DISTURBED BY EUROSTAR

Alistair Home is present as something alarming happens to the Paris-London train Aboard Eurostar I AM sitting aboard Eurostar No. 9047, bound from Paris to Waterloo, sipping my complimentary champagne in tranquil com- fort and reading last week's Spectator diary. Poor Digby Anderson, delayed two hours on a Virgin-Sabena flight to Brussels but, silly man, why on earth did he go by air in the first place when there are such super modern-age trains like Eurostar?

At that moment of smug hubris, howev- er, our troubles begin. About to enter the Tunnel, the train stops. There is a 'techni- cal problem', unspecified, in the Tunnel. A small fire, perhaps? My claustrophobic neighbour looks nervous. At Ashford we stop, it is 7.15 p.m., the time we should be approaching Waterloo. After more delay, the intercom orders all passengers (there is not an empty seat aboard) to leave, plus baggage, and make their way upstairs, to the lounge.

The declared cause is now a 'security check', apparently affecting both ours and the outward-bound train to Brussels on the next platform. Both have to be 'cleaned out'. Is it a bomb? An Animal Rights hoax on behalf of my hunger-striking namesake? Over a thousand passengers surge into a bulging lounge, some visibly agitated by the announcement, but most extremely put out.

After losing about an hour, we clamber back on the train. There is no further enlightenment from the intercom. We amble on towards London. The train halts again, in the middle of the Kentish desert. Another 20 minutes or so, and an announcement in the best Inspector Clouseau Franglais expresses regret that the train is 'disturbed', by a 'technical fault'. By this time, the majority of the pas- sengers are getting pretty disturbed too.

We wait another half-hour or so. Then, a cheering announcement: 'technical help is on its way'. One has a glum vision of a dis- gruntled Pakistani railwayman on his Sun- day evening off, arriving with an oversize screwdriver. People are getting restive. Small children are crying; a pregnant woman nearby looks distinctly uneasy; two products of British laddism are complaining loudly that the bar has closed — for safety reasons, advisedly. A group of Russians in the smoking coach are upset that there is no vodka; when asked to strike up some ethnic songs appropriate to these adverse times, all they can think of is 'Tipperary'.

A young American, evidently with an important date, announces that he's going to jump ship and walk for it. I recall the enterprising American plane robber of 20 years ago, D.B. Cooper, who stole a couple of hundred thousand bucks, then parachut- ed out somewhere over the Rockies. He was never seen again. The stewardess restrains the American; all the doors are sealed. What happens, I wonder, if the pregnant lady up the way begins to fructify — or somebody has a heart attack? And what about if we had been inside the Tun- nel itself? The mind boggles — as they say on these occasions.

The American abandons his break for freedom; anyway the natives might not have been friendly: I reckon that we might be in Ted Heath's constituency. As a mat- ter of fact, an old friend and former close associate of Ted's, Rosemary Wolff, is on board; she set off that morning for Paris for a day with her grandchildren. Eurostar managed to be an hour late going out, so she missed half her lunch; by 11 p.m. she reckons she has spent 13 hours that day on the train.

The heating drops. It is a very cold night. Then the lights suddenly go out. The emergency batteries have run down.

At 10.30 p.m. there are (muted) cheers when Inspector Clouseau announces we shall be moving shortly. Like a mortally wounded cobra, we wriggle into Waterloo at 11.30 p.m. — 224 minutes late. Once again the lights go out. Then, at Waterloo, all hell lets loose. Of course, there are no porters, but also no trolleys. And, behind our train and its 630 passengers are between six and eight other Eurostar expresses, from Brussels as well as Paris, also peak-weekend traffic with similar numbers on board, caught up behind us in the knock-on effect of our broken train.

The queue for taxis stretches right round Waterloo Station, the last Tube trains are similarly besieged. The Italian army pulling out of Benghazi must have been like this. Tempers are fraying, With great kindness, our friends, Rosemary and daughter, give us a lift — otherwise it would have meant another couple of hours at Waterloo.

The next day I enquired of Eurostar what went wrong. It seems like an incredi- ble concatenation of mishaps. There was no 'security' problem at Ashford. The word security referred to procedure for trains entering the Tunnel. By regulation each has to have two functioning locomotives, head and tail. One on the train heading for Brussels became defective, so we on No. 9047 in effect switched trains. (But why did they not make this absolutely plain at the time — instead of resorting to the word `security' with its alarming connotations?) It was thought that we on the former Brussels train could make it to Waterloo on one engine; but then that one broke down too. Two engines on one train in one day! The plot worsens; being Sunday in Britain the alternate line was, of course, under repair; hence the time involved in getting the 'technical help', in the shape of a towing locomotive.

What about compensation? Eurostar offers a free one-way ticket when a train is one hour late. But four hours! 'Then we make a cash payment,' said the company spokesman. And if there are cases of spe- cial inconvenience, illness, etc? 'Then we have to consider special claims.'

I feel truly sorry for Eurostar and its embattled shareholders. The cabin crew on the train, in the face of mounting hostility, were courteous and calm (though they could have been much more forthright in explaining what had gone wrong), and their customer relations representatives were equally courteous, and apologetic.

But try to imagine the cost, in compensa- tion alone, of this little mishap. Up to eight trainloads of passengers involved, with per- haps 600 on each train! The company spokesman agreed that my guess of a mini- mum of three to four thousand claimants might not be excessively out. We are now talking well over six figures.

Would I accept a free ride? I doubt it. Even on a good day, so-called First Class on Eurostar hardly compares to Club on a plane. When I first went on Eurostar, exact- ly two years ago, they were trying to attract passengers. Now they seem no longer to be trying. The food, in 1996, was appealing. Last weekend, both ways, it was frankly repellent, And compensation barely atones for the herring-bone furrow left imprinted on my bum by the unrelenting upholstery.

But I would be the last to find any solace in Eurostar's misfortunes, or mismanage- ment. All it will mean is that, with competi- tion defaulting, British Airways will become even more outrageously expensive and unsolicitous on the Paris haul. Sunday night was a setback all round for cross- Channel travel.

Alistair Horne was in Paris researching his new book, Seven Ages of Paris.