A RAILWAY JOURNEY

A beggar might beg, but he loves his king as well...

“Guess who I saw on the train this evening?” asked Edna of Mickie, “I’ll give you ten guesses if you like, and I bet you don’t et it!”

“The Prime Minister?” suggested Mickie, knowing he was right.

Edna looked outraged. “How on Earth did you know that?” she asked.

“Because it was on the telly, him spouting his usual nonsense at a camera and you to one side of him in the background, pulling a face.”

“I was not pulling a face!”

“Maybe you weren’t. Maybe you were just looking sceptical.”

“It was all over so quickly,” Edna told him, “there was a flurry of nobodies, a man with a camera, then the PM was ushered in, virtually pushed into a seat, told to read off, what do they call it, an idiot board, and then it was all over. He said his usual nonsense and I was told they’d scrub me out of the picture and to keep my trap shut if anyone asked if I’d seen the most important man in the land on a train.”

“I asked you.”

“No you didn’t. I just said guess who I saw… anyway, his usual nonsense was on the lines of look how well the train was running now that they’ve made improvements.”

“And was it?”

“If being two hours late is running well, then it was running well.”

“I wondered why you were late coming home. I thought it must be the train being late, as usual.”

“They said there was a dead animal on the line. That’s what caused the train to be held up.”

“And was there?”

“How on Earth should I know! I’m not the sort of girl to go scrabbling under trains, looking for corpses!”

“So it was a lie, was it? I suppose they held the train up while the Prime Minister put his best suit on and learned his lines…”

“He didn’t look his best, Mickie,” grinned Edna. “He might have been wearing a Saville Row suit, but he wasn’t at his best. You’ll never guess what…”

“What what?”

“His flies were undone! He sat there, his trousers gaping, and I can tell you now that his boxers are tartan, all stripey and red. And although he sat there for only a couple of minutes nobody came along and warned him that he was risking having his crown jewels on display on the telly! You’d have thought the cameraman would have noticed and dropped a hint.”

“But you noticed. Just like you!”

“And what do you mean by that?”

“It’s just like you to notice what a man wears under his trousers even if he only leaves a tiny bit showing.”

“I was in the girl guides, and I was taught to be observant,” protested Edna, “you wouldn’t think much of me if I didn’t notice the little things that make life so important, would you?”

“Like a man’s underpants?”

“Not underpants. They were boxers … I’m sure of that. I sat there gazing at them and trying not to, for goodness’ sake. Tartan boxers, probably the same as the king wears!”

“Now I’m lost. What has royal underwear got to do with the idiot who currently inhabits No. 10 Downing Street?”

“Nothing except the one might feel the need to imitate the other, and isn’t that tartan called royal something or other?”

“Probably.”

“Royal Stewart. That’s it. They drape it all over themselves, huge tartan blankets, when they’re out in the highlands and want to be noticed.”

“And the Prime minister thinks he ought to wear the same colours next to his wedding tackle?” smiled Mickie, enjoying himself.

“It’s better than what you wear!” sniffed Edna.

“What’s wrong with my pants?”

“nothing, I suppose, if you like garish cartoons based on Spongebob square pants!”

“You bought them for me!”

“I know, and I’m only teasing. Don’t take on so.”

“Royals might drape themselves with tartan blankets if there’s aa chill in the air and the cameras are pointing their way, but the king probably wears Spongebob underwear just like me!”

Edna giggled. “But he’s not just like you, is he? He’s a millionaire goodness knows how many times over, he can order your head to be lopped off if he feels like it and he doesn’t need to be bothered about his underwear because he’s got more pairs than he’ll ever wear tucked away in drawer after drawer after drawer and castle after castle after castle!”

“That’s not right about lopping off heads, not any more!”

“Maybe not, but you know these royals. They don’t just have one bedroom and one set of stuff, they’ve got their best undies in fancy houses and castles all over the shop. Piles of the stuff.”

“Which strikes me as being a tad unfair,” decided Mickie.

“It is?”

“Of course it is. You know Gaffer Standish?”

“The old guy you talk to sometimes when you want to avoid helping me with the housework?”

“I don’t, then! I do my fair share! But yes, old Gaffer Standish, he’s the man. He did his bit in the Falklands when Thatcher needed a war to make her seem equal to the men who’d lived in number 10 before her. Well Gaffer came back blind in one eye and in one hell of a bad mood. And his home was repossessed because he wasn’t so sure about how to go about keeping it, and he just shouted at folks even if they were trying to help him, which didn’t endear hom yo anyone, so now he lives wherever he can find somewhere to lay his head, which sometimes is on a park bench no matter what the weather. Now he’s getting on a bit and got a bad chest, but going to get it seen to is beyond him. So he’s dying. He knows it and I reckon he welcomes the idea because he’s got nothing else to lose, only his life. Gaffer Standish, though, would do anything for the king even though he’s never met him. He worships the ground his majesty might walk on if he ever came this way, because he won’t. And I don’t think he even owns a pair of boxers let alone a drawer full of them!”

“Poor fellow. It doesn’t seem right. What does he wear, then?”

“I gave hm some of my old stuff a few weeks back because I was having a bit of a c;ear out and reckon he hasn’t got any,, but that’s besides the point. What right does a king have to be filthy rich when the poorest of his subjects goes without even a worn pair of y-fronts?”

“Because he’s the king!”

“And what right has the prime Minister to jump on and off trains just to tell the world how great he is and how well he’s doing when poor old Gaffer Standish gets ordered off his park bench by a hoodlum in a uniform!”

“You’re quite the socialist, aren’t you?”

“If that means I believe every man is equal to every other man and deserves the same chances, then I am. Now, woman, what’s for supper?”

“Nip to the chippy, duck, and get me a cod and chips,” she grinned at him, “and if you see your poor old veteran friend, buy him some too, and get some for yourself. I’ll pay.”

“That’s all right. I got some in while you were on a late train, and they’re keeping warm in the oven. And the man sitting next to your chair, he’s got fish and chips too as a treat from me. Say hello to Gaffer Standish, and how about offering him a room for the night? It’s turning a it chilly.”

© Peter Rogerson 01.08.23

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