Beauty, Breakfast, and British Rail

The day hadn’t started well. It was a miserable Monday morning. I was flustered and frustrated. So it took me by surprise when, that morning, I fell in love for the first time.

Love is a curious word. I love the quiet beauty of broad, natural places. I love the elegance of a simple but pivotal mathematical algorithm. I love roast chicken, Yorkshire puddings and salted caramel ice cream - I don’t mean all together, of course, but... well, now I think of it, maybe all together could work too. I digress. At that time, above all things, I loved sleeping in bed.

It would typically take three snooze cycles of the alarm clock for me to be able to finally climb out of the soft, warm nest made in my over-sized duvet, an extravagance of goose down and brushed Egyptian cotton. A cursory shower with lemon scented shower gel helped to wake me up before ironing a shirt whilst drying. I would munch dry toast and gulp down uncomfortably hot coffee as I caught up on news and weather on the telly. Then I would burst through the front door and set a swift walking pace to get to the station in the nick of time. If I would just get out of bed a few minutes earlier, it could all be so much more leisurely. I never did, preferring a perfectly-timed frenzied-rush and those few extra moments snuggled in 15 togs of soft, warm joy. If I didn’t have to work for a living I would surely sleep the clock round.

During a hurried walk to the station I would occupy my mind by examining and re-examining a mental check list to ensure I hadn’t forgotten anything. It was always far too late to go back and do anything about it even if I had, so going through this list was in no way comforting, just something I seemed compelled to do. I could get from home to the train station in eight minutes flat on a good day, politely ignoring anyone else who might be walking the same route with only one exception; an elderly gent, slowly walking his dog in the other direction. I felt compelled to meet his gaze and nod a cheery greeting to him in response to his warm “Good Morning,” which always sounded happy and heartfelt; seeing him brightened my day.

On this day though, I didn’t see him, and I felt a pang of disappointment. I’d found a stain on the shirt I was ironing and having to start over with a fresh one meant I was running about a minute and a half later than usual. My timing was all off so I increased my pace, practically to a jog.

Had the train not also been running slightly late, I may have missed it. Instead, I had a minute to wait standing on the platform. Sweat began to bead on my forehead, and my hard breathing from a speedier-than-normal morning trot started to slow as I looked around at the others waiting on the platform; everyone looked like they were on a tight schedule, with impatient glances at watches, necks straining to catch a glimpse of the train in the distance. They also looked around at each other, trying not to be noticed as they noticed everyone else; eyes were quickly diverted when gazes crossed. This might seem odd or even rude to some, but here, in England, waiting at the small but well-used provincial branch line train station, it seemed an essential part of being British; that combination of intense curiosity whilst feigning respectful disinterest to preserve the privacy of others. I was only part way through my inventory of passengers on the platform when it started to rain. I quietly cursed the weather report; it hadn’t been forecast. It wasn’t heavy, but without a coat, it didn’t need to be. It wouldn’t do to show that it bothered me, so I stood there, stoically, moistening softly. It was less than a minute before I saw the train was approaching, but it seemed to take longer than usual to arrive at the platform, as rivulets of rainwater started running down the side of my nose.

Like most of those present, I knew just where to stand so that when the train pulled in, the door would be right in front of me, so people weren't distributed evenly along the platform but in small tight groups in order to board quickly and take a seat as quickly as possible. Today the train pulled up slightly beyond where it normally does, and this additional minor frustration saw me vying for shoulder room with a cluster of other passengers shuffling eagerly to the door’s new location. I ended up at the back of the queue, jabbed in the face by two other people's umbrellas as they brought them down behind them and shook them on entering without any care for others. When I finally got into the carriage I was feeling considerably more bothered than I hoped I allowed to show.

I shook off the rain as best I could, closed the train door behind me with a heavy clunk, and made my way through to the dining car with business-like self-importance. Railway cookery was often of questionable quality, and certainly fell short of the improbably high haute cuisine pricing policy they'd adopted, but my reasoning was sound.

You see, a second class ticket was £58 cheaper than a first class ticket. Breakfast prices varied, but the Full English was £15. The dining car was a first class carriage. So, by paying second class and buying breakfast, I enjoyed first class travel for £43 less and had breakfast to boot. It also entitled me to a free newspaper so I bagged a copy of the Telegraph. I felt savvy and clever, beating the system this way. The dining car was usually quieter than first class carriages and certainly quieter than second class, where getting a seat during rush hour could be a bit of a bunfight. I also had a guaranteed table to lean a book or laptop on after eating which I found more comfortable. And besides, the breakfasts really weren't too bad.

