Matthew Parris
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‘Now where would where we went — [she named a tourist attraction] — be from ’ere?’
‘South, I think; or south-west,’ ventured Janet.
‘Oh don’t tell me about north and south and east and west and them things. If our plane crashed and you was relyin’ on me to lead us to safety we’d be finished, dear. Mind you I do know from television that we should find the rivers and follow them downstream to civilisation.’
I hope they didn’t see me smiling at the thought of the aftermath of a Ryanair crash somewhere over northern France, with my fellow passenger from Doncaster leading us, in Lycra, to civilisation by finding a river and following it downstream. She’d as likely as not have got us to Paris by nightfall.
A friend in prison, whom I visited not long ago, has always had complete recall of conversations overheard, and a talent for Midlands accents. During the visiting hours he kept us laughing until it was time to leave. Illustrating the astonishing ignorance of most of his fellow inmates, he recounted a conversation he had overheard between two fellow prisoners, one of whom (untypically, he said) had looked at the front page of a newspaper.
‘Did you see that ship’s run aground at Blackpool, in storm?’
‘Do ships stop at Blackpool, then? I didn’t think they did.’
‘They don’t. It were wrecked.’
‘Where was it goin’?’
‘Liverpool, I think. It were comin’ from Belfast.’
‘Where’s Belfast?’
‘I don’t rightly know. Ireland, maybe?’
‘Is that in Northern ’emisphere?’
‘Er… I’m not sure. But Liverpool’s in Southern ’emisphere. I’m sure o’ that.’
But back to my Doncaster woman, overheard. We left her planning for the eventuality of a plane crash….
‘Anyway we won’t crash, and it’s been a lovely week with you for company. I’ve never missed home once. I don’t mind being away. Frank and me are… well, comfortable now. And he likes the space, and having the ’ouse to ’imself, and I like a little break. He doesn’t really miss me, you know. I don’t mind. But I was 23 too, once, you know, an’ I do remember. The young men… oh it was lovely.’
Again, a moment of pain on Janet’s face, quickly banished. Brightening up: ‘We’ve had a good time together, anyway. And we’ve been all over. Everything except bungee-jumping!’
‘Ooh count me out of bungee-jumping. I’m the wrong weight. Too ’eavy. I wouldn’t trust the elastic.’
‘Don’t be silly! They make sure the bungee-rope’s strong enough.’
‘No, no, dear: my elastic.’ She glanced down at her bosom and rolled her eyes skyward. ‘Wouldn’t that be embarrassin’ — what with everyone lookin’? And hangin’ upside down, too.’ She and Janet were shaken with giggles.
The more this woman spoke the more my first inclination, which had been to mock, fell away. She was a candid, tolerant, self-deprecating and — in her way — rather witty person. Though undiplomatic she was kind-hearted. She and Janet had been on every coach tour the package holiday had offered, and she was brimming with wonder and appreciation at the things she had seen. Those overheard exchanges were full of humour, witting and unwitting, but also of pathos. I don’t know Frank, and never will, but I know he’s a fool for not holidaying with his wife. She was tremendous fun.
Alan Bennett or George Eliot could make something of these characters. That exchange would be the beginning, not the end of the story. But all I could do was take a note.
Matthew Parris Is A Columnist On The Times.
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