him, nonplussed. ‘What’s AC2?’
‘It is a carriage near the front of the train with air conditioning and your own individual bunk for sleeping.’
Hang on a minute, did he just say ‘air conditioning’ and ‘individual bunk’?
In the stifling heat of his tiny office, I feel a sudden beat of joy. ‘You mean that isn’t my carriage?’ I ask, motioning outside.
The official looks at me in astonishment.
‘I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that carriage,’ I add quickly. ‘It looks a perfectly fine way to travel. It’s just, well, it looks a little full and I was a bit worried how I was going to fit on there.’
He suddenly bursts out laughing. He seems to find this hilarious.
‘Not that I haven’t travelled on a busy train before – you should see the London Underground at rush hour, there’s never anywhere to sit, and it can get really claustrophobic—’
‘Miss Miller!’ he interrupts. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’
I fall silent.
‘Except that if you don’t hurry, you are going to miss your train.’
I glance at the clock on the wall. The minute hand is nearly on the hour. ‘Oh bloody hell . . .’ I gasp, suddenly realising the time, then clamp my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh gosh, sorry . . . thank you so very much, you’ve been so very helpful!’
The official smiles and lights up another cigarette. ‘Your ticket,’ he reminds me.
It’s still lying on the desk, and I snatch it up. I have a train to catch and a sister to rescue. And, grabbing my suitcase, I leg it out of his office.
By some miracle I manage to find the right carriage and as I slide open the door and the air conditioning hits my skin, a delicious shiver runs up my spine. Gosh, I never thought I’d be so happy to be in the cold. At home I’m always freezing but, after the sweltering temperatures outside, this is wonderful.
I start looking for my seat reservation. My eyes sweep down the fluorescent-lit corridor and the rows of metal berths. On one side, they’re laid out in single file above the window with two seats underneath, and on the other side of the aisle they’re arranged like vinyl bunk beds into compartments, each separated by a curtain. At the bottom of each berth is a sheet, pillow and a blanket placed in a tidy pile.
I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s basic, but it’s clean and there’s plenty of room. Compared to the packed carriages I spied earlier, this is sheer luxury. The official was right, I’m very lucky. In fact, it’s much better than British Rail. There the seats barely recline, even in first class, whereas here I have my own bunk bed with a pillow and everything!
Though what is slightly worrying is that there appear to be four berths in each compartment. Two up, two down, on each side. Which means you’re sharing with three total strangers. Men and women, I realise, as a very large Indian man appears from the toilet and plonks himself on the bottom berth opposite. He starts shelling pistachio nuts whilst staring at me unblinkingly.
I’m fast realising foreigners are an object of curiosity and I give him a polite smile but he doesn’t look away. Instead he continues to stare at me, transfixed, a little pile of shells beginning to pile up around him. Still, it’s not like that’s a big deal. I’m only on here for a few hours, I remind myself, happily sitting down opposite. I’ll just read a bit of my guidebook, have a bit of a snooze, and I’ll be there.
‘Excuse me.’
I’ve just laid out my blanket and am getting all comfy, when I hear a voice. It’s male and, by the sounds of it, its owner is American.
‘Um, yes?’
I look up from my book and see there’s a man standing at the end of my berth. Only his top half is hidden by the berth on top, and I can only see a pair of faded khaki shorts, tanned, hairy calves, and bare feet in flip-flops. I have a thing about feet, and I can’t help noticing his are very nice.
‘I think you’re in
‘It is a carriage near the front of the train with air conditioning and your own individual bunk for sleeping.’
Hang on a minute, did he just say ‘air conditioning’ and ‘individual bunk’?
In the stifling heat of his tiny office, I feel a sudden beat of joy. ‘You mean that isn’t my carriage?’ I ask, motioning outside.
The official looks at me in astonishment.
‘I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that carriage,’ I add quickly. ‘It looks a perfectly fine way to travel. It’s just, well, it looks a little full and I was a bit worried how I was going to fit on there.’
He suddenly bursts out laughing. He seems to find this hilarious.
‘Not that I haven’t travelled on a busy train before – you should see the London Underground at rush hour, there’s never anywhere to sit, and it can get really claustrophobic—’
‘Miss Miller!’ he interrupts. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’
I fall silent.
‘Except that if you don’t hurry, you are going to miss your train.’
I glance at the clock on the wall. The minute hand is nearly on the hour. ‘Oh bloody hell . . .’ I gasp, suddenly realising the time, then clamp my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh gosh, sorry . . . thank you so very much, you’ve been so very helpful!’
The official smiles and lights up another cigarette. ‘Your ticket,’ he reminds me.
It’s still lying on the desk, and I snatch it up. I have a train to catch and a sister to rescue. And, grabbing my suitcase, I leg it out of his office.
By some miracle I manage to find the right carriage and as I slide open the door and the air conditioning hits my skin, a delicious shiver runs up my spine. Gosh, I never thought I’d be so happy to be in the cold. At home I’m always freezing but, after the sweltering temperatures outside, this is wonderful.
I start looking for my seat reservation. My eyes sweep down the fluorescent-lit corridor and the rows of metal berths. On one side, they’re laid out in single file above the window with two seats underneath, and on the other side of the aisle they’re arranged like vinyl bunk beds into compartments, each separated by a curtain. At the bottom of each berth is a sheet, pillow and a blanket placed in a tidy pile.
I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s basic, but it’s clean and there’s plenty of room. Compared to the packed carriages I spied earlier, this is sheer luxury. The official was right, I’m very lucky. In fact, it’s much better than British Rail. There the seats barely recline, even in first class, whereas here I have my own bunk bed with a pillow and everything!
Though what is slightly worrying is that there appear to be four berths in each compartment. Two up, two down, on each side. Which means you’re sharing with three total strangers. Men and women, I realise, as a very large Indian man appears from the toilet and plonks himself on the bottom berth opposite. He starts shelling pistachio nuts whilst staring at me unblinkingly.
I’m fast realising foreigners are an object of curiosity and I give him a polite smile but he doesn’t look away. Instead he continues to stare at me, transfixed, a little pile of shells beginning to pile up around him. Still, it’s not like that’s a big deal. I’m only on here for a few hours, I remind myself, happily sitting down opposite. I’ll just read a bit of my guidebook, have a bit of a snooze, and I’ll be there.
‘Excuse me.’
I’ve just laid out my blanket and am getting all comfy, when I hear a voice. It’s male and, by the sounds of it, its owner is American.
‘Um, yes?’
I look up from my book and see there’s a man standing at the end of my berth. Only his top half is hidden by the berth on top, and I can only see a pair of faded khaki shorts, tanned, hairy calves, and bare feet in flip-flops. I have a thing about feet, and I can’t help noticing his are very nice.
‘I think you’re in
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