Three Men On Tour: 11

The conversation with Alicia went on into the night. Not a lot was resolved. It mostly focused on my inadequacies as a partner and the importance of asking before making important decisions. I couldn’t let Harry and George down though. The next morning I found myself standing at Paddington Station, buffeted by the rush hour crush and looking across the concourse for any sign of the dastardly duo. Harry had suggested we took the train over to Bristol then hired a car once we got there. Driving for three hours down the motorway didn’t sound like much of a holiday so George and I both agreed. Alicia had been oddly muted when I left. She said we would discuss details when I got back, and I had nodded agreement and headed off to navigate the underground. I had everything I needed packed in a rucksack on my back and was already regretting the choices I had made. If we’d taken a car from the start I could have just thrown everything I needed into the boot, leaving it in a tangle that I could remain blissfully ignorant of for the majority of the holiday. As it was, I was struggling to avoid sending fellow passengers flying as I swung around the unaccustomed weight, while already painfully aware of the various items I hadn’t packed but should have. Packing for a holiday is always an exercise in compromise. If you bring warm clothes, it will be sunny; if you pack only shorts and a t-shirt you can guarantee a week of constant downpours. The only real solution is to over pack, manfully shoulder the extra weight, and resign yourself to spending your return washing the clean clothes along with the dirty because you can’t remember which is which. When I saw George I realised I was travelling light. He was pulling a suitcase behind him which threatened to engulf him if it toppled and had a bulky looking leather satchel over one shoulder.

“It’s not a plane,“ I said. “You don’t need hand luggage.“

“I brought a crossword for the journey,“ replied George.

Perhaps it is worth taking a second to describe George. If you had gone to the theatre and during the interval you’d nipped to the bar, and on your return, doing your best to balance four drinks, two packets of crisps and numerous tubs of ice cream, you spotted a man who was calmly unwrapping a parcel of home-made sandwiches and unscrewing his Thermos flask, that man would be George. He is short, about 5’8, with greying brownish hair, round glasses and a constant expression of worry. In fact the look of consternation eternally on his face is misleading – I have never known a man as free of worry as George. He has his hobbies – mainly the things that even a train-spotting computer programmer would regard as a little bit nerdy – and is quite happy to ignore everything else. If that means he doesn’t have the coolest clothes, or the fanciest haircut, or know the latest hot TV show everyone is talking about, then so be it. Perhaps that explains the look of consternation. Maybe he just can’t understand what everyone else is so steamed up about. All of which leads one to question how on earth he met Harry. If George had an evil twin, Harry would be it: the exact opposite of everything that makes George George, While George concerns himself with wood turning, historical databases and miniature replica steam engines, Harry obsesses over clothes, music, style fashion – everything that George ignores in fact. Still, when they met at the investment bank six years ago and discovered their common interest, a firm friendship had been formed and if anyone thought to question it then an eyebrow would be raised but the unlikely partnership would continue. As a sop to me, they tried to reduce the Victoriana and train spotting on holidays, but it was understood that each holiday would contain at least one viewing of ancient brickwork.

“So,“ said George, “have you got the tickets?“

“No,“ I said surprised. “I thought Harry was getting the tickets.“

“Oh,“ said George. “Where’s Harry then?“

“I don’t know,“ I replied. “I just arrived. I thought he was meeting us here.“

I looked at the clock. We were in plenty of time. The train didn’t leave for another ten minutes. It would be good to get on and find a seat though. I took my mobile phone from my pocket and dialled a number, waiting until I was rewarded by the click of connection and a grumpy harrumph.

“Hello. Harry?“

“Ian?“ Harry’s voice was hard to hear over the background noise. It sounded like he was surrounded by people. “Where are you? Have you got your ticket yet?“

“My ticket?“ A horrible suspicion reared in my thoughts. “I’m at the station. Where are you?“

“I’m on the train.“

“On the train? You were supposed to buy the tickets and meet us under the clock.“

“Are you sure? I’m pretty certain I said we should all get our own tickets.“

I put the phone down before I could say what I was thinking.

“Harry’s messed up,“ I told George. “We have to get our own tickets.“

I checked the clock again. Eight minutes to go.

“Quick. I’ll look after the bags, you go to the ticket office.“

“Okay,“ said George amiably and trotted off. The wait seemed interminable. Standing under a giant clock didn’t help either. It was a large, white cube suspended by ugly scaffolding from the antique iron work of the ceiling. Some idiot had decided to get rid of the tick, and replace it with constant movement of the hands. Whereas, in normal circumstances, such as waiting for the end of a working day, minutes would stretch into hours, I could actually see the minutes spinning away as the hand moved inexorably forward. Just as I was about to give up and try and dodge past the guard, George came trotting back.

“Got one,“ he said. I looked at him. I was moderately certain I had heard what he had said but it did not really seem possible.

“I’m sorry,“ I said, “did you just say you’d got ‘one’?“

“Yes,“ George said amiably, and held up a single ticket in case there could be any possibility of misunderstanding. I counted it twice just to make sure.

“Go on then,“ he said, smiling inanely. “Your turn.“

“Why,“ I said through clenched teeth, “did you not buy me a ticket while you were there?“

“You said we were getting our own tickets,“ explained George calmly. “I did think it was odd at the time. You should have said.“

In the circumstances, I was surprised I was as restrained as I was. Leaving George with his bags, I fled along the station towards the ticket office, my rucksack swinging violently from side to side behind be. A quick glance inside the station office revealed that, yes, the queue was excessively long and only one booth was in service. Veering to my right with the elegance of a wildebeest on roller skates, I changed course towards the ticket machine. People were jumping out of my way, inspired no doubt by the onslaught of a bright red, thirty year old man, running along in shorts and a t-shirt like an overgrown boy scout, while his backpack shifted and swung like a medieval siege weapon. Diving in front of a dithering old lady, I almost slammed into the machine then starting jabbing at buttons. Nothing happened. I glanced at the screen. It was still saying thankyou to the previous customer. Four minutes to go. “Come on, come on,“ I muttered angrily. Finally, the screen invited me to select my destination. I stabbed at buttons like an automaton, selecting destination, number of people travelling (one, thankyou very much), ticket type, and finally method of payment. I watched the ever rotating clock as I waited for my card to clear. Three minutes to go. Finally, the tickets came out, I grabbed them and whirled around, nearly hitting the old lady behind me with my bag.

“Excuse me,“ she said but I didn’t have time. I tried to move round her, but she was having none of it.

“Excuse me,“ she said again, sounding scarily like an old school teacher I used to have. I tried to ignore the harmonics of obedience that were running up my spine and stepped around her, almost knocking her down again with my rucksack. Two minutes. I was cutting it really fine.

“Excuse me, young man. Haven’t you forgotten something?“ A firm hand caught the strap of my rucksack and dragged me round. I drew in my breath, ready to launch a tirade about how I really didn’t have time for this. Then I saw the card in her hand. My credit card. That I had left in the machine. I hadn’t thought it was possible for me to go any redder.

“Next time,“ said the lady, placing the card in my unresisting hand, “don’t be in such a rush.“ I stood there while, it seemed, the entire station got a chance to look at how big a fool I was. Then I turned round and ran for the platform, legs pumping for all they were worth.