After watching Brief Encounter once again. I know it off by heart, those reels. There is something about a train journey intimately connected with writing; it is the unconscious on the move.
Mr. Godby the station master tells Myrtle Bagot, manager of the railway refreshment café, that he's had a bit of a dust up.
‘I had a bit of dust up.’
‘Did you now?’
‘Found a chap travelling first class without a ticket. I asked him, ‘where’s your ticket then lad?’ and he gave me a filthy look.’
‘Filthy, was it?’
‘Filthy. So I had to lay down the law.’
‘Lay down the law, did you?’
‘I called in Mr. Saunders.’
‘Bet he didn’t have anything to say for himself.’
‘He gave him a right ticking off.’
‘I bet he didn’t.’
‘Said he would call the police on him if he didn’t remove himself.’
‘Remove himself.’
‘This is a first-class carriage and you should have a first class ticket!’
‘First class.’
‘First class.’
‘Nothing to show for himself.’
‘I see.’
‘Well seeing you’re so good at seeing things, would you mind passing me those glasses from the table. It’s nearly closing time Mr. Godby.’
‘Mr. Godby? What’s got into you?
‘Time and tide will wait for no man, Mr. Godby, and it’s time for me to close. Beryl! Put out the fire and lock the door. No more waifs and strays tonight, thank you!’
‘Well if you’re going to be like that.’
‘Be like what, Mr. Godby? I’m just doing my job. Isn’t it time you did yours? There’s the express train, the bell just rang, can’t you hear nothing anymore Mr. Godby? The express is coming in.’
Poor Mr. Godby doesn’t understand, he shakes his head. I don’t know what’s got into her. Blows hot and cold. Don’t know what to think. Perfectly cheery yesterday. Quite happy to say she’s mine. ‘I’m all yours Mr. Godby.’ Don’t know what to think. What’s a chap to think? How’s a chap to think?
Poor Mr. Godby. Doesn’t he know people are always saying, ‘I hope I’ll see you again, or ‘See you next time,’ when what they really mean is, ‘it was nice meeting you, and if circumstances were different, perhaps you’d be mine.’ But not in this life, not now, not as matters lie.
And how do they lie? Like this. Everyone sits in their separate compartments: a certain sort of person sits in this carriage, and another in this, and never the twain shall meet. Only a curious sort of person will wander. Push open the door between the carriages which does not yield easily. When was the last time that door was cleaned, thinks Beryl, who is a clean girl, a good polisher. Miss Bagot noticed that when she asked her to have a go at wiping her glasses just to see what kind of elbow grease she had in her. And she had some, Beryl, yes, she did, and Miss Bagot was pleased to see that so she asked her stay on. ‘You can stay on young girl, and we’ll see how things go along, you and me.’ That’s what she meant. ‘Let’s see how things rub along between us.’ As long as you keep rubbing those glasses like that with a bit of vim we’ll put alright. And mind you do as I say. If I say there’s a table needs cleaning, of you go, quick as a flash. We don’t have many tables in here and we need to keep them nice. We get all sorts coming through here. You’ve got to learn to show a bit of judgement my girl, we don’t open the door to anyone, no, and if any trouble breaks out, you’re to call Mr. Godby straight away. Now close that door, there’s a terrible draught coming through and I don’t want soot all over my clean floor.’
She pushes and pulls and the door yields; she steps in, and they stare – the people in the carriage – they look and stare because they know she does not belong here. Beryl, the young girl who serves in the refreshment room, in the railway café. Too small and mousey for you to notice. You can hear her squeak as she crosses the carriage with careful steps; the train is rocking and Beryl is knocking up against the chairs; and they glare, the people in the carriage, the passengers. First class, they say in unison, First class. This is First class. What are you doing there? But Beryl does not hear them; she is too busy watching her shoes slip and slide across the polished floor. Only done yesterday, she thinks, nice and fresh, newly laden varnish, mind how it shines -- her court shoes, she only has one pair. Sunday Best every day; Beryl must wear her shoes every day. Mind where you put your feet! Mind where you put your hands. Too concerned with where to put her hands. Not on this gentleman’s pate, not on this lady’s hat. They are very well dressed, the people in the First-Class carriage, ever so smart, and Beryl is unsure where to put her hands and feet – not there, not there. It is that sort of place, they are that sort of people, you have to be careful. You never know whose feet you might be treading on.
Once a gentleman came in in such a hurry, he left his brief case sitting there upon the floor tucked away in the corner. But Beryl spied it, found it after he left, after she went to clear the tea things from the table she kicked against it with her shoes; and there it was, a nice leather brief case tucked away in the corner under the table legs.
‘Miss Bagot! Somebody’s gone and left their bag.’
‘What bag, Beryl, bring it here?’
‘Here it is.’
‘That’s a briefcase, Beryl, not a bag, don’t you know the difference?’
‘A gentleman’s.’
‘You mean a gentleman left his briefcase?’
‘Yes, sitting there in the corner. I wouldn’t have found it if I hadn’t gone to clean.’
‘But you were always going to clean, Beryl. Don’t talk nonsense. What did he look like?’
‘Nice looking . . . nice face.’
‘What sort of face, Beryl?’
‘Handsome I guess.’
‘Oh you guess, do you? You been doing a lot of guessing this morning, my girl.
