The train is full. Every seat is taken and the British public is forced into uncomfortably close contact. Even the time-honoured trick of sitting next to the isle, blocking the other seat with one’s body and briefcase, does not work. Those of us who do not have a phone or a newspaper to hide behind have to resort to pretending to be asleep.
The customary unexpected delay is announced 20 minutes into the journey. The voice of a dysarthric dalek screeches over the intercom something about being eight minutes late. Not bad.
A man behind me calls his wife to tell her that the train is delayed. After he hangs up, his neighbour asks solicitously,
‘Do you have far to go?’
‘Just a couple of stops. And you?’
‘End of the line. But I am not in a hurry. I live alone. It’s a nice little village: one street, one shop, one pub – you know the type.’
‘Oh, yes – we live in the same type of village. Moved there from London after the children were born – a decade ago now. Larger house, lots of space for them to run around. Our village has a gym, though. I don’t know why – I think I am the only person who uses it. It’s nice having the whole place to myself, but can’t be good for their business.’
‘You get these oddities in small places like that. I moved from London too – bought the place 30 years ago. Built onto it, you know, made it nice – and much bigger. Added a lot of value to it. But when I lost my wife it was just too big. They said, ‘Give it a couple of years, then decide.’ I did. And then decided to downsize. Bought a bungalow across the road. It’s nice. The back looks out onto the fields: a whole green world in front of you… It’s very quiet. I do have neighbours. They are nice people, friendly. You know how these villages are – people say hello as they pass you, nod and smile. You quickly learn to recognise your neighbours. More personable than London, you know… nicer. But, on the other hand, London is always open. Here everything is closed, especially on Sundays. Nowhere to go. I see the fields and my house across the street… It’s nice, except for Sundays…’
‘Yeah, Sundays… how long were you married?’
‘How long was I married?… Forty two and a half years…’
‘Forty two and a half… This is my stop. Nice talking to you.’
The train stopped and the man got off, leaving an empty space.
