Travellers’ tales.

On two Thursdays running I have stood at Greenfield station waiting for a train and have realised that I am standing in the same waiting room as someone I know but haven’t seen for a long time. Last week was the best as it was an old friend who moved away years ago and then changed her address once more and we lost contact. This was in the days before everyone had email addresses and it was easier to lose touch. So we had almost twenty years of news to catch up with. And we swapped email addresses before we parted company. 

Today’s was not in the same class at all. This was a mere acquaintance, someone who used to attend the same Italian conversation class as I did. Still it was nice to chat. And he was far more friendly now than he used to be when we were classmates. 

I am beginning to feel like a Victorian lady with my categories of friends and acquaintances but it’s still a valid distinction. Sometimes people you work with or share a hobby class with never progress beyond the mere acquaintance level while others become friends from day one. And then there are what used to be called “nodding acquaintances”. 

Back in the days when bourgeois families used to walk up and down the main streets of posh towns and spas, showing off their daughters with a view to possible marriage eventually, after a while they reached a point where they could “nod” a greeting to folk they saw every day. Gradually, after some investigation, all done by word of mouth in that pre-Google time, they might progress to saying “good morning” and maybe even be properly introduced. And who said the Spanish invented the paseo? 

Nowadays we really need a new term for “nodding acquaintances” as they are usually people you see on a regular basis on the bus or while walking to the local shop. You might even chat to them at the bus stop or on the bus but you rarely get to know their name. There are exceptions, of course, like the long-haired, long-bearded chap I spoke to as we got off the bus at the corner or our street the other evening. I almost got his life history and then discovered he had moved into a house around the corner from ours. Being neighbours, we had to exchange names as well. 

My Thursday train journeys are only a couple of stops up the line to Stalybridge, where the grandchildren go to school. Their mother goes to university on a Thursday so I collect the children and take them home and feed them. The school is only about 15 minutes from their house by car but the journey on public transport is far more long-winded and much less direct. So I walk up the hill from the railway station to the school and, depending on the weather, sometimes book a taxi to take us back to the station. We have had a number of frustrating occasions when young legs have not been quite quick enough to make it to the station in time for the train, usually arriving 2 minutes after the train has left. 

Anyway, today I booked a taxi. In due course I received a text message telling me my taxi had been dispatched and giving me details of what make of vehicle to look out for. Ten minutes went by without a sign of the taxi. I dialled the taxi firm’s number and an automated message reminded me that my taxi had been dispatched and so on. Several minutes later I called again and was told that said taxi was parked outside the school. Really? The first of the famous invisible taxis? 

Eventually I got through to a proper person. Despite my having said clearly that we were at the JUNIOR school, and despite my having given the name of the road, it transpired that the taxi had gone to the INFANTS’ school on a different, albeit nearby, street. So we sorted it out, found the taxi and arrived at the station with two minutes to spare. No tip for that taxi driver who relies on sat nav and puts in the wrong data! 

The train arrived but stopped way down at one end of the platform. Along with other would-be passengers we walked towards it. The driver was scuttling about looking at things. Passengers waiting to get off stood in the train, by the doors but the doors did not open. Minutes passed. We imagined people trapped in the train overnight, unable to leave.

One of the waiting passengers asked the driver what the problem was. He was told that he would not understand even if the driver told him. I was a little cold and cross by now and had you been there you might have heard me comment that could at least try us. But the driver was further down the platform by then. For all he knew, however, we might have had masters’ degrees in mechanical engineering! My grandson was more interested in the gold tooth in the mouth of the man who asked the original question. When you are eight years old gold teeth trump doctorates in engineering every time. 

It turned out that the air pressure in the door opening mechanism had failed. (How hard was that to explain, even to laymen?) They just about managed to open one door and gradually those wishing to alight did so. We were able to get on the train, into the warmth, only to be told via the public address system that the train was being cancelled. Everyone had to get off. The train disappeared, limping away into the wide blue (well, really, grey) yonder. 

The next train would be in about three quarters of an hour so we all trooped into the station buffet bar. 

I like Stalybridge station bar. I have sung its praises before. It is warm and friendly. The staff are charming. There is a cheerful coal fire. The decor is unusual and interesting. And the food is good. But it did strike me, as we tucked into a tasty snack and warmed our frozen toes, that maybe this was all a ploy to get train travellers into the buffet to spend a little money. Who knows?