Two Trains Away

(another thing I wrote a few years ago that never made it onto a blog, I was reminded of this by some tweets the other day from someone on these same trains...)

I took the train today from Bedford to the depths of South London - more specifically the very respectable suburbs around Bromley.

A simple journey, it started with the usual game of "call my train" whereby the able and caring staff of Bedford Station try and guess what train you ought to want, and up the ante by directing you to a different one. An instinct, not so much self preservation as self-progression leads me to lurk in the doorway of a Thameslink train that should have departed, and monitor the likely progress of my alleged "fast" train to London which is due, late like my present lurking-portal, in a few minutes. Since I am bound for South London anyway I am inclined to the "train in the hand" school of thought and decide to seek out a seat as the 'squeak squeak squeak' of the doors indicate that at least I have a train with a driver and things.

On the train a wild-eyed but well-spoken young man is describing the way in which the projected time for the alleged fast train invariably approaches the present without actually getting there. He is disclaiming to the carriage as a whole but with perhaps an eye for the pretty blonde woman who is hanging on his every word and laughing at some of them. I butt in, throwing the word "asymptotic" into the vocabulary pit and upping the ante with a reference to Xeno's paradox as the train pulls out. I realise belatedly that perhaps he is trying to impress the young woman, however in these things sometimes a little ambience, an illusion that sometimes on English trains people actually speak (ignoring the silent tutting from the fellow behind me) may help oil the wheels, so I listen and speak and join in while indulging in the occasional phone call ("I'm ... in a tunnel. Dismal planning on my part, I'll ring back").

We talk. Xeno's train never overtook us, so we've won whatever metaphysical wager applies here. He is a musician, she's in publishing (though formerly a consultant of the 'hack, spit' Big Six variety). She lends him vaseline which he puts in his hair. He polishes shoes on the train seats, asks which pair best suits a serial date at Wong Kei's. Somehow, improbably it's one of those journeys where everyone swaps cards and will probably stay in touch.

So to my drinking destination, the other side of the Elephant and Castle, in the cosy suburbs of Bromley. I find a suitable train at Blackfriars and sit among the torn wreckage of late rush-hour newspapers, watching station names go by. I get off. I drink, talk, eat crisps. I get back on, last train back to Blackfriars.

"Hey, Gramps, have you got a cigarette?" says a voice. Naturally I ignore it. The voice starts to threaten. Violence is mentioned - here he is, says the owner of the voice, just wanting a cigarette, nice simple thing to ask and some people can be so rude. Bad things might happen. I look up.

"Sorry, don't see why I should be polite, since you can't be". Probably a mistake, I realise. More haranguing from the aggrieved smoking party, a young blond boy with spiked up hair. A young black face appears over the seat-back behind me:

"Ignore him. Been drinking. Best not to say anything"

"Thanks mate" I concur.

I stare out of the window at the speeding rain as the young guy (who I first assumed was a friend of his) gives this guy a gentle but detailed lecture on the subject of reSpect. Across from me is an elderly West Indian man, peppery goatee beard. The young nicotine enthusiast notes how people who disrespect him can be, perhaps have been knifed by him. So happens he's carrying a knife this very evening on account of how he hears some people were laying in for him. The old guy quietly notes how this would actually lose him respect not gain it. Quietly, gently he is being put straight.

In between object lessons from the older man, the young man notes that if someone disrespects him he would have no problem putting a knife through his temple, right into the brain. He's thought about this, measured knife and bone. He listens, the old guy speaks. He's quite clear about one thing, people should act as they expect others to treat them, people should not be so disrespectful as they seem to be these days. Otherwise he'll knife them. The west Indian perseveres, makes clear what he does or does not respect.

Finally the knifeman turns to me.

"Sorry I called you Gramps" he says, "but you do have some grey hair. Do you have grandchildren?

"No".

"Now I look at you you don't seem so old, from in front".

"Perhaps we've all learnt something?" I venture.

I lean over and shake hands, solemnly. In the more dangerous parts of this world you are either mortal enemies or best friends, and it's often best to shake early. I listen to my new friend, noting that he does not ask if I actually do have the much needed cigarette (no). It was never about smokes. At the next station the old West Indian gets off, shaking hands warmly with each of us.

A lot more is said about the knife. "If it was your family, your sister or mother or whatever, wouldn't you use a knife? No?!". I try and frame the idea of civilised society and the rule of law in a way that might not cause offence. Difficult. He simply does not live in such a world. Also when he first came here years ago he was very small, people used to put upon him. Especially, no offence he says, the black kids. Now I'm big he says (wrong, but I've sobered up enough not to bring this up).

And so to the well worn "I ain't no racist but..." and from there to Albanian asylum seekers who get put up in five star hotels while he and his kind, always been in London, they have to work their way up. They should have to start from begging, score a couple of times and then work their way up from there. Learn their place.

I listen as politely as I can. He gets off at some nameless station, Denmark Hill or thereabouts. There is a problem with the door where he got off, so the driver has to come back and twiddle something. Once we are safely away from the station I turn to the young guy who was lecturing him - it seems they were not friends after all.

"Thanks Man."

"He was already well drunk before you got on. He even had a go at the old guy".

"What that guy there?"

"He's probably seen far worse." I agree, realising that the guy was probably here when it was quite normal to treat someone like him as a second class person. I despair that since I came to London over twenty years ago, there is seemingly no change in these kind of people. A whole new generation has grown up with no visible sign of knowing any better, we agree.

The young guy gets off at another station as the train lumbers across the brick terraces of south London. After Elephant and Castle we pass the smart lofts of Southwark, the Tate Modern and the ever reflective Thames. At Blackfriars I transfer back onto the late night Thameslink, all merry City drinkers and torn unread financial sections.

Someone once said we are only two good meals away from savagery. I don't think that is true. Mostly we are only two trains away.