British Railing

Mandy gave a great heave and as the suitcase ascended she hoped to God she wasn’t going to feel foolish again. That time with the extra hardback she’d packed and the concussion flashed across her mind.

Phew! The gods were on her side she thought as she slid along the seat to get to the window. And a table seat as well - her luck was in today. Nearly two hours to London and it was going to be a good journey.

Unless that man diagonally opposite kept staring at her all the way. Good-looking enough, about her age, blond-ish hair and a very nice suit, but what was the notebook all about?

He looked up at her and their eyes met again briefly. He frowned, and returned his gaze to the shorthand pad in front of him as he recommenced scribbling. Then, just for a second, he flicked her another glance.

Mandy retreated behind the copy of “OK” she had pulled from her bag. What on earth was going through his mind? Probably had a thing about watching strange women on trains. Oh, marvellous!

“You don’t mind if I sit here?”

The enormous tweeded bulk landed with a jumbo-esque lack of grace opposite her accompanied by a capacious leather bag which appeared to be bursting with dog food.

“Thought I wasn’t going to make it on time. Had to practically gallop down the platform. And not a porter around to help you nowadays.”

The woman rummaged in the bag and produce a battered old copy of “Horse and Hound” and a bag of humbugs.

“Want one? Need something to take off the pangs; I’m not using the buffet. Ruinous prices! And what for, I ask you?”

“Yes,” replied Mandy, feeling that was sufficient. Doggy woman and stary man, this was going to be a barrel of laughs.

“Get too full, these carriages. Air conditioning’s working at least. Had to leave the dog at home, just in case.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Just been wormed and not good on journeys.”

The sight of the betweeded one dosing herself up flitted swiftly across Mandy’s mind and disappeared, unlike the grin on her face.

“It’s not funny, costs me a fortune, you know. Hmm, some strange coves in here. That one’s taking notes on us. Probably a pervert.”

“You think so?” It had occurred to Mandy, but he was quite good-looking; surely not.

“Allsorts around these days. I saw a flasher once in the park. Just the once.” Ominous. Tweedy lady and flasher – there was something of the seaside postcard about it.

“ARSENA-A-AL!”

“UP THE GUNNERS! WHERE’S THE CANS?”

“YOU HAD ‘EM, YOU TWAT!”

“Really!” remarked Tweedy as she rustled her magazine, “You never used to get this when they had separate compartments. Unless it was in that Margaret Rutherford film where the doctor strangled that woman just as the blind came up, and she saw it all.”

Mandy raked back through her mind.

“No,” she said.

“OY, LOVE, YOU WANT ONE OF THESE? GET YOUR LAUGHING GEAR ROUND THAT!”

“Disgusting!”

Mandy wanted desperately to turn round and see what he was doing, but didn’t dare. Stary scribbled away, watching the lads and jotting down something or other. She knew that face from somewhere.

“Ought to be horsewhipped! Don’t suppose those underpants have seen a boil wash for months.”

“Was he flashing?”

“Only the undies. Doesn’t look like much of man to me. Excuse me, are you writing all this down, because we might need witnesses?”

She turned from the writer and fixed her gaze on Mandy.

“You should have looked round. You’ll know a blackguard when you see one.”

“I suppose.”

“Work, do you? In an office. Seen it all, I dare say.”

“One or two things, yes.”

“All those typists having affairs with their bosses. I read the papers. Goings on in the stationery cupboard and photocopying buttocks. You a secretary?”

“I’m a PA.”

“What’s that when it’s at home?”

“A posh word for a secretary.”

“PUT YER NOB AWAY, FRANKIE, WE’VE ALL SEEN IT BEFORE.”

“I’M ONLY WAVING OUT THE WINDOW.”

“ARSENA-A-A-AL! YER’VE LEFT A BUM PRINT ON’T GLASS NOW!”

“Really, I shall have to call the conductor shortly. Was hoping for a nice quiet journey.”

From then on it pretty much was. The man carried on scribbling, Tweedy rustled her humbugs occasionally and read on.

But he did stare from time to time. Mandy smiled, he smiled.

When Mandy came back from the loo he was waiting outside. Was this going to be one of those mile-high moments? No such luck. Not feeling frisky like she thought, then. Oh, well.

“Tea, coffee, snacks?”

Tweedy rummaged in the bag and produced a “Yorkshire Life” amid the clatter of tin cans.

“Damn things! Saw them on offer when I popped in for the mags. Never miss a bargain.”

“Tea, coffee, snacks?”

Stary had a black coffee. Must be in need of caffeine, decided Mandy. Late night? Writing? Drinking?

“A large tea. White. With sugar. And make sure it’s strong, don’t just show it the bag. I know they train you to do that, young man, and I’m not having it,” boomed Tweedy, “They serve you anything! How much? Oh, I’ll not bother at those prices!”

Mandy saved the attendant’s face and had it instead.

“Tea bags! Just the sweepings up from the floor after they’ve put the real tea in boxes, you know.”

Did this woman have an opinion on everything? Stary was smirking now. He winked at Mandy. Should she go to the loo again?

“YOU WANNA WATCH WHAT YER SAYING.”

“SHE’S A SLAPPER AND YOU KNOW IT.”

A few bangs and a muffled shout later and it was all over.

“He’ll never get the blood out of that shirt. Yobs, hah! Need a good birching.”

“This train will shortly be arriving at King’s Cross. Please make sure you take all your luggage with you when leaving the train.”

Thank the lord for that!

A few minutes and Mandy was on the platform, trailing her little case behind her. Also trailing behind her was the writer. Steady steps, same pace as hers. Should she turn round? Go on?

She stopped in the middle of the concourse so suddenly that he fell over her case.

“Oh, sorry!”

“My fault. Sorry. Erm – sorry to be a nuisance, but I think I was at school with you.”

“What?”

“Sorry. I didn’t like to say on the train – that silly woman, you know.”

That way of talking did seem familiar.

He smiled uncertainly,

“Mandy Brewer? Simon Peers.”

“Oh, my god! Never. What are you up to these days?”

“That,” he said, indicating a large display of “This Week’s Best Seller” in the window of W H Smith.

Mandy wondered if she was going to be immortalised.