I was returning to London from a court case in Newcastle in 1992. Back then the journey took about 4 ½ hours by train. After a long wait on a freezing cold platform the train clackety-clacked into the station 30 minutes late.
The train had departed from Edinburgh and was nearly full. I was a smoker, and, in those days, there was still one smoking carriage on all trains. It was usually at the back, and I often mused whether this was to force wheezing smokers to run the furthest or to stop smoke blowing back into following carriages. I found a seat in that carriage, which was nearly full – of both people and smoke, the windows tinged slightly yellow with nicotine and the complexion of older folk tinged slightly grey by lack of oxygen. It is amazing the lengths an addict will go to in denial!
I am 34 years old, the mother of two boys, a ten and one year old. At this time, I was working part time as an expert witness all over the UK. I had taken on this extra role in response to the passage of The Dangerous Dogs Act 1991, a flawed law which sought to remove Pit Bull Terriers from the UK. The problem was that most people, including the police who were charged with seizing people’s pets, could barely tell the difference between a Pit Bull and a Pit Pony- hence the need for expert opinion when cases went to court. I had just finished a one day case at the Newcastle Magistrate’s court. It was a successful outcome, but I was feeling post exhilaration fatigue, particularly after travelling up there the night before.
The carriage was split into sections of two forward and two rearward facing seats with a table between them. I sat at the very first seat at the front, facing the rear. Over to my left there were 3 groups of four young men who were obviously together. They were sharing packs of beer and were talking and laughing, nothing too rowdy and in all honesty they were just lads and I did not feel uncomfortable.
But as the minutes ticked away I realised that some of their comments were a little odd. I heard the words ‘Spear chucker’ and then several of them laughed. I raised my head a little and I just managed to see the colourful headgear and forehead of a very black African man. Next to him sat a black woman whom I assumed to be his wife. The odd monkey noise was made, followed by some more tittering. The train drew in to the next station, Durham or Stockton-on -Tees, I forget which, and the man seated next to me rose to leave. As he scooted past me he bent down and said to me quietly,
“Listen, love, if I were you I would move to another carriage, these lads may get rowdy soon”
I nodded and got up, collecting my overnight bag, and moved to the next carriage along. I could still hear the murmuring from them as they were still only a few metres away.
I sat reading for half an hour, then something hit that only a smoker or ex smoker would understand, actually scratch that, any addict or recovering addict.
A craving!
Damn!
I waited for what felt like 20 minutes, checked my watch.
WHAT?!?! ONLY FIVE MINUTES HAD PASSED!
“Sod this” I thought and got up and went back to my original seat
“I will smoke a cigarette then move back”
The African group were still in the same place and I saw legs of a child on the facing aisle seat. This was a family.
The lads were chatting and laughing, nothing too obviously worrying, and I found myself being fascinated by the dynamic. It was easy to see who the leader of the group was, a handsome, intelligent looking young man around my age. He was deep in conversation with another young man, largely ignoring the others. However, when one of them made a joke they would slightly direct it towards him and check for his approval which he might give as a laugh or a thumbs up.
I smoked and read my book and avoided eye contact with any of them and decided (or rather my addiction decided) that I could sit this out without having to move again. A few more beers later, they were getting louder and then the ticket inspector could be seen moving slowly down the train.
Heaven help Us
A black man.
As he approached the monkey noises got louder but he feigned indifference and clipped our tickets and moved on. As he took hold of my ticket he motioned his head towards the front of the train, indicating that he thought I should move.
His eyes spoke “these guys are arseholes, and I fear for you sitting here in your non white skin”.
I smiled and nodded but let him pass on.
As he left the ‘foot soldiers’ became emboldened and the chants of ‘Spear chucker’ and jungle and monkey noises grew louder, and something was thrown in the direction of the African family. I heard it hit the floor with a twang and surmised it was a crumpled beer can.
The head gear of the African man stayed rigidly still, betraying no emotion.
This was now becoming alarming.
I happened to catch the eye of the’ leader’ and mouthed the word “REALLY?” whilst making the double open palm gesture.
“They’re just letting off steam” he replied. But actually he looked a little embarrassed.
“Keep it down, lads” he shouted to his mates, who mumbled and muttered, complaining a little but visibly quietening down.
He then moved over to the seat opposite me, soon followed by his somewhat confused seat buddy. I felt no apprehension, no fear of this man, I was simply fascinated with his obvious desire to talk.
We conversed for the next two hours.
He told me, with no shame, that they were Neo Nazi Fascists on their way to a London rally of likeminded groups. This was 1992 so that term was yet to be covered up in fluffier terms.
He first made it clear that he did not come from a broken home, his father was present and did not beat him. He was educated and working. All of them were working, he said, none of them were simply ‘lazy layabouts’. He apologised for their rowdiness, blaming it on the beer.
By now many of his friends were looking confused and a little disgruntled. After all what was he doing, over there, talking to that .....Monkey?
He went to great pains to explain that the white race was simply more advanced in all areas of music, art, literature and science and that superiority was being diluted by the influx of non white people. He challenged me to prove him wrong. He quoted writers that supported his views and was very clear in his intentions;
“All I want is for non white people to return to their own countries and races and carry on their evolution there, in their own time and at their own pace.”
Since I was English, just like him, and knew very little of any other culture at that time there was not much I could challenge him with. Since I had yet to awaken to the need to inform myself on these matters all I could really do was listen.
I asked him where his line was, after all I was mixed race. He answered, with no malice at all
“Come the revolution I will order for you to be shot”
“And what about my children, they look white, what happens to them?” I asked him, more fascinated than shocked.
“They will be shot, removing all your genes. If you wanted to save them, you would have to hide them.” He was not in the least aggressive, in fact, if I am honest; it was hard to not find him charming.
We were, by now, drawing into Kings Cross, everyone was rising to collect their bags, and his ‘troops’ were subdued and bleary-eyed by beer and fatigue.
“You would honestly order me and my children to be shot?” I looked him squarely in the eye.
“Yes, I couldn’t shoot you myself, because now we have spent so long chatting, I like you. I am not an animal.” He replied without a hint of irony.
“But, come the revolution, I will still give the order”
“Here, give me that” he took my overnight bag and gave me his hand to help me down from the train.
“Have a safe journey home, nice to meet you” he said as he waved and walked away with his friends.
“Have a good rally” I replied.
Well, what else could I say?
Comments