I saved my chosen seat with my briefcase then went to the counter, looked over the menu; I was ravenous and felt that today, a bacon sandwich simply wouldn’t cut it. The fellow in front of me had completed his order and the server looked towards me expectantly.

“The full English,” I began questioningly. “Bacon, sausages, black pudding?”

“No black pudding, but there’s grilled tomato, eggs, beans and two pieces of toast included.”

I nodded absently, taking all this in whilst still trying to analyse every option on the menu. “Coffee?”

“No, just a bit of a sore throat,” he replied as rubbed at his neck theatrically. It was too early in the day to cope with a pun so I pretended I hadn’t heard him. Seconds later he added, “It’s included. Just like it says on the menu.”

I thought a moment longer whilst the server stared at me. His face offered a deliberately blank expression which I assumed was a demonstration of as much ill will towards a customer as he thought he could get away with. “What kind of eggs?” I asked, still scanning through potential breakfast offerings. Breakfast is important and I wanted to get it right..

“Chicken’s.”

I looked up with a slight smile. I suppose I was warming to his jokes and was expecting to share a smile with him. He just continued to stare at me with an impatient expression. I instantly lost my smile and felt betrayed almost, so I changed tack. “Very helpful,” I said, with a tone indicating it was anything but. He said nothing, just waited. He folded his arms. “OK, I’ll take the full English, but hold the eggs.”

He paused until I looked down, fumbling for my wallet in my inside jacket pocket, then: “I always do,” he said. ”Just before I crack them open and cook them."

He turned away without waiting for a response, and poured me a coffee. The mug was dumped heavily on the counter in front of me, sloshing the coffee about, but somehow it didn’t spill. He took payment and told me the food would be brought over to my seat.

The dining car was half empty, despite other carriages being filled to capacity with some passengers standing. It was a busy route and the previous train had been cancelled. I’d selected a seat facing towards the front of the train at the very end of the carriage. I had to face forwards when I travelled by train or I would feel nauseated by moving backwards. Sitting here also had the added bonus of not having to look at the objectionable server.

I ate my egg-free breakfast slowly, partly because it was a fairly substantial and rather greasy affair, partly because I wanted to draw out my first class dining experience. Technically I should leave the dining car once I had finished eating, or I could be asked to leave; it had never happened, but I did my best to avoid the potential embarrassment of such a situation. All I had left was a second mug of instant coffee. It wasn’t good coffee; it tasted more like hot, bitter, liquid compost. It was easy not to rush this.

Clickety-clack. Clickety-clack.

The sound of steel wheels on rails is a familiar and predictable thing, and though I pretended to be engrossed in my newspaper, the swaying carriage was having its usual soporific effect; my eyes were half closed, resenting having to get out of bed at stupid o’clock on a Monday morning, and I was drifting into a semi-conscious state.

Clickety-clack, clickety-clack. Whoosh.

The train had reached the tunnel and the change in sound startled me into wakefulness; the newspaper that had fallen over my face burst upwards into crinkly mess, some pages finding their way to the floor of the carriage. One simply doesn’t draw attention to oneself in such a way; I quickly scooped up the errant pages, struggling to fold them into some semblance of an ordered paper. People were looking at me, the source of this disturbance, mild annoyance evident. I wouldn’t be able to return to my sleepy reverie now. I shrugged internally, trying to shake it off mentally. It was probably a good thing. If I was sleepy enough not to be disturbed by the tunnel, there was a good chance I would not be awake enough to exit at my destination. Which had happened before. Missing just one stop was ok, a mistake easily corrected without making me late for work, but once I had slept all the way to the end of the line and had to be woken by British Rail staff in an otherwise empty train. Explaining my tardiness on this occasion was more than a little embarrassing, and my cheeks, reddened by the spectacle I had just made of myself, coloured further at the memory.

Then I saw her. A different face. In a sea of faces I half-remembered from previous journeys, hers was different. No annoyance here, no superior indignation at my breaking the code of maintaining quiet insignificance, just the twinkling eyes and tight smile of barely suppressed mirth. She was looking at me, and she was beautiful.

