It
was a chilly day in West Drayton, with that kind of drizzle that leaves
you undecided about whether to get out a n umbrella or not. I had
had a depressing visit to a dear friend who is very ill indeed. The
estimated time of arrival for the train I wanted was drifting later
and later and the nearest seat on the station platform was occupied
by two boys, who I guessed were about eleven years old. They were
well dressed and had pleasant little faces, but obviously standing
up to give older people a seat was outside their cultural expectations.
I tried telepathising hostile thoughts, but with no effect.
Then
I noticed that they were engaged in a spitting competition. This was
something only the very naughtiest boys at my primary school did fifty
years ago and I looked on with chilly disapproval. Before long they
ran out of spittle and started ‘hawking’ (snorting mucus
up their noses) and then ‘flobbing’ (spitting it as far
as they could). They were aiming for the yellow line behind which
we are supposed to stand to avoid being sucked off the platform by
the high speed trains.
After
watching a few of these shiny blobs landing on or near the aforementioned
yellow line I could keep a safe silence no longer. The bossy teacher,
the demanding mother and the deranged grandmother was suddenly saying,
“I don’t think that’s a good idea”. Obviously,
having been encouraged by the present day educationists not to keep
respectful silence but to talk back and ask questions, the junior
duo immediately wanted to know why it was not a good idea. They were
unimpressed by the notion that people might skid and fall on their
slimy offerings. They seemed to think that anyone with any sense would
dance nimbly around them.
So,
never being one to keep my mouth shut while the going is good, I suggested
that they might be spreading germs. Cue next questions, “How?”
“What are germs?” Not satisfied by my explanation about
nasal passages and mucus they continued their quest for enlightenment.
Collectively, we stumbled on the notion that they might look up mucus
on the Internet. At least our conversation had slowed down their production,
thereby saving some hapless West Drayton commuters from the risk of
skidding under a train, if and when one called at the station, or
being off work for a few days with a nasty cold as a result of all
those jet-propelled germs.
In
the further interests of public safety I decided to keep the conversation
going a while longer. After all, here were two charming young boys
waiting for a train which could take them direct to Paddington Station,
or connect them via London Underground with the very heart of our
capital city, which is not the most child-friendly or safe place in
the world. I asked where they were going. They said they were going
to see their auntie, who lived in the next town along the line.
They
were surprisingly open and friendly, when I had fully expected to
be told to mind my own business. They asked where I was going, but
did not seem to have heard of my destination, which was a small town
on the Norfolk Coast, nor even of Liverpool Street Station, where
I might or might not get a train. They asked what I was doing in West
Drayton. Their response to my story about a very sick friend was touchingly
sympathetic.
At
last the train arrived and I lost sight of the pair. I decided to
switch to the Underground at Ealing Broadway, to avoid the walking
and climbing up and down stairs which is involved in changing at Paddington.
As I sat waiting for the Central Line train to start up, I heard a
little voice saying, “Can you spare some change? We’re
collecting for ….”
I never found out what my little friends from West Drayton were collecting
for, because as they stepped into the carriage where I sat, we had
meaningful eye contact and they swiftly stepped out again and disappeared
into the crowd on the station. Clearly they had not gone to visit
auntie.
I
had plenty of time ahead of me to ponder on this experience. I had
met two bright and attractive young boys wandering about on their
own. They were polite, but not polite enough to give up a seat to
an older person. They also appeared to be glib liars and engaged themselves
in the high risk activity of begging at a London station.
In
view of the recent tragic death of two bright and attractive young
girls of roughly the same age in the safe Cambridgeshire village of
Soham, I wondered who would allow their children to wander around
in the highly unsafe environment of west London.
Did
their families know where they were going and what they were going
to do? Is it better, or worse, if they did not know, or had been lied
to and thought the boys were safely doing something else? What if
I had not been a kindly grandmother, but part of some hideous ring?
I think it would have been all too easy to entice and entrap these
two.
But
my final sadness is for all of our children, who are not really safe
to go around anywhere without adult supervision these days. Even the
idyllic small town on the Norfolk Coast to which I was returning has
been invaded by dealers in crack cocaine, which puts us all at risk.
Is
it highly unrealistic to wish for a return to a time when children
could go out for a day in school holidays with sandwiches and a bottle
of pop, walk to and from school, or go to visit friends and family
at will? Or are we rightly realistic to chauffeur them, or encourage
crouching in front of TVs and computers as a safe option? But therein
lie at least two other issues – grooming on the Internet and
child obesity.
Has
anybody out there got any views ?
