I’m on the train to Cumbria for the Literature Festival on the shores of Derwentwater. Strangely, a first class single is cheaper than a return ticket but I’m not complaining, and am looking forward to the promised free tea and coffee all the way there – five hours. I step into the compartment but, seeing that is laid up like a dining car, I retreat, and look in the next compartment. No, I was right the first time; I am to travel for five hours with a table in front of me, laid with a French style heavy paper mat, cutlery wrapped in a blue serviette, a wine glass and a white china dish containing a white china cup on a doily. I try to make some room for my papers, and manage to write a bit amongst the crockery and cutlery.
I am soon joined by two Chinese men who smile and bob their heads at me and, by gesticulating, indicate that they want to know if the seats are taken – they’re not – and if they may sit down. They sit and chatter with great animation and good nature, and I smile and nod too, then get back to my paperwork.
The steward/hostess passes amongst us with a trolley offering tea or coffee. Very civilized I feel. However, I am a non-caffeine type so I ask for a pot of hot water. The steward pours out tea for the visitors and they pick up their cups with both hands, and slurp the liquid slowly from the cups. I wonder if I can listen to that for five hours.
My hot water arrives. The two Chinamen watch very pointedly as the steward places the metal pot in front of me, then as I unzip my rucksack and rummage noisily inside it to produce a teabag. They appear fascinated at my ritual as I drop it into the pot and return to my writing.
Some minutes later one of them makes a sound. I look up. He nods at the teapot and picks it up to offer it to me. He is going to pour my tea. How thoughtful. He pours out a cup for me and I say thank you. Then, he pours a cup for his friend and one for himself. I am puzzled by this but I assume that sharing my decaffeinated tea is a gesture of friendship so I smile and say clearly, “It’s Rooibosch.” They are all incomprehension. I try again, “It’s from Africa.” They look crestfallen and shake their heads to show they do not understand. I wonder how they are going to manage in this country, and how they got this far but they look very jolly, and must be getting by with smiles and nods wherever they go.
Half an hour later, the steward returns with the trolley on what is to prove a trip of unrelenting mouth filling, and offers us all soft drinks. I have cold water, my fellow travellers have lemonade and water. They look mighty delighted at the English train service, and I’m pretty astonished at it myself. The journey is punctuated by what seems to be half hourly intervals by the arrival alongside my seat of stewards offering delicious looking pitta or naan breads stuffed with all manner of delicacies, served with parsnip crisps, and bowls of comforting soup with hunks of bread. If I had eaten any, or all of it, I would have rolled off the train and needed a lie down.
Ten minutes later comes the spoiler. The ticket collector sweeps through the train without a smile, in fact, rather aggressive I think, even towards me, as though I have a terrific nerve to be in first class and, for a moment I feel I ought to confess that this is my first time and would he please treat me gently. He glares at the happy Chinese men and orders them out of first class and into standard.
They clearly do not understand a word but they do understand his big pointy finger.
I am soon joined by two Chinese men who smile and bob their heads at me and, by gesticulating, indicate that they want to know if the seats are taken – they’re not – and if they may sit down. They sit and chatter with great animation and good nature, and I smile and nod too, then get back to my paperwork.
The steward/hostess passes amongst us with a trolley offering tea or coffee. Very civilized I feel. However, I am a non-caffeine type so I ask for a pot of hot water. The steward pours out tea for the visitors and they pick up their cups with both hands, and slurp the liquid slowly from the cups. I wonder if I can listen to that for five hours.
My hot water arrives. The two Chinamen watch very pointedly as the steward places the metal pot in front of me, then as I unzip my rucksack and rummage noisily inside it to produce a teabag. They appear fascinated at my ritual as I drop it into the pot and return to my writing.
Some minutes later one of them makes a sound. I look up. He nods at the teapot and picks it up to offer it to me. He is going to pour my tea. How thoughtful. He pours out a cup for me and I say thank you. Then, he pours a cup for his friend and one for himself. I am puzzled by this but I assume that sharing my decaffeinated tea is a gesture of friendship so I smile and say clearly, “It’s Rooibosch.” They are all incomprehension. I try again, “It’s from Africa.” They look crestfallen and shake their heads to show they do not understand. I wonder how they are going to manage in this country, and how they got this far but they look very jolly, and must be getting by with smiles and nods wherever they go.
Half an hour later, the steward returns with the trolley on what is to prove a trip of unrelenting mouth filling, and offers us all soft drinks. I have cold water, my fellow travellers have lemonade and water. They look mighty delighted at the English train service, and I’m pretty astonished at it myself. The journey is punctuated by what seems to be half hourly intervals by the arrival alongside my seat of stewards offering delicious looking pitta or naan breads stuffed with all manner of delicacies, served with parsnip crisps, and bowls of comforting soup with hunks of bread. If I had eaten any, or all of it, I would have rolled off the train and needed a lie down.
Ten minutes later comes the spoiler. The ticket collector sweeps through the train without a smile, in fact, rather aggressive I think, even towards me, as though I have a terrific nerve to be in first class and, for a moment I feel I ought to confess that this is my first time and would he please treat me gently. He glares at the happy Chinese men and orders them out of first class and into standard.
They clearly do not understand a word but they do understand his big pointy finger.
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