Robert Twentyman

Category: life

  • The 0802

    The 0802

    I’m neurodiverse. I am oblivious to many things that stand out to typical people, but yet there are other, almost invisible streams of information that shout at me. 

    People would say I can’t read the room. But that’s not true. Reading the room is addictive, narcotic, exciting; I love doing that. Computing how to behave, how to stand, where to look, what facial expression to adopt, what’s safe to talk about—that’s hard. But I don’t complain; I’m lucky. I’ve learned about myself. 

    On the 0802 to Birmingham, I was hyper-aroused. Trains can be chaotic, dramatic, bursting with vignettes if you’re curious enough to look. 

    A man in his thirties, tattoos around the side of his neck and across his throat. Four-five days of stubble, a shaven head. Grey tracksuit bottoms, baggy, dirty. No name trainers, white socks. 5’7 or so, about 10 stone. Angry, very angry. Also, afraid. Black rucksack on his back, one strap only. A cheap rucksack, thin straps; the black fabric had a white/grey tinge to it. Stuffed full, the fabric drum tight. Carrying/dragging another suitcase that came up to the middle of his thighs. Walking quickly, jerky, stabby movements, his eyes working, staring through the electric door into the carriage beyond, scanning for what? For who?  As he reached me, I saw he also had an extendable dog lead with a small, black bulldog on the end. The lead stretched taut, the dog an unwilling passenger, ears back, tail down, front legs braced forward.  

    You get a fresh cast at every station.  I was watching. The tip of a white stick flicked left to right, left to right, coming closer to me at less than a walking pace. The movement— deft, skilful, like how a bricklayer’s trowel becomes a part of them. The stick belonged to a woman; I could see slim legs wearing grey tights. Suede boots up to the knee, a black skirt with a cardigan. Three rows in front of me, she stopped next to two empty seats to her right. She stepped into the space between the seat cushions and the back of the row in front, her face pressed up to the feeble LCD display that tells you the seat number and whether it’s booked or not. She was confident, independent, far from helpless. An undertone of defiance.  

    A second lady followed her into the space.  Older, sixties maybe. Grey hair. Kindly, maternal, a bit worried. Speaking to each other, not sitting down yet. They made no eye contact with any of the other passengers who were looking their way. Something about the angle of the younger lady’s shoulders and a little nod of the head told me she was the decision-maker. They sat, the older lady in the aisle. They just had handbags, no suitcases. I could only see the older lady now; she too had a white stick, she folded it away into her bag. She held her iPhone to the tip of her nose, took it away again, and took a small, black microscope from her handbag. She held it between her eye and the screen of her phone; it looked uncomfortable.  

    Another station, more new faces. A lady, late fifties, arrived from behind. Sensible, sensible shoes, a calf-length dress, a tote bag. Straight grey hair. Glasses. She was reading off the seat numbers to her left; she slowed as her peripheral vision told her that her seat was taken. She slipped into the seat in front, took her phone out, and shuffled around getting the right app open. She looked back and forth from the phone to the seat numbers, but only for a second. Her mouth set into neutral; a decision made, she sat where she was. Took out a Sudoku book on sand-coloured paper; a biro scratched away at the pages. 

    A male voice, ever so slightly louder than the background chit-chat, confident, authoritative.  Coming towards us. He had found the right volume and cadence of speech to switch his passengers on; tickets and screens were ready and waiting. He stopped at the pair of ladies, studied the screen of the older lady, and asked if there was a pass to go with the ticket. She rummaged. An arm appeared from the window seat, clutching a plastic wallet. The older lady said they were not sure if they were in the right seats. Screens checked again. The guard looked back over his left shoulder, “One of you there, and the other where you are.” But this wasn’t an instruction; his voice was soft, unthreatening; he was just explaining. He said he would keep an eye out, and it would be fine. One of the seats had been booked from the station before anyway. The other lady raised her head from the Sudoku book and said, “Oh, that was me actually, so don’t worry.”  

    I was so invested at this stage; I gave her an involuntary beam, so did the ticket inspector. Something, I don’t know what, I could see no faces, but something told me that the passengers around me had all been holding their breath a little; a millisecond of silence ended, the tension burst with this release of kindness.  

    I felt the familiar prickling in my eyes that comes with shared emotion; I felt good; I was amongst kind, sound people; we had all shared a little moment together on the 0802.  

  • The Ferryman

    The Ferryman

    I’ve always wanted to take the Southwold ferry.

