Fiona and Grant have been married for 44 years. Filmed in Canada, the beautiful snowscapes, sunlight on snow, and red tinted sunsets, make a fitting backdrop to Julie Christie’s cool, elegant beauty.
She plays the wife of a retired University lecturer Grant, (Gordon Pinsent), who succumbs to the early onset of Alzheimer’s. At first it troubles her, then it intrigues her and she says she feels as though she is ‘disappearing.’
It is she who decides when it is time for her to go into a home, who instigates the process and, when they arrive, who determinedly checks herself in. She bravely comments that it will be like staying at an hotel. What other line can she take? Grant’s quietly desperate attempts to dissuade her only threaten her fortitude. She has to be strong for them both.
It is hard for her to say goodbye too, but it is so much harder for Grant to go home and be without her. It is always hardest to be the one left behind. The unkindest cut of all is that the home insists on a thirty day period of ‘cold turkey’ when the new inpatient may have no visitors. Grant visits her at the end of this time to discover that he is erased from her memory and, instead, she has formed a new attachment to another inmate.
The film focuses on her mental decline, with Alzheimer’s being compared to a house with the lights going off one by one, and on her resulting physical decline. Her ladylike poise degenerates into unkempt distraction. It is an excruciatingly painful focus on loss and loneliness and runs the risk of being too much to bear. There is no hope: there is only one way for her to go.
True love is selfless and it is Grant’s turn to think only of her happiness. It seems almost his opportunity for making amends and Polley’s film is testament to the depth of enduring, accepting love. Fine performances by Christie and Pinsent carry the unremitting misery with great sensitivity and intelligence.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Interior Life of an Estate Agent - part 25
I am getting to know Ella a little bit. I have been out to the rambling old cottage quite a few times now, showing folks round. She usually keeps out of the way, as though she doesn’t want to be involved in the process.
Today, she’s inside with her family, and we pass through the rooms as respectfully as we can, aware of her sensitivity towards the old house. With a cup of tea, her daughter and her grandchildren, she is confined to one small room while we have free range of her home.
After the first couple have left I go in and sit down to talk to her. They have made an offer of 500K and want to go for an immediate exchange of contracts, legals permitting, with a completion date set for September. This is a reasonable timescale. She looks worried, unhappy. “I don’t know.” She says.
She tells me she wants her original buyers to have the house although they are now unable to proceed because their own sale fell through. She says that she ‘clicked’ with them; that they fell in love with the house, and it’s important to her.
She is something of a family custodian. She is now the grandmother and matriarch as well as the keeper of all the family memory; photographs, furniture, birth and death certificates. She looks very sad and tells me that a second buyer who was proceeding with the purchase wanted to knock the whole place down and build something new on the site. The thought of this clearly causes her pain.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that this is exactly what the couple that have just made this offer are likely to do. It would be like an attack on her, on her body.
The old place is ramshackle, mis-shapen, awkward. The pipe work for the plumbing runs all over it in a labyrinthine, haphazard way. Wiring likewise. There is no heating. The hot water system has broken down. The rooms are tiny, the ceilings low. It’s dark and claustrophobic. Despite all this, it has heart.
I hover somewhere between wanting her to take the money and move on with her life, yet I share her reluctance to sell to anyone, just for the money. Her desire to vet the next owners of the place that has been central to the life of her and her family for over 50 years is a desire I share. It may be a vanity to want new owners to love your home as much as you do, but if you care about houses, you care about who becomes the next custodian.
I leave her to think, and take round the next party. This couple have brought dad along. He’s a retired builder; big, bluff and rather aggressive. He barks at me. “Have they used up all their percentage of planning permission for extensions?” I answer that, as the extensions are around fifty years old, I can’t say as I don’t know anything about planning law. He’s not mollified. After we’ve been round the garden, he stops short and confronts me, “What are those two buttresses doing?” He fixes me with a gimlet eye. I want to say that they’re holding up the wall of course, stupid. Instead I look him right in the eye as clear as bold as a child and say that I have absolutely no idea. I suggest that he consults a structural surveyor to check over the house and establish what they’re doing. He almost laughs. He seems to have been testing me, as though he can’t stand estate agents and actually thinks I am one. He wanted to see if I’d spin him a yarn I suppose, I don’t know.
