It’s been 25 degrees in London and I step onto the Penzance train, relieved to be in the cool. I’m in an inside airline seat and a man in his forties sits on the outside seat. I say hello and get on with the serious business of eating my train picnic. His train picnic is a bottle of white wine and a newspaper.
I wake from my post-prandial nap to find him chuckling over a news story. He enlightens me. He’s disposed to chat. Uh huh. Only five hours to go. How is this one going to play out? Not always wise to get friendly so early on a long journey, when one of us is trapped in the inside seat.
He’s looking forward to a few days in Cornwall, he says. He loves Cornwall.
Me: It’s okay - if it wasn’t cloudy all the time. At least you can see the sun in London.
He doesn’t know me, and can’t decipher that this means I am feeling grumpy and not very friendly right now and, more importantly, I am protecting my psychological and physical space.
If I liked the look of him, I would have been playful and he could have taken this as a joke, but I am not being playful and I really don’t like the look of his deep set eyes, so deep they are buried somewhere in his face, and I have to peer into his head to see them. As I peer at them I wish I hadn’t, as if I am tainted in some way.
He tells me that the weather is always great in Cornwall. I think it’s marvellous that he knows this for a fact when he doesn't live there.
Me: The maritime air causes a great deal of cloud and rain. It’s unusual for there not to be cloud cover. It’s quite depressing living under Tupperware, you know. North of Exeter is a safer bet.
He’s having none of it. He says if it’s bad weather you can always drive to the other coast, and I have to remind him that this is not possible when you are working. Gee, tourists. Of course you can escape when you’re on holiday. Give me a break, why doncha?
He tells me he has had a stressful day, a stressful week. I nod, but not sympathetically. Counselling is £40-50 an hour. I’m not being paid, and I’ve heard it all before anyway. He tells me about a lot of things (I realize that he is an ‘expert’) including that housing prices are falling and he has had to offload a few of his houses, as it’s too much of a nuisance having several properties. He usually stays in St Mawes, he says, and names the most expensive hotel there. I am feeling besieged.
I tell him that I sell houses and that we are, in fact, rushed off our feet, that prices in Truro are as high as in London. He can’t understand why 10,000 new houses are to be built in Truro alone. I smile half-heartedly. Think - because people like you keep buying the ones locals could live in you jerk. He drinks more wine. He tells me that only three years ago houses in Cornwall were £40,000 and he could have bought one on his credit card. That’s it. I have reached the point of revulsion.
I almost illuminate him with the information that it is because London people have bought many existing houses that prices are so high, property for local people is scarce, and new homes are needed, but I sense it would be the beginning of pointless recrimination and, hell, we’re not married. He can argue with his wife. She rings. They argue. Someone else rings – his mistress? They argue. He turns to me and smiles.
“I wonder who’ll shout at me next.” He says his wife, two daughters and the dog have travelled down in the car while he has taken the train for some peace and quiet. He’s given her the wrong time; she’s waiting at the station after her long drive from London, hot, tired, and cross. I have a hideous, overwhelming sensation of déjà vu.
After a long silence he says he loves travelling on trains, that it’s great to talk to people. Yeah, great.
I pick up my book and read determinedly. He continues to drink. When the bottle of wine is finished, he goes off to the buffet car for Guinness.
When we get further down the line, he gets up and apologizes for seeming rude but he sees a seat with a table and is moving to that one. I slide down in my seat and thank heaven for my escape. Ten minutes later he’s back, offering for me to join him, and share his Guinness and nuts. No.
This is the longest journey from London to Truro that I can remember. I usually like it. People on trains are always pleasant and interesting. I just got a bum deal this time.
As I get up to leave the train, I see his head slumped forward onto his chest. I creep past, collect my luggage and stand in the corridor as the train hurtles through the dark, over the viaduct with the Cathedral spires pointing up into the night.
He'll wake up at the end of the line, in Penzance. I relent. I’m not sure if it’s his wife I’m sorry for. Hell, she chose him. But why do I feel it’s my responsibility to prevent her weekend being any worse than it is already? I tell a woman standing near him that he needs to wake up and get off. She refuses to go near him. She says he’s been drinking all the way down and she doesn’t want to get whacked. Eh? Whacked? On balance, I think I’d rather be whacked than bored to death.