    It’s a 100ft boat crossing from Southwold to Walberswick, a fine alternative to the 1.3-mile walk around via the bridge.

    We finally did it on Monday.

    The ferry is a large rowing boat operated by one man who rows from the bow. A sign on board says ‘Maximum 12 passengers.’

    You reach it via a wooden jetty leading down from the road. Another sign instructs passengers to wait at the road until called forward. 

    So we did that. 

    The ferryman rowed over from the far side to collect us, and congratulated us on obeying the sign as he tied up.

    He was about 60. Wiry, tanned, and with a twinkle in his eye. He had the air of a part-time poet.

    He was very confident as he told us how to step down onto the boat one at a time and where to sit. I was wondering when to pay, but he had his patter off to a T as he said, “May I take your fares now, please.”   It was £2 each.

    He pulled away. I asked him how many crossings he does a day. He said they do a four-hour shift and that can be up to 40 crossings. We were impressed. 

    My mum remarked, “You must be fit.” 

    “Not really,” he said. “But you do need a certain amount of low cunning.” 

    I processed his words, wondering what he meant. He was reading my face well, and he explained that you have to be able to judge exactly how to position the boat depending on the tide, wind, and load.

    As he spoke, he angled the bow upstream of the landing stage – what kayakers call a ferry glide. The current carried us sideways across the harbour while he maintained our angle with subtle adjustments.

    He added that he had to make 32 crossings whilst the harbour master watched before he was permitted to work the route.

    I noticed a small outboard motor on the stern with a life ring hung over it – clearly not required under normal circumstances. I asked when he uses it.

    “It can be useful sometimes,” he said, offering nothing more.

    As we approached, he angled the boat further into the flow. The oars came inboard and the current laid us alongside the landing perfectly. All without breaking his chat.

    Two quick flicks of rope and we were tied off. He helped us out, steady and kind.

    My mum asked how far away the bridge was.

    He looked at her with a cheeky wink. 

    “We do not speak of that here.”

  • “The Dog Walker Saw It”

    “The Dog Walker Saw It”

    It’s about 7 miles cross country to the closest viable pub. So I don’t go there very often.

    There was football on. A group of lads stood 2 deep at the bar, making micro adjustments so they could maintain vision of the TV on the far wall.

    A bulky couple sat on bar stools, not watching the football. Her top was tight, dark in colour. It didn’t quite reach the waistband of her blue jeans. She had her back to me. I wondered whether she could feel the draught when the door opened. Maybe not. He wore a plasticky looking fleece, the zip only went down to his sternum. His head was square, his torso oblong. He reminded me of a child’s pencil drawing of a man. A favourite uncle perhaps. They were nice people, kind faces, she reached a friendly hand towards my dog. He wasn’t feeling very confident, or maybe that was me projecting. He ignored the hand and pressed his hip a little closer to my calf, his tail not only down but folded neatly underneath his belly. He much preferred the journey to the destination.

    I felt a bit the same so I ordered a pint of Wainwright and made my way outside. It was dark and about +1 degree but still preferable.

    I split up the remaining treats and put small pieces on my knees and the surrounding benches whilst William licked his lips. “Go on then”, he hoovered them up in adoration.

    The lady from the bar stool walked over. She had a cigarette in her hand as she came out of the door. She watched me and my dog for a few minutes then asked me about him. He didn’t much care for the conversation, his spine arched a little, I could tell he was feeling the cold. I tilted my torso back a bit and made my thighs into a lap so he could climb up and then wrapped my arms around him as we spoke. He felt lovely.

    The conversation started to falter and I turned away. A thudding sound made me jump, the poor woman had missed the bench with her backside and was laying on the floor. I stood up to help, she was up instantly, face flushed. We were both embarrassed, she said she was ok. We laughed nervously, she finished her cigarette and went back in.

    It was her partner’s turn for a fag. They must have been taking it in turns so they could keep control of the barstools.

    He was the more extroverted of the pair. He immediately commented on the falling over that had just occurred, he said “the dog walker saw it”, reporting it back to “him” in the third person.

    He told me about his dogs. Over ten of them. He’d always had dogs. As a child, his Dalmatian once found a whole bag of pound coins. And ate them. He said he had to follow it around the yard with a hosepipe the next day, washing the shite off of them. He gathered them all up. His grandad didn’t want them back after what had happened, so he spent them in the sweet shop.

    My lift arrived, and I left the remaining questions behind.

    Leave a Reply