Happily, this couple with their old dad are a pair of sweeties, and the husband loves gardening so he’s enjoying poking around and checking out all the greenery. I’m a bit happier with these two. The wife in the first couple was very keen to let me know that they had twelve acres where they’re living now; that they practically knocked their last place down and have made it absolutely beautiful, wonderful, with an orangery, it’s just fabulous. Is she boasting or am I just really envious? Madly, they want to move to Truro to be near the hospital in their retirement.
I try not to gasp in horror. That would be the worst hospital in the country for MRSA announced on the day’s news as I’m driving around. But, surely with an orangery they will have private health insurance, or a private nurse to wipe their arses. I’m interested that Ella could sense that those first two were not to her liking, even though she only saw them go by. A minute only for them to not appeal to her sensibilities. The first thing the wife said to me was, "What's going on over there?" She jerked her head towards a new farmhouse up the lane.
I admit to being taken aback. I hadn't a clue what she meant and it took a few minutes to get her to make herself clear. There's nothing 'going on' and it looks as though nothing has been going on for some time. Had there been diggers or even vans I could have understood her rather violent nimby suspicions.
Anyway, my appointments are stacked up too close again so I have to run away to the next one, and I have to leave the second party, the little trio, behind. Monsieur is very sympathetique and, with his love of gardening, he may just win Ella round. I will keep my fingers crossed all weekend that he ‘clicks’ with her too and she can be persuaded to let go of her deep emotional attachment to the family home, break out and make a new life. He may even make a better offer.
But maybe she should stay there. It’s quite a role keeping the family home and history intact; something of an honour, like the old knight guarding the Holy Grail. Burning old papers, distributing keepsakes and furniture dissipates the meaning of the whole.
When I get back to the office and tell my colleague of the day’s happenings, she snaps, “I’ll ring Ella. She needs to make up her bloody mind. We want the money.”
Today, she’s inside with her family, and we pass through the rooms as respectfully as we can, aware of her sensitivity towards the old house. With a cup of tea, her daughter and her grandchildren, she is confined to one small room while we have free range of her home.
After the first couple have left I go in and sit down to talk to her. They have made an offer of 500K and want to go for an immediate exchange of contracts, legals permitting, with a completion date set for September. This is a reasonable timescale. She looks worried, unhappy. “I don’t know.” She says.
She tells me she wants her original buyers to have the house although they are now unable to proceed because their own sale fell through. She says that she ‘clicked’ with them; that they fell in love with the house, and it’s important to her.
She is something of a family custodian. She is now the grandmother and matriarch as well as the keeper of all the family memory; photographs, furniture, birth and death certificates. She looks very sad and tells me that a second buyer who was proceeding with the purchase wanted to knock the whole place down and build something new on the site. The thought of this clearly causes her pain.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that this is exactly what the couple that have just made this offer are likely to do. It would be like an attack on her, on her body.
The old place is ramshackle, mis-shapen, awkward. The pipe work for the plumbing runs all over it in a labyrinthine, haphazard way. Wiring likewise. There is no heating. The hot water system has broken down. The rooms are tiny, the ceilings low. It’s dark and claustrophobic. Despite all this, it has heart.
I hover somewhere between wanting her to take the money and move on with her life, yet I share her reluctance to sell to anyone, just for the money. Her desire to vet the next owners of the place that has been central to the life of her and her family for over 50 years is a desire I share. It may be a vanity to want new owners to love your home as much as you do, but if you care about houses, you care about who becomes the next custodian.
I leave her to think, and take round the next party. This couple have brought dad along. He’s a retired builder; big, bluff and rather aggressive. He barks at me. “Have they used up all their percentage of planning permission for extensions?” I answer that, as the extensions are around fifty years old, I can’t say as I don’t know anything about planning law. He’s not mollified. After we’ve been round the garden, he stops short and confronts me, “What are those two buttresses doing?” He fixes me with a gimlet eye. I want to say that they’re holding up the wall of course, stupid. Instead I look him right in the eye as clear as bold as a child and say that I have absolutely no idea. I suggest that he consults a structural surveyor to check over the house and establish what they’re doing. He almost laughs. He seems to have been testing me, as though he can’t stand estate agents and actually thinks I am one. He wanted to see if I’d spin him a yarn I suppose, I don’t know.
