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Original 700-word story:
Half dozing in the hot afternoon sun as the train pulled into Warminster station,
my eyes hazily watched the ordinary conventional folk going about their leisurely
business on a Sunday.
My eyes suddenly focused on one who was different. A tall woman, with the weight
to go with it, and more. She wore a white summer dress, adorned with a pattern of
large red and orange broad brush strokes.
It was neither her size nor her dress which I noticed, but the brash confidence
in her movement, which caught my attention. She strode up to the front of the
carriage, got on, looked around and got off again. I resumed dozing as the train
gently moved forward.
At Westbury, as the scheduled two-minute stop stretched into three, I saw the
ticket collector was involved with an occupant apparently sitting on the luggage
bench: not so much a discussion, but a noisy altercation like boxers probing and
searching for opponent’s weaknesses.
As the ticket collector stepped back, the occupant assumed her full sitting height
and became identifiable as the woman from Warminster station.
The ticket inspector left and returned with a colleague (wearing a luminous jacket)
for Round Two began. Battle cries emanated from the mixture of the navy blue, lime
green and the garish brush-daubs.
"I bought a ticket," she shouted, "and somebody stole it."
"That’s not the point, madam," said the collector, "you are not allowed on this
train without a valid ticket."
"I bought a ticket," she stormed, "and it was stolen. I’m not getting off the
train."
"This train won’t be moving until you get off," said the ticket inspector.
The dispute continued, she aggressively making claim of innocent victim status,
the men parried them calmly with repeated comments and refusals. Impasse reigned at
the end of the round. A third man arrived, who may have been the Westbury
stationmaster, and he attempted to persuade her to leave the train.
Round Three was certainly an all-action highlight of the contest. The aggressive
innocence became charged with obscenities and words that I don’t think I’ve heard
before. The stationmaster warned her that such vocabulary was most definitely not
allowed: it seemed to be in the same category as low punches.
But the stationmaster wasn’t an impartial referee, and this raised the temperature
even more. Profanities were rejected as a sole weapon, so a good straight right fist
was followed by a swinging left with a shopping bag. The manual worker appeared to
ride the punch so that very fortunately her full weight had little effect. Adept
ducking ensured that the bag did not make contact.
As the round ended, the railway employees withdrew and she turned on us, her
spectators. We were treated to a diatribe along the lines of "All you rabble lot,
you don’t want to help. I’ve got my rights to be here. They won’t put me off the
train!" I’ve had to edit the words, but they were the sentiments. They didn’t reach
the standard of Muhammed Ali, though one suspects they served the same purpose in
building the hype.
The stationmaster re-appeared, and told her that there would be another train to
Bath in an hour, and that she could catch that. That would give them time to sort
out the ticket problem. "Deliberately delaying a train is an offence," he informed
her, and waving his hand towards the rest of the carriage, "all these passengers are
suffering". Well, some may have been suffering, but at least it was entertaining.
Surprisingly, she rose to her feet and glared around at the rest of us, and got
off, albeit with reluctance and defiance radiating from her. She walked to the
nearest platform bench and determinedly sat down, the sun seemingly highlighting her
bright dress. She glared at the train, directly at me, as I looked out of the window
as we left Westbury ten minutes late.
I heard the announcements as we drew into Bath Station. "The train to Cardiff via
Bristol is ten minutes late. Wessex Trains apologise for the late running of this
service."
New passengers joined the train, and I definitely heard one of them say, "Late
train again. I wonder what it was this time - Wrong kind of heat, I expect!"
They were nearer the truth than they imagined. |
