It is about six weeks ago since he first came into my life. He was a passenger on my train from Corham. One of those annoying characters that insist on talking to you whilst you are trying to do your job. They ask you questions whilst you are operating the doors, or they try to pass the time of day with you when you are collecting fares during the rush hour. I don’t do small talk, so I just glare until they pay me and get back to their newspapers. The worst ones are the ones who think the know something about the railway. Trainspotters mostly. They ask the most banal questions, or try to impress you with their knowledge of technical terms. Usually their knowledge is hopelessly out of date, or just plain wrong.
Who the hell cares? What kind of sad bastard would find trains remotely interesting anyway?
I can tell at once that there is something different about this man. He is elderly, with a goatee. Average height and build. He wears a Harris tweed suit, that smells faintly of damp dog. Carries a walking cane, although he doesn’t seem to have any problems walking. A smart country gent of the sort that you don’t see very often these days. There is something familiar about him, but I can’t pin it down.
His mouth smiles, but his eyes seem to be looking straight into my soul.
“Have you had a hard day? You look stressed.”
“No worse than any other day” I mutter. “It’s always hectic at this time of day.”
“It must be difficult for you, doing a job like this.”
It’s not rocket science” I reply. Annoyed.
“That was my point. An educated man like yourself, doing such a menial task. Most train conductors are rather common chaps.”
I turn to look at him, prepared to tell him not to be so bloody patronising. What does he know about me? He is looking at me quizzically. There is a slight twinkle in his eyes. The retort dies in my throat. I am not sure if he is taking the piss.
“No it’s not ideal” I say. Before I can continue, the brakes begin to squeal as we pull into Whorlton station. I turn my attention back to operating the doors. He steps past me onto the platform, his polished brogues barely making a sound.
“Nil desperandum,” he says, touching his temple in a mock salute.
I am taken aback. No one ever gets on or off the train at Whorlton. It is possibly the most dismal place on the entire network. A stark inner city ghetto for the dispossessed. A station with zero facilities, the walls daubed with so-called street art. Hypodermic syringes and blackened spoons litter the brick shelter where gangs of youths congregate late at night.
Only two trains a day stop here, and only because the company is obliged to provide a service by law. No one travels to Whorlton if they can avoid it.
Before I can stop myself I am asking, “Are you sure this is your stop?”
“Oh yes,” he says with a wave. I do a lot of business around here.”
I can’t imagine what business he could have in this hellish place. He doesn’t fit the profile of a drug dealer. He approaches the shelter, where two kids in black hooded sweatshirts stand smoking. They gaze toward the train with vacant narcotic stares. The old guy engages them in conversation and as we prepare to move away from the station I see all three moving away towards the station exit. A black limousine is waiting outside. Now it makes sense. Rent boys. He will probably turn up dead in a day or two.
I glance up to check that the semaphore signal is at proceed. The driver has his head out of the window looking at me. I wave nonchalantly and he ducks back inside. He is nervous. You do not hang around here longer than necessary. Besides he is itching to get his feet up in the mess room with his Daily Mirror and mug of coffee. I close the doors and glance at the signal again before stepping back onto the train. It wouldn’t do to buzz the train away against a red signal. A signal passed at danger is probably the worst offence a driver can commit. Two SPADs and a drivers’ career is over. Of course the driver is supposed to check the signal himself. Every conductor has made the mistake at some point. Most of the drivers are understanding and will just have a quiet word with you.
Not this one. Jimmy Clegg. Surly, ignorant, obese porcine features. Generally regarded as a complete twat. He would report you to the management without ever telling you why. Jimmy’s worked on the railway for 27 years and has never known anything else. He joined fresh from school aged sixteen, because his father worked for British Rail. He worked his way up from fitters mate, to shunter and finally to train driver. He’s typical of the railway industry. Whinges about the job to anyone who will listen. He hates the company, hates the management even more. “Never trust a gaffer” was Jimmy’s sage advice to me when I join the company three months ago. I should have told him then that I was a “gaffer” until fortune dictated that I be forced to take this steaming dog turd of a job.
Jimmy’s sort are what are commonly known as “the salt of the earth”. Or as my late grandmother would have said, “common as muck”. People like Jimmy define their existence by their jobs. A job is for life, and they wage a constant “us against them” war with anyone who dares to progress. Ambition is not something that ever enters their minds. They put all their faith in the unions because they can’t fight their own battles. If you disagree you are a scab or a class traitor.
I’m not a member of the union. I would sooner cut off my own left testicle than become part of Jimmy’s world, with it’s working men's clubs, page three girls and holidays to Turkey.
The train clears the platform and I switch off the door key switch, severing power to the door leaves. Wouldn’t do to have some idiot opening a door and falling out at 70 mph. God knows there are plenty who would try.
I begin another ticket checking patrol of the train. It is not taxing work. I have plenty of time to scrutinise my passengers. I know at a glance what to expect from each of them.
The people in the suits look down on you as a working class lout. I want to scream “I was just like you once, you fucking snobs! I’ve been to university, managed my own businesses. I’m better than any of you.”
Kids think you are a joke, someone to fuck about with. Old ladies pity you. The single mothers and assorted ill-bred trash think you exist purely for their convenience. To lift their pushchairs onto the train. To answer their crudely phrased questions. To Listen to their endless complaints. None of them knows the meaning of please or thank you.
The common slappers who hold up their tickets without even bothering to lift their snouts out of the latest issue of Heat magazine. The spotty teenagers who sit listening to their IPods, pretending they haven’t seen you.
The ones who walk to the farthest end of the carriage, in the hope that you won’t reach them before they reach their destination.
Women who decide to answer their mobiles phones whilst you wait for them to produce their tickets. The ones who look sheepish as they search every pocket, every crevice of their bags for their tickets, and then remember that they don’t have one after all.
The late night pissheads, the stinking tramps, the filthy labourers, the snotty kids. I hate them all with an equal and vehement passion.
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