Happily, this couple with their old dad are a pair of sweeties, and the husband loves gardening so he’s enjoying poking around and checking out all the greenery. I’m a bit happier with these two. The wife in the first couple was very keen to let me know that they had twelve acres where they’re living now; that they practically knocked their last place down and have made it absolutely beautiful, wonderful, with an orangery, it’s just fabulous. Is she boasting or am I just really envious? Madly, they want to move to Truro to be near the hospital in their retirement.
I try not to gasp in horror. That would be the worst hospital in the country for MRSA announced on the day’s news as I’m driving around. But, surely with an orangery they will have private health insurance, or a private nurse to wipe their arses. I’m interested that Ella could sense that those first two were not to her liking, even though she only saw them go by. A minute only for them to not appeal to her sensibilities. The first thing the wife said to me was, "What's going on over there?" She jerked her head towards a new farmhouse up the lane.
I admit to being taken aback. I hadn't a clue what she meant and it took a few minutes to get her to make herself clear. There's nothing 'going on' and it looks as though nothing has been going on for some time. Had there been diggers or even vans I could have understood her rather violent nimby suspicions.
Anyway, my appointments are stacked up too close again so I have to run away to the next one, and I have to leave the second party, the little trio, behind. Monsieur is very sympathetique and, with his love of gardening, he may just win Ella round. I will keep my fingers crossed all weekend that he ‘clicks’ with her too and she can be persuaded to let go of her deep emotional attachment to the family home, break out and make a new life. He may even make a better offer.
But maybe she should stay there. It’s quite a role keeping the family home and history intact; something of an honour, like the old knight guarding the Holy Grail. Burning old papers, distributing keepsakes and furniture dissipates the meaning of the whole.
When I get back to the office and tell my colleague of the day’s happenings, she snaps, “I’ll ring Ella. She needs to make up her bloody mind. We want the money.”
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
THE PAINTED VEIL. Dir John Curran. 2006
This is a remake of a 1934 classic starring Greta Garbo and is based on a novel by Somerset Maugham. Kitty is a bored, rather empty, piano playing socialite with an overbearing mother who wants her to get married because that’s what girls do (it's set in the 1920s). Kitty likes dancing, playing tennis, and has never been in love. Along comes a rather serious but unexciting bacteriologist to woo her; Kitty accepts his proposal, and they leave for Shanghai. Kitty has escaped from her mother only to succumb to a deeper boredom amongst the colonial set.
She embarks on a passionate affair with a diplomat, is discovered, and she becomes victim to the intensity of her husband’s feelings of rejection, pain and anger at her infidelity. His punishment is to take her into rural China where there is a severe cholera outbreak.
It is a study of repressed emotion and correct behaviour, and it makes horribly uncomfortable viewing with its sense of being trapped in a loveless marriage, and worse, a vindictive marriage. It is a story about revenge, forgiveness, isolation and the simple need for love.
Visually gorgeous, with steep, pointed mountains and languid rivers, there is a sense of humidity and oppressive heat; the audience is transported into another world and another time. I love the feminine shoes and dresses made in soft linen and cotton lawn. Having grown up watching films from the 1940s, films made overseas hold an enticing glamour for me. It is exotic travel, social history, heat and strangeness. It is eco-tourism at its most efficient. We don’t need to fly there.
She embarks on a passionate affair with a diplomat, is discovered, and she becomes victim to the intensity of her husband’s feelings of rejection, pain and anger at her infidelity. His punishment is to take her into rural China where there is a severe cholera outbreak.
It is a study of repressed emotion and correct behaviour, and it makes horribly uncomfortable viewing with its sense of being trapped in a loveless marriage, and worse, a vindictive marriage. It is a story about revenge, forgiveness, isolation and the simple need for love.
Visually gorgeous, with steep, pointed mountains and languid rivers, there is a sense of humidity and oppressive heat; the audience is transported into another world and another time. I love the feminine shoes and dresses made in soft linen and cotton lawn. Having grown up watching films from the 1940s, films made overseas hold an enticing glamour for me. It is exotic travel, social history, heat and strangeness. It is eco-tourism at its most efficient. We don’t need to fly there.
