A Different View - July 2011
One of the joys of growing old, and Henry (aged 4) informs me that I am positively ancient and liable to die at any moment, is that people give me their seats on the Underground. An excellent wheeze. The Underground these days is the scene of a great many small acts of kindness, offsetting the other stuff. As people have joined us from more civilised and courteous cultures there has been a marked improvement in behaviour.
But much as I appreciate the offer of a seat, it leaves me with a dilemma. A gesture of friendship has been made - a connection made. So how should one bring that to a discreet and proper conclusion? I doubt whether the young man saw this as the beginning of a lifetime’s friendship - he did not want to confide in me about Aunt Myrtle’s operation for gall stones, or tell me about his first milk tooth. At least, I don’t think so, though maybe...?
But assuming that profound interaction was not his intention, how do I now break off this transitory connection?
I don’t know how much longer he is going to be travelling a few feet away from me, and I can’t sit for the next hour grinning at him like the Cheshire cat. But it seems discourteous to bury myself instantly in my book as if nothing had occurred. I say my thankyous and sit in that extreme of embarrassment that only those of the English persuasion can appreciate.
I avoid eye contact but allow a slight lingering smile to stay on my face. On exiting the carriage, if possible, I repeat my thanks in a cheerful and business like way. So - was that all right? Did I gauge that correctly?
It is such a minefield, this business of connecting without getting involved. And of course involvement is not a possibility. Involvement is the thing most to be avoided. Even if I should see him there, beaten up and bleeding, and take notice - even if some impulse of God’s compassion took me across the road and had me on my knees with oil and wine trying out my first aid skills- even if I put him on my donkey and led him through the subways of King’s Cross to some handy hostelry, don’t expect me to stay the night. Don’t expect me to offer an open-ended commitment. Don’t wait for my return. After all, you’re talking to someone skilled beyond the average at that most authentically English and unchristian art, the art of polite disengagement.
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