DON'T LET THE TRAIN . . .

Joanna Coles reports on a case of first-class unpleasantness by British Rail

THE APOLOGY was delivered in the usual British Rail monotone. 'Due to the late arrival of a connecting service from Glasgow this train will be 20 minutes late.' I didn't really mind. I like long train journeys and I was sitting comfortably in first class, having taken advantage of BR's £3 Weekend First Supplement. Edinburgh Waverley to London King's Cross is usual- ly efficient (four and a half hours) and, late to bed the previous evening, I was asleep within ten minutes of leaving the station.

Some 20 minutes later I was woken by a commotion at the other end of the car- riage. Various annoyed passengers were being forced by the conductor to move seats, in fact to move coaches. From what I could gather there had been some confu- sion in the seat bookings and the conductor was evidently in a strop.

Still, having taken the precaution of booking a seat at Waverley, and confident that I was actually sitting in it, I was not unduly perturbed. Until, that is, the con- ductor arrived at my side, demanded my ticket, and ordered me to move back a carriage. 'I'll have to ask you to move,' he said, 'because I like to keep one coach exclusively for full paying first-class pas- sengers. We can't expect them to pay full first-class fare and then have budget first- class passengers alongside.'

Somewhat taken aback by this reason- ing, I pointed out that my seat had been issued by BR that morning and that having also paid to reserve it I was not prepared to move. The conductor, a Mr Baptie, ack- nowledged that he knew it was BR's error but nevertheless I would have to pay for the mistake. I could stay in the seat, he proclaimed, but I would have to give him my home address so that BR could forward a bill for the full first-class fare (£162.00).

At first I had thought he was joking, but his face was beginning to fill with red anger. So I explained politely that on no account would I give him my home address but I gave him my business card. It was a work trip, the Guardian had paid for the ticket and I was quite sure it would refuse to make up the difference. At this point he became almost incoherent with rage. 'It's in the Senior Ticket Inspectors' Hand- book,' he shouted. 'What is?' I asked. 'The rules, the rules,' he roared, snatching my ticket and throwing down a piece of paper declaring my ticket had been withdrawn. My work address was no use and if I wouldn't give him my home one then he would call the police.

At this point the cellist, Steven Isserlis, who was sitting opposite and who had been giving a BBC broadcast from the Edin- burgh Festival that morning, offered me his cello's seat, for which he had a full first-class ticket (ironically issued in com- pensation for a previous BR mix-up). Mr Baptie became apoplectic. Such an ex- change was quite illegal. He was calling the police who would deal with me at Newcas- tle. 'Fine,' I said, not really believing him and certainly not believing that any const- able would take him seriously. I began to doze off as the man across the aisle, who had also reserved his seat that morning, was giving his home address, a false one verified by an out-of-date driving licence, he later told me.

I awoke 90 minutes later as we were pulling into Newcastle station and there, sure enough, waiting on the platform, were two uniformed members of the British Transport Police. One minute later Mr Baptie bounded down the coach with one of them in tow. 'Here we are, sir, I told you I'd bring the police,' he cried in glee. Mr Isserlis pointed out that I was actually female and would thus be more approp- riately addressed as 'miss' or 'madam'. 'I mean madam. This is her, officer.'

I opened my mouth and was just about to explain when the six-foot officer told me in no uncertain terms to hand over my address. Again, I tried to explain but after letting me finish my second sentence he told me it is `an offence not to give a British Rail employee your address'.

By now I was becoming rather upset. I felt I had been intimidated and told the officer I was sure no policeman would advise any single woman to give her home address in such circumstances.

This time it was his turn to get cross. If I wanted to make a complaint against a BR employee I would have to deal with BR. `Your work address won't do. And if you give a false one we'll trace you through work and prosecute you.'

Fellow travellers started to remonstrate on my behalf. Mr Isserlis offered me his cello's seat again. a you do that you'll both be breaking the law,' warned PC 2068. 'It's an offence to transfer tickets.' Then he added, apropos of nothing, `Actually, it's an offence for a husband to buy a ticket and give it to his wife.' The man across the aisle snorted with laughter, Mr Baptie and the officer bridled and I had to pinch myself to make sure I was actually on a train rather than still stuck in some piece of fringe performance art.

PC 2068 broke first. `Right,' he snapped. `I must ask you to accompany me off the train. If you don't give your address now you will be charged with obstructing the police with their enquiries.'

I gave in. By now the train was around 50 minutes late, I didn't want to hold it up further and I did want to get home. `How can you tell if I'm giving you a real address?' I enquired. Again, threats of prosecution. `Why aren't you trying to catch rapists instead of hassling innocent passengers?' someone murmured. No re-

sponse. Instead the constable pushed a

coffee-stained BR napkin across the table. `Surely I need to write it on something more official than that?' I queried, sudden-

ly feeling contrite. But the napkin was about as official as Mr Baptie got. He

pocketed it with relish. `I shall complain,' I said, feeling humiliated that I had given in so easily. 'You do that,' sneered PC 2068. `Why don't you write to your MP?'

We pulled out of Newcastle several minutes later. Fighting the urge to burst into tears I went to buy a sandwich, which proved a fruitless exercise as the buffet car had run out of them, with two and a half hours worth of journey still to go. It was either chicken Madras or honey and almond flapjack. I settled for a cup of tea. `I've run out of cutlery,' moaned the steward. 'I've been told to improvise.'

I didn't see Mr Baptie again. At Peter- borough, running two hours and ten mi- nutes late, we picked up several hundred passengers from the previous Edinburgh train which had broken down. Had he bothered to come into our carriage Mr Baptie would have found them sitting on the floor — the compartment was so crowded — hardly first-class behaviour.

Swapping tales of Japanese passengers who once lynched a driver after a Tokyo train was seven minutes behind schedule, we eventually limped into King's Cross, pre- cisely 50 minutes late.

Joanna Coles writes for the Guardian