Friday, June 08, 2007
BBC Question Time, 7 June 2007
It’s fascinating to see the BBC setting up for Question Time - two enormous lorries filled with a mass of recording equipment arrive early in the morning and spend all day unloading. They set up six cameras, the set, computers, televisions and enough cabling to go round the world twice. A team of men in black put everything together and a security team frisks all the audience as they come in, while four local policemen contribute their presence. They omit to frisk the stewards which is interesting, as any one of them could have some polonium to spray on Boris Berezovsky. They can't have read any John Le Carre or Claire Francis novels or they'd have realized what a strong possibility this is in the provinces.
Berezovsky’s a brave man who says he feels safe in England, yet I don’t see any security men on the stage door side of the building. The whole team is at the other entrance checking people’s bags and scanning them with detectors. Progress into the building is slow.
Other panellists are politicians Tony Benn, Julia Goldsworthy, Francis Maude and the journalist and author, Melanie Phillips. They’re less likely to attract an assassin but you never know. Melanie Phillips is extremely right wing and antagonizes other panel member as well as the audience when she states that she doesn’t go along with the drive to be ‘green’ because environmentalists are politically manipulating the whole debate. She doesn’t take it seriously and resents ‘ambitious environmentalism.’ There are hisses and moans, and Julia Goldsworthy frowns hard and shakes her head, but it is Francis Maude that takes her on.
Phillips also makes the astonishing assertion that there are no non-British people living in Britain, but that we are all British citizens. There are many thousands of people living and working in Britain either temporarily, or long-term, who do not have British citizenship, and who may have no intention of taking it.
Tony Benn answers every question with measured reason. He repeatedly argues that democracy, tolerance and co-operation are the only ways for society and the world to co-exist and survive. His anti-war stance is well known and he re-asserts his antipathy towards nuclear arms in his responses this evening, saying, ‘nuclear weapons are a desperate threat to the human race.’
Discussions about Putin and concerns about Russian nuclear armaments dominate the evening which is unsurprising when Berezovsky is here but it is an intense debate which benefited from a little easing of the tension. Julia Goldsworthy is impressive in her intelligence, calm reasoning and clarity. She takes notes and listens with an admirable focus, is strong in her opinions and unafraid to tackle other panellists head-on.
I've volunteered to be the 'runner' for this because I’ve had no exercise today and this involves going through, and up and down the three-storey building a few dozen times with the questions for the panel, so I get to read them before I hand them over. The audience has been rigorously selected through the BBC Question Time website so I assume the questions will be intelligent and considered. There’s a heavy quota of questions whining about the logo for the Olympics and it's surprising how many people have made spelling mistakes. Tut tut.
The audience watch news transmitted by all channels while they have tea and biscuits. I run upstairs, and hand over their questions, after smirking at the mis-spellings, and they are put in piles under topics. David Dimbleby and his team watch up-to-date televised news and his researchers check for the latest information which relates to the questions and any breaking news. That’s 150 questions to sort, narrow down to a selection of eight, expecting only four or five to be used, and gathering any relevant data. It’s a great opportunity to see how the programme is put together – an efficient, polite team, working in an orderly, friendly, well-oiled way, demonstrating a neat piece of co-operation that should warm the heart of Tony Benn. And nobody got assassinated.
Berezovsky’s a brave man who says he feels safe in England, yet I don’t see any security men on the stage door side of the building. The whole team is at the other entrance checking people’s bags and scanning them with detectors. Progress into the building is slow.
Other panellists are politicians Tony Benn, Julia Goldsworthy, Francis Maude and the journalist and author, Melanie Phillips. They’re less likely to attract an assassin but you never know. Melanie Phillips is extremely right wing and antagonizes other panel member as well as the audience when she states that she doesn’t go along with the drive to be ‘green’ because environmentalists are politically manipulating the whole debate. She doesn’t take it seriously and resents ‘ambitious environmentalism.’ There are hisses and moans, and Julia Goldsworthy frowns hard and shakes her head, but it is Francis Maude that takes her on.
Phillips also makes the astonishing assertion that there are no non-British people living in Britain, but that we are all British citizens. There are many thousands of people living and working in Britain either temporarily, or long-term, who do not have British citizenship, and who may have no intention of taking it.
Tony Benn answers every question with measured reason. He repeatedly argues that democracy, tolerance and co-operation are the only ways for society and the world to co-exist and survive. His anti-war stance is well known and he re-asserts his antipathy towards nuclear arms in his responses this evening, saying, ‘nuclear weapons are a desperate threat to the human race.’
