THE END OF THE LINE

The conductor loved working this line, as the train got nearer to London, the class of passenger improved.  The noisy youths and unwashed got off at Scavant and workers in hi-vis vests joined the already busy coaches.  The press of a button, the sound of an alarm, the shutting of doors and the train continued its journey.  Pensive types stared out of the window, harrassed looking women tended their restless children, rowdy jokes were exchanged between the workers.

 At Fossingstoke, the workers trooped off the train and bookish civil servant types got on.  The conductor pressed the button, but the doors did not shut.  This could only mean one thing.  He hurried from carriage to carriage, scanning the passengers, until he found the old man, clinging to his hard hat with hands blackened by manual labour.

“This is your stop.”
“I thought I’d buy a ticket to go on,” the old man replied.
The conductor shook his head and referred to the passenger inventory; “Samuel Jones, 61 years old, past retirement, with no formal education ...”
“But I’ve experience.”
“Do you really think that pathetic northern accent of yours would be tolerated?  Get off!”
The old man left the train with the air of one who had tried.  As the journey resumed, the conductor spoke into the public address system; “Sorry about the slight delay, ladies and gentlemen.  Someone wanted to stay beyond their stop.”

 

At Meading, the mothers and their pushchairs and the pensive types and their thoughts got off.

“You know,” a woman said to the conductor, “I could stay on.  I’m educated, I’m a qualified carer and I have empathy.”
The conductor didn’t even bother to look at his inventory; “With your history!” he scoffed, “off you get!”
The woman glared at him and left the train, as she walked across the platform, she heard him speak into the public address system again; “Sorry ladies and gentlemen.  A lady with a history of mental health problems tried to stay on this train all the way down the line!”
There was the sound of raucus laughter as men in business suits and horse faced women got onto the train.   The sound was cut as the doors slammed to and the train continued on its way.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, the next station is Hapham.  Please change here for Victoria, Paddington and Waterloo.”

The civil servants and the City types got to their feet.  They jostled their way off the train to get their connections to the financial district or to Whitehall.  Onto the train got other suits, but these were from Savile Row and this clientele smelt of fine cologne.  Each had a faintly protruding stomach - fine meals consumed in top restaurants.
The conductor pressed the button, again nothing happened.  He rolled his eyes.  A man had remained in his seat; “I’m not moving,” he warned, “I’m going to the last stop.”
“I’ll call the revenues,” threatened the conductor.
“I’m a postgraduate and I have 20 years financial experience.  I do charity work in my spare time.  Look at your inventory!”
The conductor obliged and snorted.
“Oh do get off the train,” brayed one of the passengers.
The man stood; “Is it because I’m black?”
“No, it’s because you didn’t go to Eton.  The revenue are here!”
The man saw the approaching uniformed figures and hurried from the train, thumping the side of it as he left.
The conductor shut the doors and made another apology to his customers as the train began moving again.  He’d barely finished the apology before he had to make another announcement; “Ladies and gentlemen, the train is now arriving at Westminster where this service terminates.  Please remember to take all your personal belongings with you and may I wish you a pleasant evening.”

The driver sitting in the cab watched them walk by; clones carrying leather cases, smug white faces and dead, disinterested eyes.