrives. Surely, I can faintly hear the
chink of expensive cocktail glasses and, over there, isn't that the
dignified murmur of nobility?
The ticket collector glides by and my request for an
upgrade is met with civility and the gentle whirr of his handheld
credit card machine. It's also met by taking out a small mortgage. No
wonder Mobile Man prefers to stand and suffocate. But, as all those
years ago, I make no admittance that I'm an interloper and stump up
nevertheless. A softly-spoken girl pushing a trolley asks if I would like
a drink and I ask for a coffee, opening my wallet. And I'm undone.
She understands, smiles and says politely, “It’s complimentary, sir”
and I've been rumbled for the intruder I am. All for a cup of Network
Rail coffee. If I'd known, I'd have blagged a glass of wine.
Here's the rub: I'm Joe Public, but I don’t want to be him
24/7 now do I? I kick my boots off. First Class: it’s the only way to
travel. I assume the handmaidens are complimentary too?
Nicholas John