March 6

‘Are you two train drivers?’ asked a woman sitting down at a table. Her voice was shrill, like a drunk budgie. A triangular fringe sat on a small but solid face.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ said the smallest of the two men at the counter of the small Puccino’s café. He shot the words out quickly like a late train.

‘Well your trains are filthy. Especially the 07.01. That’s a disgrace.’ There was a pause as the two train drivers looked at the woman complaining. Her shrill voice suggested she might be unbalanced; mentally ill perhaps. She looked like she was hovering around her fiftieth birthday.

‘Papers and cups and all kinds of filth. Does no one clean them?’

The short train driver looked at his mate: a tall and very large man with a head like pale potato, the features barely imprinted on the front. They exchanged a look that could have said, it’s too early in the morning for customer service. The small train driver looked back down at the complaining woman and said, in as polite a tone as he could manage, ‘If you wanna drive the train, I’ll walk through and tidy up.’

The smaller of the two train drivers turned away and dealt with his coffee order, leaving his huge front to deal with the woman. The size of his body meant he was already standing at an angle and facing her, so he felt obliged to say something.

‘Nah, you’re alright, dear,’ said the woman cheerfully. ‘You stick to what you do best. I’m just saying how disgusting they are. We shouldn’t have to put up with it, you know. How do you complain? I’ve tried phoning but they don’t care, do they?’

‘You should write down your complaint,’ said the huge train driver. He spoke in a stodgy, slow way. ‘On a form. Head Office gotta deal with that. Get a form in the ticket office.’

‘Oh, I don’t want all that bother,’ said the woman.

‘No bother,’ said the giant driver. ‘Just a simple form, like. Fill it in. Get something done.’

The woman didn’t respond. She went oddly quiet as if out of words, as if realising how early it was and how unfair it was to launch a complaint on two train drivers getting coffee before they started work. The only sign of life was a tiny smile and her blinking eyes.

‘Ere you go, mate,’ said the smaller train driver handing over a coffee. ‘Cheers, great.’ The two train drivers filled three minutes with incomprehensible train talk that mentioned stations all over the South London network, the name of trains, time spent in depos, some of the other characters along the way. All the time the woman at the table watched and smiled and blinked.

‘Shit. Time. Come on,’ said the small train driver to the large train driver. They both left the café and headed to the front of the waiting London Bridge bound train. The woman remained in the café, smiling and blinking.