The Dame on the Train
Yesterday I had an odd experience that might have happened on the start of a Hitchcock film whilst travelling up to London on Southern Railway. I was co-organising a dinner later that evening and looking forward to a leisurely journey. I had started the Telegraph crossword but was put off by a fellow passenger somewhat loudly on his mobile reciting problems with the plumbing of a ladies toilet.
At Gatwick with a certain aplomb a handsome looking woman in her fifties alighted the train with 3 fake leopard skin suitcases and dressed in a fur coat. Despite the poise and elegance she seemed somewhat agitated, anxious to keep an eye on her suitcases.
She sat opposite me with the said cases blocking the aisles. She came from New York City.
She asked me several times to tell her when the train arrived at Clapham Junction where she would be met by a porter. I rapidly formed the impression of a once fine looking woman who assumed such were her charms that I – and any man – would fall for them instantly and be at her beck and call. Surprisingly as her final destination was Kew she did not take the plane to Heathrow. She explained that there had been a giant mess up and she thought she was landing at Heathrow.
We were now in conversation, not so much conversation as enquiry. How cold is England? I explained the weather is unpredictable but generally the cold kicks in January around 5 degrees. “I don’t know what that means. You will have to explain that to me.”
She mentioned a high class dining club she intended to visit called 5 Hertford Street which I did know. Indeed I had lunch there with a wealthy friend who is a member of such establishments. The waiters all wore cream jackets and the main courses were in the region of £40-£50. She said that London was in its last days of being the best city in the world and how much she enjoyed Royal Ascot and the polo at Windsor.
I have met this type before and was working out in my mind how not to give my name or any details, if asked, as she was likely to be a future pest.
She asked me to help her take her 3 suitcases onto the platform but I explained that my hernia prevented me from any lifting. She found another passenger to assist her and with a coquettish wave left the train.
My neighbour, whom I assumed had a plumbing business, expressed his bemusement afterwards as to why anyone needed so many clothes for a 2 month visit and how she could finish up at the wrong airport.
The only clue she gave was that she was alone for the first time in 14 years so I assumed she was a widow or possibly divorced.
Had it been a Hitchcock movie the woman might have been a spy and I would unwittingly set off on a series of misadventures. But it was not a Hitchcock film and I took defensive action to block any conversation by returning to my crossword or pretending to be asleep.
Maybe a married man, possibly a plumber who had a client worried about his ladies loo, would find such an encounter the stuff of dreams. They meet again in London, he pays £300 for lunch for two and is obliged to take her shopping in Bond St. before going back to the hotel. She is drunk and later alleges the sex did not take place consensually … the stuff of nightmares more likely.
Better to concentrate on my crossword.
