A Touch of Class

To celebrate my 65^th birthday I travelled first class on a train for the first time in my life. My wife had chosen to celebrate the event by going skiing with her friends, so I took the day trip to Edinburgh along the East Coast Main Line all on my own.

I’d hardly had a chance to sit down before I was offered a cup of coffee. That was nice of him. I could get used to this, I mused, as I settled into my seat. “Wine, sir?” “No thank you.” It was not even mid-day. I chose coffee again, followed by fizzy water. I’m sure I just saw llamas in that field. It must have been too much coffee. Then came lunch; quiche and salad and all very tasty. “No thanks, no wine.” It was still only 12.30. Oh no! A dirty glass for my water, should I complain? They’ve been so attentive. It would seem so ungrateful. I rubbed it on my napkin. It looked like that ingrained dullness sometimes imposed by a regular seeing to in an automatic dishwasher. It’ll do. Don’t want to make a scene. I was only a teacher, you know, I’m not used to being fussed over like this. I bet they can spot us First Class virgins a mile off. Too polite, not quite sharp enough in our interactions, not relaxed enough in our demeanour. But I’ve got this comfy chair and this table all to myself and the views of the Northumberland coast would be even better if that bloke had not chosen, inexplicably, to close his blind. His seat and his prerogative, of course, but DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU ARE MISSING, EXACTLY?

I’m not sure I’m entitled to what is effectively a second go at lunch, so when they come around yet again I politely let it be known that I have eaten already, but I really fancy a sandwich. “No problem, sir, which one would you like, sir?” No, no wine, thanks [again], but the sandwiches and crisps are excellent and a nice cup of tea is just the job. The truth of the matter is that I’m so unused to being on the receiving end of all this pampering that I’m not quite taking advantage of the opportunity to relax in the lap of luxury, in the way that I had envisaged. Perhaps I’d be better off in standard class after all. Mind you, it is quieter in here. People are polite but brief with each other. I sense that one reason many have chosen it is precisely so they do not have to go in for any unnecessary conversation. They occasionally talk in friendly tones to distant significant others by phone, but there is less interaction between passengers and it is purely functional when it occurs. They want to be left alone, making exceptions only to be fairly constantly plied with food and drink. Everybody except me seems deeply focussed on some matter of urgency involving a file, a computer or a mobile phone. I assume it is work related, in most cases. I’m only there as a pleasure seeker, but why do I also feel like I’m a bit of an imposter - as though I’m sitting in the naughty corner of a cushy, mobile office?

On the way back I have an even better seat. Facing and window, the aisle is at its widest here, with only one seat either side of it. I can stretch out as far as I can in any direction without inconveniencing anybody else, though I might look a bit strange if anyone happens to look up from their laptop for a second at that precise moment. I feel totally spoilt. “You deserve this,” I tell myself. Think about all those dire, wet, Thursday afternoons with 5C, banging on about communications corridors, for example, as we glide smoothly past all the traffic on the A1 - even the stuff going our way at 70mph.

Tea is Moroccan chickpea tagine with fruity couscous and harissa. I don’t know what tagine is, though I think I’ve heard of harissa. Oh no, sultanas! I can’t leave a hillock of sultanas on the side of my plate in first class. What will they think of me? It’s time for a birthday drink and a toast to myself. I choose a can of Continental lager. It’s not just cool but triple filtered, so that’s a big relief, obviously. I have yet another glance at the antimacassar, just to check that I’ve not absent-mindedly scratched my head at some stage and left a mark on it.

Another catering crew comes on at Newcastle. They won’t know I’ve already had sandwiches, so I could be on for a few more without risk of embarrassment. An extraordinary day ends with further sandwiches and even another cup of tea before I drive myself safely home from the station. My dip into this other world of travel is over for the time being, but I must say that, overall, I’ve enjoyed it immensely. I’m sure I’ll get better at it, too; a touch of class and not before time. I didn’t bother with any tea that evening, not even a slice of birthday cake.

The ECML in another era.

A Deltic pulls into Doncaster with an express for King’s Cross on 4/6/1963.

[Adapted from an article of the same title, which appears in the current edition of the Railway Antiques Gazette, with thanks to the editor, Tim Petchey]