That’s it then, at least for another week. It wasn’t so bad. The conversation was a little trite, the subjects tortuous, but I did enough work to keep me from going insane with boredom. The weather helped. It was glorious. They say that it was the warmest 6 April ‘since records began’, that hackneyed phrase. Which records? Who began them?
We’re rattling along on the 18:43 from Newcastle to Dundee, stopping at Dunbar. I originally sat in the section of the train that was to be shunted to Heaton sheds for the night. I wondered why the carriage was empty. “You’d better get out”, a uniformed porter instructed me. “Why didn’t anyone say anything?” I asked, with some asperity. “There’s been announcements” he said, defensively. “None that I heard,” I rapped as I picked up my meagre chattels from the table and flew. The sun is spearing straight into my eyes from the opposite side of the carriage, but the wizened old crone who occupies the opposite seat hasn’t thought to close the blind.
I’m sitting behind an American couple who have just been joined by a flustered chap with a laptop computer. “Had to run for the train,” he tells them, “a little out of…breath”. The American couple smile. “I’m for Edinburgh”, the computer man says. “So are we.” “I’m English, but I live there.” The computer man is apologetic. “We’ve been to Durham to see the castle,” the American lady says, “we’ve got nothing like that in Miami.” The computer man nods sagely.
I wouldn’t mind having a conversation with the American couple, even the English computer man, but I never seem to have a conversation with anybody except myself. It may be because no-one ever wants to sit next to me, for my expression is generally one of a grizzly bear with toothache. The American woman was once beautiful, with ash-blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and full lips. Middle age has coarsened her features, as if someone has gone lightly over her portrait with a Brillo pad. Her husband has iron-grey hair, a pair of tinted spectacles and a sardonic manner of speaking. He says to the chap pushing a trolley: “I’ll take a coupla diet cokes with ice and two bags of those – whaddya call them? - crisps? Make ‘em salt and vinegar.” “There’s no ice", says the trolley man. “No ice?” You can almost hear the American’s sharp exhalation of breath. The trolley man moves on.
“Is it always so cold up here?” says the American. “I’m from down south,” the Computer man replies, “it’s warmer there.” “I’ve only brought California clothes. All I have is one of those raincoat things,” says the American. “It’s actually quite warm for the time of year,” says the Computer Man. “Aw shucks, you don’t say.” The American sounds cross.
I watch the sheep. There are hundreds of them. They are eating grass. Not much fun being a sheep, I reflect. Eat grass, have the occasional haircut and end up in a mutton pie.
“Take a walk up Arthur’s Seat,” says the Computer Man. “That the extinct volcano?” says the American. The other nods. “Aw honey, can’t we take a cab up there? I’m so tired,” says his wife.
“Oh look, there’s some surf” she says, excitedly. She points to Alnmouth, sitting on a spit of land in a sort of estuary. Her husband shrugs. She smiles – her teeth are too alabaster white, too piano-key even. Ten thousand dollars of dentistry, I am thinking.
The train hustles through fields and hedgerows, the latter bright with gorse flowers. The American runs his fingers distractedly through his slate-grey hair. “Where shall we eat, honey?” “Aw, I need to freshen up first. Maybe the hotel?” “That’s a darned good idea. I was thinkin’the same myself.” She chews ruminatively on a potato crisp. “You know what, honey?” “What?” “I think I’m going to like Edinburrow.” She licks the salt and vinegar from her well-manicured fingers and closes her eyes.
I look at the Computer man swigging from a can of lager. He is about forty, sandy-haired, and good-looking in a whitewashed way. He wears a loud check shirt and a pair of expensive slacks. His Englishness is obvious indeed, and in a typically self-effacing way, he makes some attempt to conceal it.
The American Lady opens her eyes and says “This sign says we’re in Burrwick”, “Berwick,” says the Computer Man, “it’s pronounced “Berrick”. “Are we still in England?” “Just”. “Hully, gee - hear that, honey? We’re almost in Scotland.” “It won’t look much different,” her husband grudgingly says.
“How will we know?” asks his wife. “There’s a sign,” the Computer Man replies, “On the embankment. Should see it soon.”
She wears a white polo-necked blouse and a smart brown jacket. She was once slender, but age has filled out her figure and now she is modestly plump. I can see her face reflected in the carriage window. It is a contented face, a happy face. I glance at my own, and there is no smile, just the usual grimace.
She folds her arms across her bosom and looks out at the vans and lorries struggling up a steep stretch of the A1 road. Her husband leans against the window and appears to doze. The computer man slaps a pair of headphones onto his head and watches the screen intently. I count down the minutes till we reach Dunbar station and I have to swap the cosseted and private world of the railway carriage for the brutal reality of the world outside.
