Andrew Vine: Silently seething at the quiet coach hellraiser

HIS t-shirt didn’t instil confidence, bearing as it did the legend: “Arrive. Raise Hell. Leave.”
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As a manifesto for somebody taking a seat in the quiet coach of the train from Birmingham back to Yorkshire, it made the heart sink just a little. Still, he appeared a cheerful soul, smiling at the people across the way and moving aside to let somebody carry their suitcase aboard.

All around, the passengers were settling in for the journey, business people in smart suits opening up laptops, a woman setting out her Barbara Taylor Bradford, reading glasses and a takeaway coffee on the table in front of her, a man across the aisle starting to go through a thick sheaf of paperwork with a highlighter pen.

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Now I’m a big fan of the quiet coach on trains. It’s the best idea the railways have had in years. Nobody expects monk-like silence, just keep the general noise level down to a background hum and switch the mobile phone to silent. Take the opportunity to get some work done, or read, or simply gaze out of the window at the unfamiliar towns and villages whizzing by.

It’s a setting where fellow passengers understand each other, and enter into an unspoken pact, nodding in greeting as they take their seats, with the aim of passing the journey as productively and peacefully as possible.

T-shirt man turned out to be called Gav, and he just didn’t get the quiet coach deal. We were all introduced to Gav, whether we wanted to be or not, barely had the train slid out of New Street station, when being a generous spirit, he proceeded to introduce us to a wide and fascinating circle of his family and friends as well.

All were announced in the manner of an electronic toastmaster by the Mission Impossible theme on his mobile and his unwaveringly perky greeting of “How’re you diddling?” that began every call.

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There was his mam’s new bloke, who’s a plasterer, and he’s made a smashing job of skimming our Dave’s front room so he can have a feature wall, there’s Mikey, who’s up to his old tricks again, bless him, he never learns, there’s Trace and Degs, who aren’t happy with their Buddy’s school because they don’t learn him nothing and said the patterns cut into his hair were against the rules, Becks, who’s doing everyone’s head in about the bridesmaids’ dresses and Dave, no not our Dave, the other Dave, you know him, yes you do, Hairy Dave with the van.

And, of course, there was Jimbo, who’s being given the runaround something rotten by Debs, who’s fallen out with Chrissie over it all. Poor old Jimbo, it’s not fair. Gav started outlining things that Jimbo and Debs need to have full and frank discussions over, specifically what she can get up to of a Saturday night after a few Bacardis, if she’s egged on by Dee, who she knocks about with.

The lady with the book put it down, closed her eyes and tensed her shoulders as if to brace herself for looming revelations more Fifty Shades of Grey than Barbara Taylor Bradford.

We were saved by whichever Victorian railway engineer it was who decided to send the line through a tunnel at that point. Gav’s phone went dead just as everybody’s toes began to curl in embarrassment at the beginnings of what Jimbo found out the day before his birthday, and the role played by a newly introduced member of the cast, who appeared without warning, one Bonehead.

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The lady opened her eyes and glanced upwards as if uttering silent thanks. The chap across the aisle, his highlighter poised just above the page in frozen disbelief, let out a long, slow breath, caught my eye, and shook his head.

Gav took the opportunity to head for the toilet, just as the train guard entered at the opposite end of the coach, to be immediately collared by a table of four. He listened, nodded, and headed after Gav, who when he returned, to his credit, looked a little shame-faced.

Peace returned to the quiet coach. The countryside sped by, the peaks of Derbyshire giving way to the outskirts of Sheffield, and on northwards, to the soundtrack of pages being turned and the soft tap-tap-tap of people working on their laptops.

And then, dit-dit-dit-dit, dit-dit-dit-dit, “How’re you diddling?” The man with the highlighter threw it down on his papers, leaned his head back against the seat, and shut his eyes.

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The train was pulling into my station, so I never found out exactly where Bonehead fitted into it all, but as I walked away down the platform, Gav was still chatting animatedly, still raising hell and showing no signs of leaving, and the lady with the book looked glum, so she’d probably discovered Debs’s darkest secrets.

There’s a shop near the station that prints t-shirts. Before I go next time, I’m going to have one done and keep it in my bag, to be put on as an emergency measure to aid my fellow passengers in the quiet coach. It’ll be a bit like Gav’s and have three simple words on it. Just. Shut. Up.

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