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I caught the 10:03 to London Waterloo. On the bleak and rainy platform the passengers stoically awaiting the train straightened with astonishment as the train drew up at precisely three minutes past the hour.
Just as I was about to climb aboard I noticed the man with the Zimmer frame.
"Oh Lord," I thought. I wished I had not seen him, that I could just ignore him and secure my place. But we know British Rail do we not? What is laughingly known as Customer Care? The poor man was more likely to catch a cold than the train at the rate he was moving. When, however, I asked if he needed any help he stared in astonishment. At the same moment a BR Rail port appeared. I mean a real British Rail porter and the last time I saw one of those was in an Agatha Christie film. (I think he was probably a network South East chap actually - it's all been privatised apparently - Ed.)
"Help sir? Just a jiffy... Bag sir? There you are sir? Thank you sir... Pleasure Sir?"
With the minimum of fuss the man was seen to his seat. I found mine . The train set off.
At Basingstoke two German girls sat opposite me. Absurdly because I hate football - I found myself in retro Euro96 mode. 'BLOODY Germans,' I thought,' Invading my space'. Honestly you know I like to think I am a liberal and technically it was BR's space - but well - I was cross.
"Bloody giggling Germans!" I stared out of the window in a huff.
And then British Rail started with its announcements. "We regret due to a lack of staff , there are no refreshments available on this train."
One of the German girls who spoke some English translated to the other who laughed brusquely. I eyed her blond hair and unbidden a picture of the German rail service began to form in my mind.
Helga ran her fingers through her fair hair as she reached for the phone which rang insistently by her side. Mein Gott who was it ringing at this hour? She snapped to attention as she heard the icy voice of her supervisor (did he never sleep?) give her new instructions. "Heidi has let us down, Helga. You must replace her. You need to get food to the people on the 10:03 to Berlin. I do not expect you fail."
With a click he hung up. Joyfully Helga reached for her uniform. The railway needed her. This would be her finest hour.
At Woking BR announced: "'Would Passengers leaving at this station ensure they do so from the first five carriages only. The platform is not long enough to accommodate the length of the train"'
When this was translated into German the two girls laughed once more. The squeaky-clean, German train of my imagination began to gather speed.
Helga handed out beer and food to the passengers on the 10:03. She had succeeded in making Soukraut and sausages before dawn. The supervisor had said nothing but his approving nod and keen eye assured her she had done well. Poor Heidi. But one pays for one's mistakes. The train sped through the Teutonic landscape. Its well fed passengers would soon disembark at the latest station to open on route to Berlin. Listed buildings, slums homes and a village had been cleared to make way for its platform which was the size of a small runway.
Easily the largest in Europe had been designed to take the newest, thrusting German trains. Today they were a part of the Nation's pride. Helga glowed with a sense of achievement. 'You are so beautiful,' said the passengers as they ate her food. But their praise meant nothing to Helga. Her life was bound up in the railway. She would follow its iron road to the end of the line.
Reality returned as we approached Clapham Junction as the guard exhorted us to "Mind the Gap'!"
Baffled, the Germans demanded an explanation.
With a sigh I explained.
As I did so the German train of my imagination pulled into the station. Its sides floated, with perfect precision against the platform's edge. The doors swung outwards automatically and activated the small step which carried each passenger safely to the ground.
Once the concept of the gap was translated I watched with increasing irritation as the two Germans fell about, laughing.
"What!?!" I said, "Is so funny exactly?'
In a moment I would be saying "OK, OK, so maybe we have a crap train service but at least we won the bloody war!"
My brain was reaching for well worn cliché‚s even as I spoke.
The Germans stopped laughing long enough to explain that German Rail didn't have half the concern for its passengers as BR was evincing. "Passengers," the girl, explained somewhat mysteriously, "fell into the gap everyday in Germany!"
The German train disappeared with a shriek into the tunnel of my imagination. The two tourists found BR's anxious messages, which I had taken for signs of bad planning, as touching care for the passengers it carried. So we all laughed.
As the train drew into Waterloo, a Moslem girl got up from the seat behind me and adjusted her black veil so only her eyes showed. The two Germans and myself regarded her with some concern. "It is international now!" they told me. We were united in our prejudice against a woman who shamelessly flaunted her modesty.
With the unfounded assurance of the West, we left 'our' train.
