I boarded the train and picked
a seat which afforded me some seclusion: a refuge for reading through my backlog of weekend newspapers. I pulled them from my bag as I watched the
stragglers hurry up the platform. A forty-something, overweight man in a blue
suit bustled into our carriage, scanned the available seats and chose one
facing mine across the aisle, claiming it decisively with his fat, scuffed
black briefcase.
As the train left the terminus the “bing-bong”
of the P.A. system sounded loudly and harshly to introduce Darren, our Train
Manager, whose set-piece welcome speech was imbued with North Manchester
nonchalance - in contrast to the automated, recorded itinerary which followed,
with its disjointed, cut-and-pasted syllables.
My neighbour stashed his jacket in the rack
above and, flopping into his seat, loosened his tie, patted his thin, sandy
hair and began to busy himself erecting his laptop, checking his phone and
spreading his papers.“Bing-bong.” Now it was Julianne, our on-board shop
manager, inviting us to come and buy refreshments. I waited for the end of her
spiel before settling at last to find something which was not too far past its
read-by date.
“Hi Karen.” I looked up. “It’s Dave. Is Alan
there? OK. Will you get him to give me a bell when he’s done? Yeah. I’m on my
way back now. Right. Cheers”. So, now I knew my neighbour’s name, I wondered
what his job was. Dave made several more calls, leaving messages each time, none
of which provided me with any clues.
“Bing-bong.” Darren informed us we were about
to arrive at Milton Keynes; auto-assistant reminded those alighting not to
forget their possessions; then, as the train slid away, we listened to the
welcome speech again – followed by another sales pitch from Julianne. Dave and
I got our heads down until, “Bing-bong”, Darren announced our imminent arrival
into the “Peoples’ Republic of Stoke-on-Trent”. He sounded more chipper now
that we had left The South - but the tone of auto-assistant remained unchanged.
Nothing was moving at the Republic’s station. I
wondered whether diplomatic relations had been severed. Then, in the hush of
the motionless carriage, I heard the voice of Lou Reed singing “...and the
coloured girls say...” Eventually realising it was my ringtone I scrambled to
silence it.
“Hello?”
“Is that Mr. Holdsworth?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m calling to fix your hospital appointment.”
“ Oh, good.”
“For security, could you just tell me your full
address and date of birth please?”
“Er, well - just a moment.” I left my seat and
headed for a more private space by the toilet.
My business concluded, I re-entered the
carriage to the sound of Darren’s ritual welcome speech - and to Dave’s hitherto
unheard ringtone “...gotta get up, gotta get down...” He checked the display
and answered resignedly: it was not the call he had hoped for. He was being
asked to choose his evening meal and opted for the quiche with salad - although
I sensed that he felt somewhat coerced.
“Drinks?
Snacks?” Julianne had adopted a more pro-active sales approach and now came trundling
down the aisle with her wares on a trolley. Dave bought a sausage sandwich, a
packet of crisps and a diet coke to tide him over until dinner.
“Bing-bong”. Darren, now sounding almost
excited, announced our approach to Stockport. Auto-assistant once more reminded
everyone not to forget their stuff and Dave obediently started to pack
everything into his briefcase. Just then a large, angry-looking woman stomped
past shouting at her phone “... ‘cos if you don’t, I swear, I’m gonna have a
nervous breakdown!” Dave and I exchanged glances, for the first time, our
eyebrows raised in alarm. “I’ll leave you to it” he said, smiling wryly and
nodding a goodbye as he made for the door.
Eight minutes later Darren cheerfully announced
our final destination, Manchester. I abandoned my papers, read or otherwise, despite
auto-assistant’s pleas, and stepped on to the platform. Amongst the few people there
to meet the train was a slight, anxious-looking man. Walking towards him was
the angry woman.
Joe - you manage to make even a dull train journey sound interesting. Next time I'm on the train (First Great Western on Wednesday) I'll think of you and hope I do get a nice quiet corner to read my book. d
ReplyDeleteHeather
I am glad that you can find such humour in those dreadful repetitive and unnecessary, not to mention rarely coherent or grammatically correct, bing-bong messages on the west coast line... I have to go through gritting my teeth each time before chilling into blissful ignorance and cutting off from them half-way through each north to south and south to north journey I have to take...
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