Paul Theroux - The Kingdom by the Sea - A Journey Around the Coast of Great Britain

But these were minor matters. The play was done with gusto, and the audience enjoyed it — they found it funny, they laughed, and they were moved by the romantic parts. It was a comedy about a union. In Britain they needed a comedy about a union. The cast was numerous and, judging from the program notes, they were all amateurs — clerks, shop assistants, accountants, teachers. The interpretation was shaky, but there was a clear understanding of American culture among the players — far greater than any equivalent group would have shown in the United States.

Plays in England were seen to be a suitable outlet for the emotions. The English liked dressing up; they liked the clubby community of amateur dramatics; they enjoyed the pressure and teamwork of play production. For the duration of the play they were released from their lives and their work; they could shout and sing, they could express misery or joy; there was no such thing as a class system. They were free. So it struck me that even The Pajama Game in Teignmouth fulfilled the oldest reason for having a play: it was cathartic, and afterward everyone, players and spectators alike, felt much better.

Back at the guest house Mrs. Starling introduced me to George Windus, who had sidewhiskers and baggy pants and a florid face. I suspected that Mrs. Starling hoped that Mr. Windus would ask the questions she was too timid to risk.

"What brings you to Teignmouth then?" Mr. Windus said. His nose was swollen, the color of the Burgundy he was drinking.

I was in publishing, I said. I had a week off. I was traveling along the coast.

"What do you think?" Mr. Windus said, and pinched his whiskers.

"Folkestone's nice," I said.

"Folkestone!" he roared, and Mrs. Starling blinked.

Now he spoke to Mrs. Starling, whose hands were clasped at her throat. Her mouth was small and uncertain, and her dark eyes watchful. Her hair was rumpled — ringlets in disarray — and very attractive.

Mr. Windus was still shouting. "Twenty-five years ago I was in Folkestone! I wasn't above twenty-seven years old. I was there with my wife, staying on the top floor of a hotel — five flights up. On the day we left, I parked my Land-Rover at the front door to make it easy for us to pack up. We were loading and then out of nowhere came a furious little woman! She said to me, 'Parking that horrible motor out there at the entrance — you're lowering the tone of this hotel! Oh, you're lowering the tone!'"

This made Mrs. Starling twitch.

Mr. Windus turned to me and said, "No, Folkestone is not nice!"

***

It was raining hard the next day — too wet for walking. I was no adventurer — so I bought a one-way ticket on the fast train to Plymouth. Once, this was called the Cornish Riviera Express, on the Great Western Railway; now it was the Inter-City 125 on British Rail. I sat in second class and looked at Devon. Most of the passengers were old people, starting vacations. They talked very loud. I sometimes had the impression that the whole of southern England was full of deaf people talking much too loud.

The rain came down. We went along the north bank of the muddy Teign to Newton Abbot, which looked very ugly in the storm. We set off again at a good clip.

"There's none of that old-time noise," Mr. Purewell said. "No whistles and bells and that. It can play tricks on you! You're saying goodbye to someone, and the train just pulls out and surprises you. There's no warning! But I've got a great appreciation for these One-Two-Fives and" — he paused; we went a mile; he resumed—"I used to be a bit puzzled why they were called that. I asked a few people. And then I was told it was their maximum speed."

We were in the tame and gentle hills of Devon, near Totnes ("It consists mainly of one long congested street with many old houses with interesting interiors…"). Here the rain made the landscape mild, and sheep grazed near flowering hedgerows, and from the railway tracks to the horizon there were ten shades of green.

"I gave up smoking," Mr. Gussage said. "The queer thing was it had never entered my head to do it! But it was budget time, you see. I went into my tobacconist for my usual tin and he said, 'We've been sold out for a fortnight.' Then I thought of giving up. I'd nothing to smoke — they were out of Three Nuns. And I managed. Now if anyone smokes in my house, I open the windows. It don't half make a house dirty — smoke. Sometimes, with people smoking, I can hardly see across the room."

Lloyd Gifford was Mr. Gussage's friend. They were bound for Plymouth and a guest house near the Hoe. They were in their seventies and carrying on a shouted conversation.

Mr. Gifford said, "My father smoked! He loved his pipe, my father. I remember what he smoked. It was called Ogden's. The tin was orange. There was a picture of an Indian on it. On his birthday, or at Christmas, we always gave him a tin of Ogden's. He loved his pipe."

Mr. Gifford, telling the story, had made himself sad. But Mr. Gussage had heard "Christmas" and was off.

"I've finished with all present-giving!" he shouted. "And I don't want to get any. I said to myself, 'I've decided now that I've moved permanently I don't want to get any presents.' I wrote everyone a letter saying, 'Please don't send me any gifts — just send me a suitable card.'"

Mr. Gifford was still damp-eyed with the memory of his father, the pipe, the tins of Ogden's. He said nothing to his companion.

"And do you know?" Mr. Gussage said. "They were relieved!"

Side by side on another seat were Mr. Bleaberry and Mr. Crake. They were also old; they were also shouting.

"First thing I do after we get settled in," Mr. Bleaberry said, "and if it's not raining, we'll go to the station and get timetables. I like to be up to date with my timetables."

This set Mr. Crake thinking. At last he said, "We used to go everywhere, my wife and I." There was a silence. "And that probably added fire to the fuel."

Dartmoor was on the right — the high rounded hill called Ugborough Beacon standing near other sudden bulges. In the meadows on the left side of the track lambs were fleeing from the train.

Raymond Greasely had been talking ever since the train had pulled out of Newton Abbot. Now he was saying, "…and my daughter is the pastoral assistant. There's a pastor, so she's the pastoral assistant. When she gets through with her studies she'll be a reverend. And she's still doing her journalism. How she does it all, I don't know. There's an abbey near her and the combined churches got together. I don't know about the Catholics. I think they stayed out. They always do, don't they? They call it a sin if they join up with anyone else. There was one big service at the abbey, everyone except the Catholics. My daughter's job, as pastoral assistant, was to read the lessons, two lessons. I'll bet she got a thrill out of that…"

A small old hunched-over man named Cox had sat in a rear seat and said nothing. He was looking out the window. What was it about train windows that made people remember? Train windows seemed to mirror the past. Mr. Cox stared and saw his face. After a time, even this very silent man spoke up.

"It's funny," he said, seeming to waken. "I've never shouted before or since, but I said to him, 'Stop picking on me — find someone else to pick on! I won't take any more of this from you!' It just came out. I was mad. He was a bully. Some people are never happier than when they're picking on someone. After that, when he came to check on my fire extinguisher" — what was that? — "he was very nice to me, we always had a chat."

This memory seemed to embarrass the others, but Mr. Cox was happy and even seemed to be savoring it.

"I think it's a detestable thing, picking on someone," he said. "I tried to bottle it up, but it made me bad-tempered. Then I shouted at him. It was the only time in my life. It just came out."