Now run after him and see if you can’t catch up with him. Run after the gentleman and take him his case. He can’t have been gone long. He might be catching the express.’
‘Not the express.’
‘What makes you so sure all of a sudden.’
‘I’ve seen him before. He doesn’t take the express.’
‘Then what does he take, Beryl?’
‘The local, the Ketchley train.’
‘How do you know that Beryl?’
‘I see him run to catch it.’
‘Run . . . run?’
‘Yes, he’s usually with that woman.
‘Which woman?’
‘The one he always meets.’
‘Which one, Beryl?’
‘The nicely dressed lady. They ‘ave tea together.’
‘Well everyone in ‘ere has tea, Beryl.’
‘Every Thursday. They’re in every Thursday and he always buys a currant bun.’
‘My, you’ve been watching the world go by haven’t you? Well you’d better scarper after him with that case if you’re sure it’s his.’
‘Oh it’s ‘is alright, Miss Bagot. I see him come in with it.’
‘Well off you go! That’s the local train now! Off you go my girl. Quick, run!’
A reliable girl, Beryl. Miss Bagot could trust her with closing up. ‘Any sign of trouble, Beryl, you call Mr. Godby. Don’t waste your time with Mr. Saunders. Go straight to Albert – Miss Bagot blushed --- to Mr. Godby.’ Mr. Godby, Mr. Godby, Mr. Godby.
Beryl pushed her way through the carriage and the people turned to look at her. What was that girl doing in here, who let her in? But Beryl kept pushing on; she was that kind of girl. Reliable. Miss Bagot said so; that’s why she took her on; and Beryl kept her head straight and her gaze fixed in front of her. She was that kind of girl, steady. Not long now Beryl. Just a few seats down. Hat, remember his hat, Beryl. No, he won’t have his hat on, not inside the carriage, and today was a fine day. A perfect day for a picnic, a ride out into the countryside. I wonder if she got on with him. I wonder if they travelled together? They make a lovely couple. I wonder Miss Bagot hasn’t noticed. What does Miss Bagot notice? Mr. Godby! Although she pretends she never sees him, the invisible man -- he’s in everyday, three times a day, any chance he gets. Keen, far too keen, anyone can see that. Beryl can.
The engine was steaming, white gas was filling the windowpane, brakes squeaking, and then a sudden jolt --- Beryl lurched forward – a woman with a parakeet on her hat, no, feathers, a ridiculous hat, Beryl could hear squawking. She could hear the sound of flapping, the blue and green parakeet was struggling to take off, but it only found the windowpane – then a scream -- the woman with no hat and no parakeet, and so Beryl took the opportunity to pass on, to carry on through and through. Where was he, the gentleman with the handsome face and the large forehead and the highbrow. A Roman nose? Beryl wasn’t sure. She usually left the describing to Miss Bagot, but Miss Bagot didn’t see everything, not by half. Beryl Walters saw more. An inch under five feet Beryl was closer to the ground than others and could pass as a child; you might say Beryl was a child; Miss Bagot would.
Right now Beryl was a detective as everyone in life is at some point and the focus of her detection was eluding her. The man with the suitcase, they must be together ‘til death do us part, but something was in the way: blue and green feathers, the parakeet, the hat, the woman screaming. Her mouth was so large, what was she saying? She wasn’t saying anything only making a noise. Why such a noise? It was only a silly old hat. ‘Hold your horses.’ Beryl couldn’t help herself saying as she was passing -- she was nearly at the door, he must be here somewhere, only one more set of seats, First Class was discreet. Surely he must be somewhere here or the next carriage along -- there was one more carriage -- and so Beryl kept pressing on as she did when she was carrying a full tray of tea things back to the kitchen; a space too small even for someone as petite as Beryl, which is a kind way of putting the shortness of Beryl Walters. And so perhaps it is easier for Beryl to make her way through into the next carriage; easier for her to anticipate seeing the man with the wide forehead and pleasant face -- a nice creature, Miss Bagot had said, a nice creature -- no, that was Beryl who is not in love and so can see more clearly.
There! The man with the high forehead, the man who fixes his eyes upon --- not Beryl but the windowpane for it is there his true love lies, dancing beneath the moonlight on some African shore, for it was to Africa he was fleeing to pursue his chronic ambition to remain preoccupied with pulmonary embolisms, with blocked lungs, and Beryl cleared her throat to speak knowing her tendency to squeak, and knowing that the director partly took her on for that: her high pitched tones, the unbroken notes of a child not yet made for adult life; for romance, the melodramatic plot, the sudden explosion of passion beneath the railway bridge – no, Beryl is not ready for that. But she is there now, she can see him, the man with the broad beam who fixes his eyes upon --- not Beryl – but the windowpane for it is there that his true love lies dancing beneath the moonlight on some African shore (it was never very specific) for it was to Africa he was fleeing in order to pursue his fondness for pulmonary embolisms, for blocked lungs, and Beryl cleared her throat to speak. She does tend to squeak but the Director partly took her on for that, her high-pitched tones, the unbroken notes of the child not yet made for adult life, for romance, the melodramatic plot, the sudden explosion of passion underneath the railway bridge -- ‘Excuse me, sir,’ – and Beryl clears her throat.