Discussions about Putin and concerns about Russian nuclear armaments dominate the evening which is unsurprising when Berezovsky is here but it is an intense debate which benefited from a little easing of the tension. Julia Goldsworthy is impressive in her intelligence, calm reasoning and clarity. She takes notes and listens with an admirable focus, is strong in her opinions and unafraid to tackle other panellists head-on.
I've volunteered to be the 'runner' for this because I’ve had no exercise today and this involves going through, and up and down the three-storey building a few dozen times with the questions for the panel, so I get to read them before I hand them over. The audience has been rigorously selected through the BBC Question Time website so I assume the questions will be intelligent and considered. There’s a heavy quota of questions whining about the logo for the Olympics and it's surprising how many people have made spelling mistakes. Tut tut.
The audience watch news transmitted by all channels while they have tea and biscuits. I run upstairs, and hand over their questions, after smirking at the mis-spellings, and they are put in piles under topics. David Dimbleby and his team watch up-to-date televised news and his researchers check for the latest information which relates to the questions and any breaking news. That’s 150 questions to sort, narrow down to a selection of eight, expecting only four or five to be used, and gathering any relevant data. It’s a great opportunity to see how the programme is put together – an efficient, polite team, working in an orderly, friendly, well-oiled way, demonstrating a neat piece of co-operation that should warm the heart of Tony Benn. And nobody got assassinated.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Manic Street Preachers, Truro, 3rd June 2007
There are 1800 folk in tonight for a gig that sold out in just over an hour. The Manics were in Bristol last night, and Truro has drawn in this huge crowd from Devon and all around the west country, the Celtic fringe, all in great spirits, all looking forward to a good night. If people were smart and checked the ticket prices maybe they’d think it worth the drive down to Cornwall for tickets at £25 compared to £59 at Brighton and £65 at Southampton. Hey, good deal. We’re cheap down here.
The security guys are a nice bunch of lads, enormous, and very polite. One guy stands next to me and accidentally brushes my face with his arm; he’s so big he can’t see me down here as he scans the floor from his vantage point. I look up to see what it was that bumped me in the dark, and connect my face with his upper arm – my head doesn’t even reach his shoulder. Ridiculous. I’m not small. What on earth did his mother feed him on? He’s got to be 6ft 8ins at least. Good manners though. He’s one of those gentle giants I suppose, so I keep hoping a fight will break out, or a drunk will get mouthy, simply so that I can see him in action; silent and swift, or heavy handed and hard.
It’s a largely masculine audience. The music is purposeful, strong, loud. The band are terrific, the singing spot on, and the whole set offers a wide mix of music. Singing styles and sound are varied, with one number reminiscent of Sting and the Police, one with a bit of a Runrig feel, soulful ballads and punk blasts. It’s a great range, tightly performed with real verve. They finish off with their crowd pleasing hit single, 'A Design For Life,' and people just don’t want to leave. They hang over the stage, gazing at the roadies dismantling the set, wistful and happy. Good vibrations.
The security guys are a nice bunch of lads, enormous, and very polite. One guy stands next to me and accidentally brushes my face with his arm; he’s so big he can’t see me down here as he scans the floor from his vantage point. I look up to see what it was that bumped me in the dark, and connect my face with his upper arm – my head doesn’t even reach his shoulder. Ridiculous. I’m not small. What on earth did his mother feed him on? He’s got to be 6ft 8ins at least. Good manners though. He’s one of those gentle giants I suppose, so I keep hoping a fight will break out, or a drunk will get mouthy, simply so that I can see him in action; silent and swift, or heavy handed and hard.
It’s a largely masculine audience. The music is purposeful, strong, loud. The band are terrific, the singing spot on, and the whole set offers a wide mix of music. Singing styles and sound are varied, with one number reminiscent of Sting and the Police, one with a bit of a Runrig feel, soulful ballads and punk blasts. It’s a great range, tightly performed with real verve. They finish off with their crowd pleasing hit single, 'A Design For Life,' and people just don’t want to leave. They hang over the stage, gazing at the roadies dismantling the set, wistful and happy. Good vibrations.
Sunday, June 03, 2007
Daylight Robbery
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. 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. 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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