New year, new Tube People
This one actually happened quite a while ago, but I've been urged to write it up.
They clearly don't know each other, but they have two things in common - age and class. Bundled up against the cold in overcoats and scarves, the gentleman wears an old-fashioned check cap and the lady has a cosy headscarf. He holds her arm as they board the train in the windy West London no-mans-land on the way to Heathrow, but she's supporting him as much as she supports her.
'Oh, thank you,' she says, in the effortlessly penetrating cut-glass tones of the truly posh. 'Thank you so much, I was afraid I wasn't going to get up into the carriage.'
'That's quite alright,' he replies, in a voice you can imagine encouraging the troops at Arnhem. 'No bother at all.' But he's red in the face and puffing, and half-falls gratefully into his seat.
They aren't shouting, and they couldn't be described as loud. But their voices carry around the sparsely-populated carriage as they make the sort of small-talk you might hear at a tea-dance. Faultless manners and old-school decorum, and you can see that everyone else in the carriage is paying rapt attention. Newspapers stop rustling. Pages of novels are unturned. The volume on MP3 players is surreptitiuously lowered.
'You said you had children? A boy and a girl, wasn't it?' the lady asks, her head on one side, her face attentive.
'Oh, yes,' says the gentlemen. 'They're both fine and happy, grown up now of course. Jane's doing something in social work, living near Brighton; it's an area called Kemptown, if I'm remembering correctly.'
'And does she have a young man?'
'Weeeell...' he drawls, his eyes unfocusing slightly and a wrinkle deepening between his eyes. 'Actually, there seem to be two young men around; they have some sort of... arrangement I don't really understand. They don't seem to both live there all the time, but they're both... around. But everyone seems to be happy with it, and she has one son by each of them. And it's a terribly bohemian area.'
'Like a village?' she says.
'Oh, very like. It's not my place to question, I think?'
'And what about your son? What does he do?'
'Yes, he runs his own business. He was doing something in the City, but he decided to pack it in and do something he always wanted to do.'
'And what was that?'
'He opened a sandwich bar with his wife.'
'A sandwich bar? It's not one of those places where you can't sit down, is it? I can't abide those.'
'No, no, there are seats, of course there are. And you can get other things as well, hot soups and so on, and I believe there are salads as well.' This is said in the tones of a man who has heard of the concept of salad but will have no truck with the reality.
'And it's doing well?'
'Yes, very well, I understand.'
'Oh, good! That's marvellous. I do sometimes get peckish, you know, and a well-made sandwich is very welcome. What's the place called? Is it somewhere I could keep and eye out for?'
'Yes, it's called EAT, so he tells me.'
The man opposite has raised his newspaper to hide his face, and the pages start to rustle as his hands vibrate.
-----
He was clearly a handsome man in his youth. His hair is still thick and chestnut-brown, although receding into a widow's peak and greying at the temples. His face is fleshy and characterful, etched with sharp lines from his nose to the downturned corners of his mouth and around his shadowed eyes. He carries himself, too; although he's standing by the padded bar by the door at the end of the carriage, he doesn't slump against it. No, he stands upright, his hands well away from his pockets and his bag by his feet.
His eyes are narrowed and his face falls into a slightly scornful look; an air of suave malice, perhaps, like John le Mesurier used to exude in Dad's Army.
It's the sort of face that should be above a suit. A dark-blue pinstripe, you'd expect. Not cutting-edge, but smart and well-cared-for, with a white shirt and a striped tie. Black brogues, probably. A camel-coloured overcoat. A briefcase. It's a solicitor's face, or a banker's; maybe even a barrister's.
But the bag on the floor is a black canvas courier's satchel, and the feet stand squarely in green Reebok trainers. The trousers don't have a sharp crease; they are sandy-coloured combats, with bulging side-pockets that stretch the fabric. And the jacket isn't tailored; it's a green canvas camouflage fabric, open slightly over a grey zipped sweatshirt whose hood dangles over the jacket collar.
A young Asian man gets on the train, his hair oiled back, the shiny stripes in his black suit catching the light. He does up his jacket buttons and jerks his shoulders back a couple of times. The older man's gaze sweeps up and down; his left eyebrow raises in an expression of perfect disdain.
