The 8:57 from Oban

The 8:57 from Oban.

“Would you like another coffee sir?”

Sir would, or did, though he wasn’t sure he was a ‘sir’, more ‘Mark’ really. But of course, the guard on the train south couldn’t possibly have guessed that. Nor was the man offering refreshments aware that his current customer had drunk a great deal of whisky the night before.

So, of course Mark wanted more coffee, as surely as he would come to regret such shortly after. But he didn’t know that, not yet.

There were two carriages, A and B. Unimaginative, but straightforward enough Mark had thought, as he’d followed a Glasgow Rangers fan and an elderly gentleman with as little hair as was possible to own without being actually ‘bald’, on board.

That made three in carriage A. There weren’t many more in what Mark had come to think of as the rival coach, carriage B. There was a brusque middle-aged female and a fellow in his forties who seemed totally devoid of anything you could describe him by. If ever he were to go missing, or be wanted for something, Mark would have said ‘I think he was beige and might have had a hat, but I’m not certain.’

There were others in that carriage, but he quickly lost interest and decided to read a book instead. Carriage B could manage just fine without his input, he was after all in a superior car, the one with the toilet and a man who served coffee.

Mark didn’t know that the carriages were joined by an interconnecty thing, rendering his assessment of the facilities as useless as they were to eventually prove to be, but he was at least temporarily happy in his superiority.

“Do you want the two sachets and the extra sugar again sir?” asked the guard, who was starting to appreciate the hungover state of his passenger. He empathised possibly even sympathised a bit; he too had quite a red nose.

“That would be lovely.” Mark hadn’t meant to sound so English, he’d been pretending to be local for four days now and wasn’t entirely sure his faux Scottish had been accepted.

And now it had slipped, giving way to his actual Home Counties accent.

“Aye, that’d be grand!” he added, panicking now and slipping into something more Yorkshire, though probably hopelessly incomprehensible even there, where he wasn’t.

The guard, who was called Steve, either didn’t notice or didn’t care, possibly both, but the man from West Sussex decided to try and stop being anything at all and to stare out of the window sipping scalding hot coffee.

Connell Ferry went by without mishap, but as the scenery started to change from suburb countryside to rugged cragginess on the far side of Taynuilt, Mark decided to avail himself of the facilities.

‘Out of Order,’ the toilet door said, electronically.

He did some mental arithmetic. He had consumed four coffees, two cups of tea and a litre of carbonated water

Half an hour out of Oban on a three-hour trip to Glasgow, ‘Out of Order’ wasn’t going to cut it. And so, he went to find the guard, accessing carriage B by the newly discovered connecty thing.

Steve was having a rest.

“I think the toilet’s out of order.”

“Aye, oot of order alright, has been since the way up.”

“Gosh,” exclaimed Mark, forgetting to be anyone at all but himself, “Wha’ wi’ ah doo?” he asked, suddenly remembering that he might get more help if he was local.

Steve looked puzzled, obviously his regional dialect was different from the one this fellow had adopted, and which didn’t exist anywhere in the word anyway.

“Er, I mean, where can I go to the toilet?” The Englishman said, Englishly.

“Yer cannae- not ‘til Glasgow.”

Returning to his seat Mark tried to think about something else.

Loch Awe was frozen solid which provided nearly sixty seconds of distraction and warranted a badly blurred photo from the carriage window.

Rangers man had fallen asleep and the chap with the not quite bald head was sitting rigid and staring open eyed and open mouthed at nothing in particular.

An ally? Mark wondered; the old chap was bound to need the toilet soon. He tried to catch his eye, but the chap just stared rigidly ahead, unaware that he was needed in a two-man posse.

Perhaps someone in carriage B might be press ganged into action?

It seemed unlikely; non-descript man didn’t look ready for confrontation, the austere lady appeared too unapproachable and the previously unnoticed married couple in their twenties hadn’t looked up from their phones since he’d first spotted them-and probably before that.

By Dalmally there seemed to be hope. Another refugee from carriage B- a fellow with a suit and computer was stumbling down to the toilet, laptop in hand and obviously as intent as he was unaware of the situation.

Aha, thought Mark; a recruit for the angry mob of frustrated toileteers.

And not before time either, there were nine more stops and an hour and three quarters to go and he knew he’d never make it.

Reassuringly, Laptop was angry at finding the door electronically locked and was storming back to find Steve. Mark tagged along, a few feet behind in case it turned ugly and was delighted to find the chap was up for the fight.

“Now look here, there are women on board who will need the facilities, you need to do something!” Lappy was saying, selflessly not mentioning his own needs.

Steve stood up. He was bigger than Laptop who-from his accent- was from Sussex as well.

“Dee any o’ yoo lasses need the facilities?” he boomed, Scottishly and above the din of the train.

Austere lady did, raising her hand to signal as much.

“Follow me.” Said Steve, leading the austere lady, Lappy and eventually Mark, who was glad the deadlock was broken at last.

