A Quiver Full of Arrows

Henry had been told that the British were good at standing in queues, but as he had never had to join one before, he was quite unable to confirm or deny the rumor. He reluctantly walked to the back of the queue. It took some time before Henry reached the front.

“I would like to take the last carriage to Dover.”

“You would like what…?”

“The last carriage,” repeated Henry a little more loudly.

“I am sorry, sir, but every first-class seat is sold.”

“I don’t want a seat,” said Henry. “I require the carriage.”

“There are no carriages available nowadays, sir, and as I said, all the seats in first class are sold. I can still fix you up in third class.”

“I don’t mind what it costs,” said Henry. “I must travel first class.”

“I don’t have a first-class seat, sir. It wouldn’t matter if you could afford the whole train.”

“I can,” said Henry.

“I still don’t have a seat left in first class,” said the clerk unhelpfully.

Henry would have persisted, but several people in the queue behind him were pointing out that there were only two minutes before the train was due to leave and that they wanted to catch it even if he didn’t.

“Two seats then,” said Henry, unable to make himself utter the words “third class.”

Two green tickets marked Dover were handed through the little grille. Henry took them and started to walk away.

“That will be seventeen and sixpence please, sir.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” said Henry apologetically. He fumbled in his pocket and unfolded one of the three large white five-pound notes he always carried on him.

“Don’t you have anything smaller?”

“No, I do not,” said Henry, who found the idea of carrying money vulgar enough without it having to be in small denominations.

The clerk handed back four pounds and a half-crown. Henry did not pick up the half-crown.

“Thank you, sir,” said the startled man. It was more than his Saturday bonus.

Henry put the tickets in his pocket and quickly returned to Victoria, who was smiling defiantly against the cold wind; it was not quite the smile that had originally captivated him. Their porter had long ago disappeared and Henry couldn’t see another in sight. The conductor took his tickets and clipped them.

“All aboard,” he shouted, waved a green flag and blew his whistle.

Henry quickly threw all fourteen bags through the open door and pushed Victoria onto the moving train before leaping on himself. Once he had caught his breath he walked down the corridor, staring into the third-class carriages. He had never seen one before. The seats were nothing more than thin worn-out cushions, and as he looked into one half-full carriage a young couple jumped in and took the last two adjacent seats. Henry searched frantically for a free carriage but he was unable even to find one with two seats together. Victoria took a single seat in a packed compartment without complaint, while Henry sat forlornly on one of the suitcases in the corridor.

“It will be different once we’re in Dover,” he said, without his usual self-confidence.

“I am sure it will, Henry,” she replied, smiling kindly at him.

The two-hour journey seemed interminable. Passengers of all shapes and sizes squeezed past him in the corridor, treading on his Lobbs hand-made leather shoes, with the words:

“Sorry, sir.”

“Sorry, guv.”

“Sorry, mate.”

Henry put the blame firmly on the shoulders of Clement Attlee and his ridiculous campaign for social equality, and waited for the train to reach Dover Priory Station. The moment the engine pulled in Henry leaped out of the carriage first, not last, and called for Albert at the top of his voice. Nothing happened, except a stampede of people rushed past him on their way to the ship. Eventually Henry spotted a porter and rushed over to him only to find he was already loading up his trolley with someone else’s luggage. Henry sprinted to a second man and then on to a third and waved a pound note at a fourth, who came immediately and unloaded the fourteen bags.