'Trying too hard,' I imagine him thinking. 'The attitude is the thing you need.'
He picks up his scruffy bag and settles the strap across his shoulder; brushes his hand down it like it was kid leather. His scornful gaze stays rooted to the young man all the time.
----
The old generation and the young; Grandad taking the children on an outing. It's the first day of Chanukah, and there are an unusual number of Chasidim on the trains, probably off to synagogue parties.
Grandfather doesn't have the usual distracted air of the Chasidim. His face is hawkish over a luxuriant but neatly-shaped beard, still mostly black but grizzled with white. He's wearing the day-to-day uniform of the Chasidism; sensible black shoes, neatly pressed black trousers, black gaberdine overcoat, unbuttoned in the late-Autumn-like weather; suit jacket, white shirt buttoned to the throat with no tie. His hat, a black homburg, sits squarely on his head; the rim of his black yarmulke is just visible at the back, and his iron-grey payess, the sidelocks of the truly devout, are curled in front of his ears. His eyes dart around the carriage, stopping regularly to check on his grandson and granddaughter, still and solemn in front of him.
The little boy is maybe nine, and dressed in kiddie-clone Chasid style. The black shoes are trainers, fastened with velcro straps; the trousers as neatly pressed as his grandfather's; the long coat rather stylish, with a buttoned strap across the small of the back. One hand in his pocket sweeps the side of the coat back, revealing the tassels of his undershirt hanging below the white shirt. His payess dangle freely to the level of his chin, and the back of his head is shaved close, almost brutally, in an Army-style crop. His yarmulke is black velvet, held on with an inevitable kirby-grip.
The girl, probably only six, is the only one who looks like she belongs to this world. She's dressed sensibly, of course, but her pink hooded jacket and red skirt could belong to any little girl, as could the warm, thick white tights and the trainers, which are pink and flowery to match her jacket. Fair hair in bunches, she wriggles and looks around, glancing up at the reassuring bulk of Grandad behind her as she grips the handrail slightly.
Her brother slips his hand down the pole so it rests on top of hers, as his grandfather gives his shoulder a squeeze. It may not look like it's their world, but this is their place and their time.
They clearly don't know each other, but they have two things in common - age and class. Bundled up against the cold in overcoats and scarves, the gentleman wears an old-fashioned check cap and the lady has a cosy headscarf. He holds her arm as they board the train in the windy West London no-mans-land on the way to Heathrow, but she's supporting him as much as she supports her.
'Oh, thank you,' she says, in the effortlessly penetrating cut-glass tones of the truly posh. 'Thank you so much, I was afraid I wasn't going to get up into the carriage.'
'That's quite alright,' he replies, in a voice you can imagine encouraging the troops at Arnhem. 'No bother at all.' But he's red in the face and puffing, and half-falls gratefully into his seat.
They aren't shouting, and they couldn't be described as loud. But their voices carry around the sparsely-populated carriage as they make the sort of small-talk you might hear at a tea-dance. Faultless manners and old-school decorum, and you can see that everyone else in the carriage is paying rapt attention. Newspapers stop rustling. Pages of novels are unturned. The volume on MP3 players is surreptitiuously lowered.
'You said you had children? A boy and a girl, wasn't it?' the lady asks, her head on one side, her face attentive.
'Oh, yes,' says the gentlemen. 'They're both fine and happy, grown up now of course. Jane's doing something in social work, living near Brighton; it's an area called Kemptown, if I'm remembering correctly.'
'And does she have a young man?'
'Weeeell...' he drawls, his eyes unfocusing slightly and a wrinkle deepening between his eyes. 'Actually, there seem to be two young men around; they have some sort of... arrangement I don't really understand. They don't seem to both live there all the time, but they're both... around. But everyone seems to be happy with it, and she has one son by each of them. And it's a terribly bohemian area.'
'Like a village?' she says.
'Oh, very like. It's not my place to question, I think?'
'And what about your son? What does he do?'
'Yes, he runs his own business. He was doing something in the City, but he decided to pack it in and do something he always wanted to do.'
'And what was that?'
'He opened a sandwich bar with his wife.'
'A sandwich bar? It's not one of those places where you can't sit down, is it? I can't abide those.'
