Victoria - Brighton

2016. Victoria – Brighton

I don’t suppose you can digress from a story you haven’t started. But I will. My frequent journey from London to Brighton is preposterously affordable. The seniors’ Freedom Pass takes me on the city’s underground system to Victoria Station and from there, on the overland train, as far as Croydon and after that the charge is defrayed by my Senior Rail Card. At Brighton, the bus is on the Freedom Pass again. These concessions would be better made to young people travelling to their work or evening play. Thought I would say it.

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It's an early Saturday morning at Victoria Station. My pass flips me through the barrier and by chance there’s a Brighton train waiting. This was a promising start or would have been except for the guard’s whistle and the warning lights blinking around the carriage doors. In times past I would have made it. A short sprint and leap then, a missed train now. Well, not exactly ‘missed’. A properly missed train would have be one you had planned to catch. And Brighton trains are frequent.

‘Never mind Sir!’ This was a smiley, comfortably portly, Louis-Armstrong lookalike in his blue uniform and high-viz jacket. ‘Platform 18, Sir. Twenty minutes.’ A cheery fellow doing his job. I made my way as directed. The train was waiting empty, its carriages dark inside. Plenty of time. I settled on a bench with my Saturday Telegraph and its weekend crossword. I was soon totally engrossed in its cryptic clues and the twenty minutes passed quite unnoticed, as was the departure of this second train, its receding back just discernible down the line. A properly missed train.

Nothing for it but back to the barriers and the departure board and, somewhat awkwardly, Louis. He gave me a quizzical look. I smiled and shook my head to reassure him that all was well and as it should be. He hesitated. ‘Is it still Brighton, Sir?’. I nodded. ‘Well, then the next one, that would be Platform 16 Sir.’ He looked up at the clock. ‘Half an hour. And you mind how you go now Sir - God bless you.’

As with train number two, ­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­number three was waiting empty. Taking no chances, I boarded and made my way forward through the carriages to the front for the speediest access to the gate at the Brighton end. Speed always being of the essence as you may agree. Window seat, forward-facing, perfect. I settled back to my crossword. No missing this train, I was already on it. Curiously though, after a while my carriage did not seem to be filling. This boded well for a peaceful journey, but other things came to my notice in quick succession. 1) looking behind me, the carriages behind weren’t filling either, 2) on the immediately adjacent platform was a train and it captured my attention because, 3) it was moving and, 4) the electronic labeling on the side of each passing carriage signaled Brighton …..... Brighton ..... Brighton ... ever faster as it passed my static viewpoint. I decamped smartly to the platform and clocked the problem immediately. The train for Brighton had just left from platform 16. At platform 15, I had successfully boarded a train going nowhere, an easy mistake but I had watched a third Brighton train leave and me not on it. And that wasn’t all. There was the contingent, further problem of evading Louis who would now think me nuts. But I needn’t have worried about that for a full hour had passed since the start of our acquaintance and the station and hence he were now busy. This helpful factor, and the implementation of a carefully planned route from behind one pillar to the next, took me to the departure board unobserved by him and from there to the next designated Brighton train. Another half hour to wait but what could possibly go wrong? Nothing surely and nothing did.

The front carriage was empty and the electric signs over the connecting doors confirmed my destination and, in double reassurance, listed all the stations on the way. I messaged my attendant hosts that I was unforeseeably delayed. Then phone down on the table, sit back, on with the crossword. The train eased on its way across the Thames and south.

Clapham Junction is the first stop. I am generally well-disposed to fellow travellers but not unconditionally so. There have been times when I think ‘why are you getting on my carriage?’ Like now. The man who boarded was overweight, his shabby grey vest straining over his ample middle, black sweatpants, sneakers and, heaven preserve us, a plastic bag which in all probability, in fact virtual certainty, contained sustenance to ensure he would survive the journey. He had the whole bloody carriage to sit in but processed ponderously down and lowered himself down heavily across the aisle from me. I focused back on the crossword, my mind straining to screen out the unwanted. Plock went the tab on the fizzy drink can. Will power, Refocus. Tear, crinkle, pudgy fingers into the potato crisp packet, Refocus. The second crisp packet, Refocus. The plock, crinkle and munching continued intermittently though the stations: East Croydon, Gatwick Airport, Haywards Heath. No thought for the sacred temple of his body. Not my business for goodness sake. Leave the poor fellow alone. I am not a nice person.

Well, that is to be rather hard on myself. I am not that ‘not nice’. I must acquit myself. On a train up to Edinburgh, I was the first in a short queue for the lavatory. After a couple of minutes, the lady passenger immediately behind me wondered if there was an occupant in there at all. Better check. I pressed the arrowed button. In full compliance the door rolled open. This was to the alarm of the seated gentleman inside. ‘Oh, Hello Mate’, I said, in an everyday reassuring sort of way but he was already rising, one hand reaching towards the ‘close’ button and the other clutching his trousers, a tableau shift that risked his further exposure. With quick presence of mind, I stepped smartly into the cubicle and pressed the ‘close’ button for him but with equal presence of mind some cooperative person back in the corridor had already done so. I turned to leave my companion but found myself locked in with him. Well, it sorted of course but I had demonstrated my good intentions towards a fellow traveler in need. And another example if you will. On my Brighton journeys, a gentleman around my own age, on his way home to Canada, asked me most anxiously if the train stopped at Gatwick Airport. It did, but he was running late and, obviously sensing my helpful nature, he entrusted me with a parcel and a ten-pound note for its postage. He didn’t look like a smuggler looking for a mule. He said was a birthday gift for his little niece in Scotland. A few days later there came an email with a photo of a happy child clutching a small, important-looking bear. Back to my story.

Three Bridges … Haywards Heath .... Brighton. The PA announced our final stop with the customary warning to take our belongings with us and be careful alighting lest we fall flat on our faces on the platform. I was immediately out and away, through the barrier, briskly through the main concourse to the station exit and across the cobbled forecourt to the bus stops. Exiting the station behind, surprisingly close considering, I saw my erstwhile and irritating companion. Whatever now! He had spotted me and was approaching. He was clearly and seriously out pf breath and worryingly flushed. He panted. He was ‘so relieved’ to have caught me and held out my mobile phone.