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I T TURNS OUT BOBBY only sort of knows what he’s doing. He knows how to work the ticket machines at your local train station, check the board for the platform number, walk to the platform, and wait for the train. But when he gets on board the train, he seems to get a bit stressed – incessantly checking if the train has reached its final destination even when it’s clear it can’t have reached its final destination.
‘Not here yet,’ he says, after checking out the window after the train has slowed for a moment. ‘This isn’t it, this isn’t it.’
‘OK,’ you say. You check your watch. You are not expected to reach London for another forty minutes.
You are also worried – albeit not about missing your final destination. You wonder if this day out is a good idea. You wonder if the Voynich Manuscript will be as you hoped. Maybe it will be like the museum-library aircraft hangar you daydreamt of. You wonder if there will be scholars walking around the Manuscript in a carefully ordered circle, exchanging ideas and theories while regarding its incomprehensible script.
The ticket inspector appears at the other end of the carriage.
‘Tickets, please,’ she says.
Your stomach does a sink, swoosh, flutter. Even though you know neither of you is doing anything illegal, suddenly you feel as though you are. The ticket inspector will surely sense this, you think. She might call the British Transport Police. She might call your mum.
‘Oh my god,’ Bobby says, presumably feeling similarly.
‘It’s OK,’ you say, before trying to reassure him that you are in receipt of an appropriate ticket, and can therefore go anywhere the ticket says you can go. ‘We’ve got the tickets. We bought the tickets and so we can go where the ticket says, no problem.’
Meanwhile, the ticket inspector moves nearer and nearer. You ramble on. ‘Back in the day, my nan gave my dad some jam sandwiches at nine a.m. and didn’t want to see him again till tea time. He didn’t even have water sometimes, he just got thirsty and stayed that way. But it’s OK because we’ve got water—’
Bobby hits the flat of his hand down on the train table between you. ‘What are you talking about? I’m looking for my ticket. Have you seen it? Did I give it to you?’
You blink at him, trying to quash a feeling of hurt. Then you remember that yes, you have seen his train ticket – it is in your pocket for safekeeping.
‘Yes,’ you say, proffering his ticket from your pocket, where it was for safekeeping.
Bobby takes it.
The ticket inspector looms over you. ‘Tickets, please,’ she says.
You hand the ticket inspector your ticket. She takes out a marker, marks the ticket, and then returns it to you. After this, Bobby passes his ticket over; she does the same thing before moving on.
Both you and Bobby sink back into your seats. Bobby seems relaxed now he has his ticket. Now he has his ticket, he seems to feel OK.
Further reading:
Fares and Fairness: Train Tickets Throughout the Ages