Low life
Prisoner in toilet C
Jeremy Clarke
Iwas going up to BBC Bristol by train, to write and record voice-links for an audio diary kept by a long-term unemployed Buddhist woman who had volunteered to give up television for a week. In order to do the right thing by this lady and give her diary my best effort, really I ought to have gone to bed sober and early the night before. But I had done neither. In fact I hadn't been to bed at all.
I'd caught the train by the skin of my teeth. It was a brand-new, state-of-the-art Virgin train. These short, sleek trains have only recently come into service down here and I'd not been on one before. As I moved down through the train to find a seat, automatic sliding doors opened and closed with an obedient hiss at the lightest touch of an aluminium button, as did the toilet doors. (If only my flies did the same.) There was also a futuristic shop selling books and magazines. And when I found a seat, it had its own electric socket for laptop or mobile-phone use. (Marvellous how we've all got them now?) I put my mobile phone on charge using my personal socket, placed my poor aching head against the window and was asleep before the train had gathered speed. If the train kept to time, I had an hour and a half s oblivion to look forward to.
About half an hour into my journey, however, I was woken by,, oohs and aahs from my fellow passengers. I opened an eye. We were just outside Teignmouth, on a stretch of line where the only thing separating the railway line from the open sea is a low stout Victorian sea wall. On calm summer days, the unwonted proximity between sea and passenger train is somehow rather sexy. I've even heard passengers gasp with admiration at the view. On this
day, however, owing to a gale-force easterly wind, a spring tide and the state of the moon, the sea looked wild and threatening.
It was the eye that was up against the cold window that I opened. The contrasting situation on either side of the glass was stark. On the other side: raw Nature, represented by 20-foot-high, slate-grey waves as far as the eye could see. On this side: Modernity, represented by the thermostatically controlled, subtly lit, oddly quiet interior of a brand-new, state-of-the-art Virgin train. On a foul day like this, and with a hangover like mine. I was glad to be on the side of Modernity for once. Giving thanks for the life of Sir Richard Branson, I shut my eye and went back to sleep.
The next time I woke was because someone screamed. The situation was this: the train was about three miles further on, where the line was at its most exposed, and stationary. Everyone in the carriage was on their feet and looking worriedly at the sea, which now resembled pictures I'd seen, as a child, of the sea off Cape Horn. Mountainous wind-lashed waves were coming right over the wall and over the train as well, buffeting it violently. When the larger waves hit us, the woman immediately in front of me, amongst others, let out an involuntary shriek.
I shut my eyes and tried to go hack to sleep. But what with the buffeting, the ladies shrieking, and then frantic hammering on the toilet door behind me, I couldn't. So I got up and went to see what the hammering was about. Someone was locked in. I jabbed repeatedly at the 'door open' button but the power had failed. I shouted through the door that I would immediately go and fetch the guard or chairwoman or whatever they're called these days.
I found him in the buffet and told him there was a prisoner in toilet C. The guard's hair was wet and stuck out in all directions. He said there were also people stuck in toilets E and F. The doors to toilets A, B and D were also stuck, he said, though fortunately in the open position. When pressed, he further admitted that the engine was completely knocked out and we would probably be here until the tide went out and the train could be towed to safety.
There was no signal on my mobile phone, but I managed to call the BBC pro ducer on the guard's huge, leather-bound one. I explained the situation. I have been advised, I said, that the train was unable to move at the very least until the next phase of the moon. The producer sounded relieved. Above all, he said, I mustn't worry. He wasn't worried in the slightest. No matter how late J got up there we'd be able to cobble something together between us in no time at all. 'Just relax,' he said.
So I read my complimentary copy of Men's Health from cover to cover and went back to sleep for another three hours,
rocked by the waves as they smashed against my side of the train.
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