I give him a shake and he springs to attention. In the corridor he thanks me, asks the time, and says, “I’m dead.” Yeah, mate. You may as well be. I wouldn’t want your money or your life.
I wake from my post-prandial nap to find him chuckling over a news story. He enlightens me. He’s disposed to chat. Uh huh. Only five hours to go. How is this one going to play out? Not always wise to get friendly so early on a long journey, when one of us is trapped in the inside seat.
He’s looking forward to a few days in Cornwall, he says. He loves Cornwall.
Me: It’s okay - if it wasn’t cloudy all the time. At least you can see the sun in London.
He doesn’t know me, and can’t decipher that this means I am feeling grumpy and not very friendly right now and, more importantly, I am protecting my psychological and physical space.
If I liked the look of him, I would have been playful and he could have taken this as a joke, but I am not being playful and I really don’t like the look of his deep set eyes, so deep they are buried somewhere in his face, and I have to peer into his head to see them. As I peer at them I wish I hadn’t, as if I am tainted in some way.
He tells me that the weather is always great in Cornwall. I think it’s marvellous that he knows this for a fact when he doesn't live there.
Me: The maritime air causes a great deal of cloud and rain. It’s unusual for there not to be cloud cover. It’s quite depressing living under Tupperware, you know. North of Exeter is a safer bet.
He’s having none of it. He says if it’s bad weather you can always drive to the other coast, and I have to remind him that this is not possible when you are working. Gee, tourists. Of course you can escape when you’re on holiday. Give me a break, why doncha?
He tells me he has had a stressful day, a stressful week. I nod, but not sympathetically. Counselling is £40-50 an hour. I’m not being paid, and I’ve heard it all before anyway. He tells me about a lot of things (I realize that he is an ‘expert’) including that housing prices are falling and he has had to offload a few of his houses, as it’s too much of a nuisance having several properties. He usually stays in St Mawes, he says, and names the most expensive hotel there. I am feeling besieged.
I tell him that I sell houses and that we are, in fact, rushed off our feet, that prices in Truro are as high as in London. He can’t understand why 10,000 new houses are to be built in Truro alone. I smile half-heartedly. Think - because people like you keep buying the ones locals could live in you jerk. He drinks more wine. He tells me that only three years ago houses in Cornwall were £40,000 and he could have bought one on his credit card. That’s it. I have reached the point of revulsion.
I almost illuminate him with the information that it is because London people have bought many existing houses that prices are so high, property for local people is scarce, and new homes are needed, but I sense it would be the beginning of pointless recrimination and, hell, we’re not married. He can argue with his wife. She rings. They argue. Someone else rings – his mistress? They argue. He turns to me and smiles.
“I wonder who’ll shout at me next.” He says his wife, two daughters and the dog have travelled down in the car while he has taken the train for some peace and quiet. He’s given her the wrong time; she’s waiting at the station after her long drive from London, hot, tired, and cross. I have a hideous, overwhelming sensation of déjà vu.
After a long silence he says he loves travelling on trains, that it’s great to talk to people. Yeah, great.
I pick up my book and read determinedly. He continues to drink. When the bottle of wine is finished, he goes off to the buffet car for Guinness.
When we get further down the line, he gets up and apologizes for seeming rude but he sees a seat with a table and is moving to that one. I slide down in my seat and thank heaven for my escape. Ten minutes later he’s back, offering for me to join him, and share his Guinness and nuts. No.
This is the longest journey from London to Truro that I can remember. I usually like it. People on trains are always pleasant and interesting. I just got a bum deal this time.
As I get up to leave the train, I see his head slumped forward onto his chest. I creep past, collect my luggage and stand in the corridor as the train hurtles through the dark, over the viaduct with the Cathedral spires pointing up into the night.
He'll wake up at the end of the line, in Penzance. I relent. I’m not sure if it’s his wife I’m sorry for. Hell, she chose him. But why do I feel it’s my responsibility to prevent her weekend being any worse than it is already? I tell a woman standing near him that he needs to wake up and get off. She refuses to go near him. She says he’s been drinking all the way down and she doesn’t want to get whacked. Eh? Whacked? On balance, I think I’d rather be whacked than bored to death.
I give him a shake and he springs to attention. In the corridor he thanks me, asks the time, and says, “I’m dead.” Yeah, mate. You may as well be. I wouldn’t want your money or your life.
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