Last month, I took the train from Heuston in Dublin to Galway to visit a friend. Let me remind you that a few years ago, Iarnród Éireann were running an ad campaign with the slogan: “So good, you might not want to get off.” This featured a businessman-type passenger who remained in his seat on arrival, while his wife and small daughter waited on the platform outside to welcome him, and who then unaccountably stayed on the train as it moved off again.
“Ah, the train. It’s so good, you might not want to get off. Book in advance on irishrail.ie,” went the ad, which you can still see on YouTube.
I had indeed booked in advance, just as advised, especially in these busy summer months. My reserved seat was in Carriage A. I arrived to Carriage A to discover — surprise, surprise — that the overhead reservation signs were not working, and a flustered American tourist was in my seat.
“I’m sorry,” said she. “But that man is sitting in my seat and won’t move.”
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The Son settled his mother into her seat, and tucked the wheelchair into the seat opposite her. And then the whistle blew and the train began to move
I looked at That Man. He was part of two couples ensconced in the adjoining four-person berth. “I’m not moving,” he said in response to my gaze. “There are no names up, so I’m sitting here. We’re all sitting here,” he said, in case I hadn’t noticed, and his three travelling companions nodded vigorously. I wondered what the Flustered American Tourist was making of her Céad Míle Welcome to Ireland and Irish Rail’s reservation system.
To get out of the way of other passengers, in this ongoing domino effect of musical seats, I sat opposite That Man, in yet another seat which may or may not have been reserved.
The Flustered American Tourist hoisted her heavy suitcase up on the rack, from what was meant to be my seat. She did not shove it in properly, and the suitcase wobbled over her head at a precarious angle. I was just about to get up and help make it secure, when two more people entered Carriage A.
One was a woman of advanced years, who was proceeding slowly on crutches. She was followed by a man carrying a collapsible wheelchair, and a suitcase and some other bits and pieces. He too looked a tad flustered.
The pair of them stopped beside That Man. The older woman on crutches smiled down beatifically at him. Her accompanying porter held out a ticket to That Man’s companion. “I’m sorry, but my mother has booked that seat.” He looked at the member of their quartet sitting opposite. “And she’s booked that seat for her wheelchair.”
“This is ridiculous!” said That Man. “There are no names up!”
At this precise moment, the wobbling suitcase came crashing down, almost flattening the Flustered American Tourist in the process, who had turned around, agog, to watch what was unfolding at the next seat.
“Argh!!” yodelled the Flustered American Tourist, clutching first her head and then her shoulder. “Ouf!”
I cannot print verbatim what That Man said next to mother and son, it being a family newspaper, but he eventually arose with extremely poor grace, and stalked off down the carriage with his three companions.
I could not tell you how many trains I have been on all over the world, and never once have I witnessed a passenger pull the fabled cord that makes the train stop
The Son settled his mother into her seat, and tucked the wheelchair into the seat opposite her. And then the whistle blew and the train began to move.
“Mammy, Mammy, the train is moving!” The Son cried out. It’s both weird and endearing to hear a man in middle age refer to his mother in public as “Mammy.” I wondered why he was so excited about the train beginning its journey: it was after all, 11.25am, when the train was due to depart.
Mammy, unperturbed, was meanwhile unscrewing the top of her Club Orange, and opening the wrapping on her chicken sandwich. And then something happened which I have waited my whole life to see: The Son dashed down the carriage, found the communication cord, and pulled it.
I could not tell you how many trains I have been on all over the world, and never once have I witnessed a passenger pull the fabled cord that makes the train stop. It’s not actually a cord anymore, or at least it’s not on Irish Rail: to stop the train, you pull down a red metal lever.
The Son pulled this lever down, and emergency brakes screeched, and everyone turned to stare, wondering if someone had been murdered. Or robbed at gunpoint. Or incapacitated in a freak accident with a falling suitcase. As a teenager who was a frequent passenger on Irish Rail, I constantly worried that I would mistakenly pull the famous communication cord by somehow falling against it, and either bankrupt my parents as a result, or be sent to jail for the crime.
The Son had unerringly located the lever with such speed, and pulled it with such authority that it made me think that — perhaps? — this was not the first time he had performed this act.
The train stopped. The Son got off. I cannot imagine what he said to a presumably incandescent Station Guard. To my knowledge, the communication cord on a train is only supposed to be pulled in a true emergency and I don’t think not getting off in time before departure qualifies as that.
But hey. As Irish Rail’s own ad goes, “Ah, the train. So good you might not want to get off.”