She was in the next carriage, emptier now as people had exited at the last few stations, sitting at the end nearest me. In a carriage filled with pompous businessmen in shades of grey, she wore blue denim jeans and a red T-shirt. A small, light blue handbag rested at her side, the strap still hanging loosely over her shoulder, and her dark hair was tied back in a tight ponytail. She was tanned; perhaps a recent holiday? She didn’t seem to be wearing much make-up, but her lips were the same bright red as her shirt. She wore small gold earrings. She held a magazine open in front of her, and though her head had been tilted down toward it, her eyes had been lifted towards me. I couldn’t see her shoes; I wondered what kind of shoes she’d be wearing. I sat more upright to try and see, to complete the picture, but my view was still blocked by the lower section of the closed door between carriages.

Her eyes had drifted back to her magazine, still wearing a small smile. She wore no rings. My heart was beating harder and faster. I could feel it in my neck. My mouth was dry.

I was hopelessly shy with girls, always had been. My eyes instinctively pulled away from her, but her image was fresh in my mind and I mentally examined it. Quite possibly the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. I ventured another glance to see her looking straight back at me. It was enough to send my paper fluttering back to the floor and in my attempt to catch it, set my mug flying, dregs of coffee sputtering over the table and the floor. Perfect. I looked up in mild panic, praying she hadn’t noticed, but the small delicate hand she held over mouth, trying unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter as her shoulders shook gently made it clear she had. I groaned inwardly. Her eyes showed no ridicule though, just amusement and a trace of sympathy for my plight, as the server arrived and huffily assisted me clearing up the mess I’d made. I couldn’t have been more embarrassed, but I think she was aware of the effect she was having on me, and didn’t seem to mind. Could it be that she was even flattered? I smiled at her, and she held my gaze for a moment, smiling back, then coyly looked away out of the window.

Clickety clack. Clickety clack.

Almost there. I started gathering up my belongings, throwing frequent glances in her direction, but she now seemed engrossed in her magazine. I hadn’t held her attention for long. I wasn’t surprised. She was perfect, and I was, well, me. The moment had passed, and I was flooded with disappointment. What would I have done, anyway? Talked to her? As if! There wasn’t time, and even if there was, she wouldn’t be interested in me, not beyond a moment of amusement at my clumsy buffoonery at any rate. I sighed deeply, and stood, clutching my briefcase stuffed with a crumpled, coffee-stained newspaper, an umbrella and a packed lunch. Wait, an umbrella? Why didn’t I remember that when it was raining? It made me feel even more ridiculous and my cheeks burned with embarrassment as I shuffled away towards the door at the far end of the carriage, stumbling from side to side with the sway of the train. I stood facing the door until the train pulled into the station. I felt a sense of loss, but for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to look towards her.

Screeeeech!

The train had come to a stop with a jolt and the door opened. I stepped down to the platform without looking back, and started walking towards the station’s exit. The train hadn’t yet moved, and as I passed her carriage, I couldn’t resist taking one last look towards her. She was looking in my direction and flashed a bright wide smile, and waved. I looked around me, a little jealously, to see who might be commanding her attention. There was only me. I looked back at her and she seemed amused once more. Without noticing, I had stopped walking and was staring straight at her, slightly open mouthed. My heart was pounding. I waved back, and the train began to pull away. She stood, and, with a certain amount of whimsy, expansively blew me a kiss. A moment later she, and the train, disappeared into the distance.

I felt awkwardly elated, filled with hope and possibility. I thought about her all that day. Where did she come from? Where was she going? What was her name? Did she really like me, or was I just imagining it? Could a girl like that really find anything to like in someone like me? I’m nobody. Where would we go on our first date? Would she still like me a week from now, a month from now, a year from now? I made up answers to my own questions: they made her seem more real, more tangible, and gave me courage. The next time I saw her, I would walk straight over and introduce myself. What did I have to lose?

I looked out for her the next day and the day after that, but she wasn’t there.

The following Monday I walked through the whole train, but still I didn’t see her.

In fact, I looked for her everywhere. On the train, as I walked along the city streets, and in my dreams. I’m not sure whether it was her I fell in love with, or just my memory of her, but love it was, and it was my first time.

I continued to look for her in the eyes of every girl I’ve ever met. Now, more than twenty years later, I look for her still.