'No, no, there are seats, of course there are. And you can get other things as well, hot soups and so on, and I believe there are salads as well.' This is said in the tones of a man who has heard of the concept of salad but will have no truck with the reality.
'And it's doing well?'
'Yes, very well, I understand.'
'Oh, good! That's marvellous. I do sometimes get peckish, you know, and a well-made sandwich is very welcome. What's the place called? Is it somewhere I could keep and eye out for?'
'Yes, it's called EAT, so he tells me.'
The man opposite has raised his newspaper to hide his face, and the pages start to rustle as his hands vibrate.
-----
He was clearly a handsome man in his youth. His hair is still thick and chestnut-brown, although receding into a widow's peak and greying at the temples. His face is fleshy and characterful, etched with sharp lines from his nose to the downturned corners of his mouth and around his shadowed eyes. He carries himself, too; although he's standing by the padded bar by the door at the end of the carriage, he doesn't slump against it. No, he stands upright, his hands well away from his pockets and his bag by his feet.
His eyes are narrowed and his face falls into a slightly scornful look; an air of suave malice, perhaps, like John le Mesurier used to exude in Dad's Army.
It's the sort of face that should be above a suit. A dark-blue pinstripe, you'd expect. Not cutting-edge, but smart and well-cared-for, with a white shirt and a striped tie. Black brogues, probably. A camel-coloured overcoat. A briefcase. It's a solicitor's face, or a banker's; maybe even a barrister's.
But the bag on the floor is a black canvas courier's satchel, and the feet stand squarely in green Reebok trainers. The trousers don't have a sharp crease; they are sandy-coloured combats, with bulging side-pockets that stretch the fabric. And the jacket isn't tailored; it's a green canvas camouflage fabric, open slightly over a grey zipped sweatshirt whose hood dangles over the jacket collar.
A young Asian man gets on the train, his hair oiled back, the shiny stripes in his black suit catching the light. He does up his jacket buttons and jerks his shoulders back a couple of times. The older man's gaze sweeps up and down; his left eyebrow raises in an expression of perfect disdain.
'Trying too hard,' I imagine him thinking. 'The attitude is the thing you need.'
He picks up his scruffy bag and settles the strap across his shoulder; brushes his hand down it like it was kid leather. His scornful gaze stays rooted to the young man all the time.
----
The old generation and the young; Grandad taking the children on an outing. It's the first day of Chanukah, and there are an unusual number of Chasidim on the trains, probably off to synagogue parties.
Grandfather doesn't have the usual distracted air of the Chasidim. His face is hawkish over a luxuriant but neatly-shaped beard, still mostly black but grizzled with white. He's wearing the day-to-day uniform of the Chasidism; sensible black shoes, neatly pressed black trousers, black gaberdine overcoat, unbuttoned in the late-Autumn-like weather; suit jacket, white shirt buttoned to the throat with no tie. His hat, a black homburg, sits squarely on his head; the rim of his black yarmulke is just visible at the back, and his iron-grey payess, the sidelocks of the truly devout, are curled in front of his ears. His eyes dart around the carriage, stopping regularly to check on his grandson and granddaughter, still and solemn in front of him.
The little boy is maybe nine, and dressed in kiddie-clone Chasid style. The black shoes are trainers, fastened with velcro straps; the trousers as neatly pressed as his grandfather's; the long coat rather stylish, with a buttoned strap across the small of the back. One hand in his pocket sweeps the side of the coat back, revealing the tassels of his undershirt hanging below the white shirt. His payess dangle freely to the level of his chin, and the back of his head is shaved close, almost brutally, in an Army-style crop. His yarmulke is black velvet, held on with an inevitable kirby-grip.
The girl, probably only six, is the only one who looks like she belongs to this world. She's dressed sensibly, of course, but her pink hooded jacket and red skirt could belong to any little girl, as could the warm, thick white tights and the trainers, which are pink and flowery to match her jacket. Fair hair in bunches, she wriggles and looks around, glancing up at the reassuring bulk of Grandad behind her as she grips the handrail slightly.
Her brother slips his hand down the pole so it rests on top of hers, as his grandfather gives his shoulder a squeeze. It may not look like it's their world, but this is their place and their time.