I’d have thought there was, until I met John Mulligan. It was on a train from my University city, Hull, to London. As I settled down into my table seat on a Hull Trains service to King’s Cross, this genteel chap – on the right side of seventy, just retired – was beginning a cheese and ham sandwich. Fair enough, nothing wrong with that. Next to him, his equally genteel wife – I assume, Mrs Mulligan (I like to think of her as Joan) – began tucking into a cucumber sandwich. All well and good, even though my own breakfast was becoming a distant memory with no prospect of lunch any time soon. It was a breakfast I had reason to be proud of; three portions of my five-a-day in one sitting. I was impressed anyway. That sandwich never made it past Brough – ten minutes from Hull.

Behind me, an American with a beard and a huge beer belly (hereafter called Beardy American) was drinking Stella and loudly telling the carriage about the time he’d sold some golf clubs in Arizona. You’ve no idea how interesting that is. While he conjured up images of windswept sand and blistering desert, we passed the cesspit of a river outside Selby in the half-hearted Yorkshire sun. Meanwhile Mr M started his assault on a satsuma.

It seems that Mrs M and I shared not only a table with Mr M but also a belief that crosswords can make train journeys that little bit less tedious. She was doing the one in the G2, while Mr M finished his satsuma. As Mrs M handed him a second sandwich (plain ham this time) she asked if Homer’s Iliad was about the Trojan War. I assume this question was related to the crossword. Now, being a recently-retired couple, middle-class and respectable, I was confident the Mulligans would be able to handle a bit of Classical literature. Surely, cultured, sensitive John, with his free bus pass, would be on safe ground here? No. The sandwich he gamely finished off gave no clues. I had to help out. But we British don’t like talking to strangers on public transport. Mrs M’s eyes fell on me, imploring, questioning – did I know? I’d sat at their breakfast table, I was practically family! So I told her – yes, the Iliad is about the Trojan War. Relief! A clue solved! Mr M opened a packet of crisps in celebration.

I felt I could relax a little. My intellectual muscles had been flexed, their strength demonstrated, my Classics A Level felt worthwhile.

It was as I sat wallowing in elitist smugness that I noticed a kid watching me. Trains are funny for that; they’re designed in such a way as to make it impossible not to notice the people two seats away from you. You won’t see the folk inbetween, but anyone two seats away is always thrust into your attention. On this occasion, a young lad was gazing at me. Probably. Unless he was gazing vacantly into space, as twelve-year-olds often do. It’s possible he was watching Mr M chew meditatively on a Mars bar, but I like to think he was awed by my Iliad answer. That was almost certainly more interesting than Doncaster train station, which we were passing through (even for kids, Classics beat Doncaster: Fact). After that, he went to find a toilet, so I suspect he was just staring vacantly.

Beardy American had chosen this moment – between swigs of Stella – to tell someone (anyone?) about the unusual workings of the ticket machines at Basingstoke. In honesty, I wasn’t paying much attention, so if you really want to know about this you’ll have to ask him or go to Basingstoke.

Between Grantham and King’s Cross there was no stopping the train, nor Mr M’s appetite. It started gently. For ten minutes the Mulligans picked at a bunch of grapes, skirting each other’s choices like they were engaged in a private Cold War. But it soon became clear that for every grape Mrs M had grabbed, Mr M had gobbled two. As pickings got slimmer, Mr M got quick, harrying the vine until it was bare – and Mrs M got a raw deal. She didn’t seem to mind, and contented herself with munching an apple to pass the time (she’d finished the crossword, with no extra help from me – she was obviously an experienced hand).

Behind me Beardy American cracked open his fourth can of Stella, while in front of me Mr M peeled a banana. I didn’t see how he could still be hungry. I mean, he was a slim man – where did he put it all? It was obvious where Beardy American put it all – his beer belly – but Mr M…? Maybe the overdose of fruit (is it possible to OD on fruit?) was an attempt to balance the fattier foods. Maybe he hoped to cram all of his five-a-day into one meal. I’d thought my three in one sitting was impressive, but that was an achievement paling away into a stomach-wrenching exhibition of half-hearted enthusiasm when placed alongside Mr M’s gargantuan effort.

It was around this time that the boy proved he was watching me – I yawned: he yawned. Yawns are contagious, as everyone knows, and if he wasn’t watching me where else could he have got it from? I knew I had him now, but was crushed into inactivity by the eating display across my table. I’d yawned because Mr M had produced a pear from some bag or other. He was beginning to take the mick. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where to look when – fifteen minutes later – he asked Mrs M to get his nuts out for him. As I was about to move seats – I’ve nothing against OAP love, but some things are too much – she handed him a bag of mixed seeds and nuts.

Outside passed the beautiful rolling hills of the south-east, illuminated by a generous sun that had finally pulled its finger out. My eyes roved between that view and my book, but my attention was distracted occasionally. Out of the corner of my eye it looked suspiciously like more eating was happening, and I was still not involved (as my grumbling stomach pointed out). Slowly, I looked up. Lo and behold, Mr M was tucking into a cake! Not a big one, or even an especially nice-looking one, but a box of Kipling cakes, nonetheless.

The man was far from flagging, and managed to polish off a croissant as the driver announced that King’s Cross was near. This was the moment the Mulligans popped some gum into their mouths. I had two theories on this. A: they’d technically just finished breakfast, and so were brushing their teeth. B: they have a medical condition which means that their jaws will seize up if they’re inactive for more than five minutes.

Either way, it was one of my most entertaining London train journeys – and the first thing I did on arrival was buy a sandwich to quieten my own growling stomach.

Richard T. Watson

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