We’re rattling along on the 18:43 from Newcastle to Dundee, stopping at Dunbar. I originally sat in the section of the train that was to be shunted to Heaton sheds for the night. I wondered why the carriage was empty. “You’d better get out”, a uniformed porter instructed me. “Why didn’t anyone say anything?” I asked, with some asperity. “There’s been announcements” he said, defensively. “None that I heard,” I rapped as I picked up my meagre chattels from the table and flew. The sun is spearing straight into my eyes from the opposite side of the carriage, but the wizened old crone who occupies the opposite seat hasn’t thought to close the blind.
I’m sitting behind an American couple who have just been joined by a flustered chap with a laptop computer. “Had to run for the train,” he tells them, “a little out of…breath”. The American couple smile. “I’m for Edinburgh”, the computer man says. “So are we.” “I’m English, but I live there.” The computer man is apologetic. “We’ve been to Durham to see the castle,” the American lady says, “we’ve got nothing like that in Miami.” The computer man nods sagely.
I wouldn’t mind having a conversation with the American couple, even the English computer man, but I never seem to have a conversation with anybody except myself. It may be because no-one ever wants to sit next to me, for my expression is generally one of a grizzly bear with toothache. The American woman was once beautiful, with ash-blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and full lips. Middle age has coarsened her features, as if someone has gone lightly over her portrait with a Brillo pad. Her husband has iron-grey hair, a pair of tinted spectacles and a sardonic manner of speaking. He says to the chap pushing a trolley: “I’ll take a coupla diet cokes with ice and two bags of those – whaddya call them? - crisps? Make ‘em salt and vinegar.” “There’s no ice", says the trolley man. “No ice?” You can almost hear the American’s sharp exhalation of breath. The trolley man moves on.
“Is it always so cold up here?” says the American. “I’m from down south,” the Computer man replies, “it’s warmer there.” “I’ve only brought California clothes. All I have is one of those raincoat things,” says the American. “It’s actually quite warm for the time of year,” says the Computer Man. “Aw shucks, you don’t say.” The American sounds cross.
I watch the sheep. There are hundreds of them. They are eating grass. Not much fun being a sheep, I reflect. Eat grass, have the occasional haircut and end up in a mutton pie.
“Take a walk up Arthur’s Seat,” says the Computer Man. “That the extinct volcano?” says the American. The other nods. “Aw honey, can’t we take a cab up there? I’m so tired,” says his wife.
“Oh look, there’s some surf” she says, excitedly. She points to Alnmouth, sitting on a spit of land in a sort of estuary. Her husband shrugs. She smiles – her teeth are too alabaster white, too piano-key even. Ten thousand dollars of dentistry, I am thinking.
The train hustles through fields and hedgerows, the latter bright with gorse flowers. The American runs his fingers distractedly through his slate-grey hair. “Where shall we eat, honey?” “Aw, I need to freshen up first. Maybe the hotel?” “That’s a darned good idea. I was thinkin’the same myself.” She chews ruminatively on a potato crisp. “You know what, honey?” “What?” “I think I’m going to like Edinburrow.” She licks the salt and vinegar from her well-manicured fingers and closes her eyes.
I look at the Computer man swigging from a can of lager. He is about forty, sandy-haired, and good-looking in a whitewashed way. He wears a loud check shirt and a pair of expensive slacks. His Englishness is obvious indeed, and in a typically self-effacing way, he makes some attempt to conceal it.
The American Lady opens her eyes and says “This sign says we’re in Burrwick”, “Berwick,” says the Computer Man, “it’s pronounced “Berrick”. “Are we still in England?” “Just”. “Hully, gee - hear that, honey? We’re almost in Scotland.” “It won’t look much different,” her husband grudgingly says.
“How will we know?” asks his wife. “There’s a sign,” the Computer Man replies, “On the embankment. Should see it soon.”
She wears a white polo-necked blouse and a smart brown jacket. She was once slender, but age has filled out her figure and now she is modestly plump. I can see her face reflected in the carriage window. It is a contented face, a happy face. I glance at my own, and there is no smile, just the usual grimace.
She folds her arms across her bosom and looks out at the vans and lorries struggling up a steep stretch of the A1 road. Her husband leans against the window and appears to doze. The computer man slaps a pair of headphones onto his head and watches the screen intently. I count down the minutes till we reach Dunbar station and I have to swap the cosseted and private world of the railway carriage for the brutal reality of the world outside.
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