Outside the lavatory Steve addressed the throng, which now included a group of about eight who’d appeared from nowhere.

“Ye can only use the toilet in station, no lingering and you can only use it quickly.” He ordered.

Tyndrum Lower hove into view and as the train juddered to a halt Steve almost shouted.

“Lady, your turn, dinnae get locked in, the doors will lock as we leave, go!”

Austere bolted for the door, Steve didn’t slap her back and tell her to ‘jump’ but somehow it felt like he should.

Silence fell on the group, which had swelled to around twelve now, Mark ninth from the front and wondering how many people this station would allow to complete their business. It seemed unfair that ladies were in front, they’d obviously take longer…

The door clicked open just as the train lurched forward, Austere looked happy.

“Everyone be seated, next toilet Crianlarich!” Shouted Steve. He at least seemed to be doing his best to solve the problem.

“That’s mine!” Yelled Lappy. He had apparently overcome his dismay at missing a turn due to false chivalry.

“I’ll take Ardlui.” Someone called.

Mark panicked, sweating with the realisation that seasoned travellers knew the stations better than he.

“Arrochar and Tarbet!” A disembodied ladies voice, heard only vaguely by Mark who was desperately trying to access the Scot Rail route map on his phone. It wouldn’t open; perhaps the mountains were blocking the internet?

And then he remembered, something from the journey up, a name he’d recognised from football commentary, or was it rugby?

“Helensburgh!” He screamed, involuntarily shooting his hand into the air and forgetting to use any accent other than that of desperation.

“Garelochead.” A voice called, sounding like a smug card payer calling a suit in a game of bridge.

Back in his seat he realised the desperation of the situation, along with the dawning dismay that he should have put in a bid for Garelochead, one stop before his. The elderly chap with the not quite bald head was still staring, open mouthed and motionless as Mark hunkered down in his misery.

Snow-capped mountains and glens swept by with swirling rivers, waterfalls and trees, all unacknowledged and unappreciated. At each stop he watched sadly as the early bidders used the toilet, noticing that some cheeky free riders were piggy backing onto the list at the longer stops.

Each time the door clicked open at the lurching of the train and another satisfied face emerged, smug and happily grinning at those less fortunate souls.

By the time the train hit Arrochar, carriage A was half full of interlopers from the other coach, there seemed quite a number now and Mark was aware that many hadn’t made successful bids and things might get nasty at Helensburgh.

Still the old fellow hadn’t moved, nor even blinked.

And then the final furlong, the thirteen minutes of hell from Garelochead to Helensburgh-his turn. The carriage was silent but for the clack of the wheels and the occasional tree branch as it scraped and screeched down the side of the train.

All eyes were fixed on the prize, the lavatory at the front of carriage A. Steve had vanished, he now only reappeared as the toileteers exited the facility at the end of each stop, shouting, “Out quickly, before the doors lock.”

Mark was in pole position, nearest the cubicle and within less than sixteen feet of relief, four yards and nine minutes now. Should he move forward, book his space in case of a queue jumper? No, that wouldn’t look right; he mustn’t lose his dignity, must hold his nerve and be ready for action.

The train rounded a bend and seemed to be slowing. Now? No, too early. And quite right too, false alarm -it was just losing speed for the corner. He sat back, legs shaking with tension, breath short and sharp-an athlete pumped on adrenaline waiting for the starting pistol.

There was a rattling shudder, a roar of the engines and suddenly they were slowing.

NOW! GO, GO, GO! Mark shouted in his head at last and with no trace of an accent at all.

He stood, mistimed his dash and as the train screeched to a halt fell sideways into his seat. As he regained his footing, he was aware of a blur, a movement in the aisle, and a rush of air as someone shot past.

NO! Screamed Mark, still inaudibly, regaining his feet and turning to the toilet, away from the crowd who didn’t seem to have moved.

But it was too late, he’d been beaten, cheated of the prize by the elderly fellow who had silently and sneakily made his move, a dash of astonishing speed and agility for a fellow who had seemed so frail, possibly Mark had thought, dead.

As he stood, back to the crowd ashamed and embarrassed for no reason that made sense, the old man who wasn’t quite bald and certainly not dead, turned and winked.

“Helensburgh,” he said, tucking a day bag under his arm, “my stop, I’ll bet you thought I was after your turn at the toilet eh son?”

Mark almost cried with relief, “Nah, mate, I wasn’t bothered either way.”

As he entered the cubicle, and the electronic lock slammed shut he pondered on the latest of his uninvited accents.

Cockney where had that come from?

It didn’t matter; nothing did now, not even the slightly alarming state of the carpet and the shout from outside the door.

“Hurry yersel’ up laddie, we’re away again now and you dinnae want locked in.”

But he didn’t care, they could lock him in until Glasgow if they wanted, it would give him time to perfect a phrase he’d been practicing for the last couple of hours.

“My word, that’s better!” He was going to say as he left the toilet, in the voice of a 1960’s radio presenter he’d decided.

 That, he thought, summed it all up rather nicely.