One Saturday, many years ago, Ruth and I were travelling to London by train. We were sitting, waiting for the train to depart, when a couple and their young daughter got on. The man found a seat, but the woman stood by the open door, finishing her cigarette. The young girl, who must have been maybe five or six years old, began to speak
“Mum,” she said, “Mum. You’re not allowed to smoke on the train.”
Mum ignored Daughter and carried on smoking.
Daughter tried again. “Mum, you’re not allowed to smoke on the train. You’ll get told off.”
“I don’t care,” said Mum.
That got to me. I could make allowances for Mum, finishing off her cigarette by the open door before the train departed, but “I don’t care”? Those three little words infuriated me. She didn’t care. She didn’t care what her daughter was saying. She probably didn’t care about anyone else but herself. I was seething.
Inwardly.
I didn’t say anything. Of course I didn’t. I’m British.
Daughter kept going, bless her little cotton socks. “Mum! Mum!”
I didn’t say anything. At least, not out loud.
But in my mind’s eye, I was very vocal. I pictured myself saying something scathing to Mum. Something like, “Excuse me, why don’t you listen to your daughter? She obviously has more brains than you do.”
These days, I believe they call that a ‘sick burn’.
In my mind’s eye, Mum was embarrassed by my biting remark, and slunk away in humiliation. I was bathed in a smug glow. I sure showed her! She won’t smoke by an open door again in a hurry!
In my mind’s eye.
But in my mind’s eye, I saw someone else. Sitting on a chair opposite me. A man. Early thirties. He looked like a manual worker, a carpenter or something, from somewhere in the Middle East. Maybe a place called Galilee.
He looked troubled. He was rubbing his wrists and hands.
“Are you OK?” I asked – in my mind’s eye.
“I’m OK,” he replied. “It’s just these old wounds I have. They give me trouble sometimes.”
As I sat back, and the journey began, I knew right away what was causing his injuries to flare up.
And it wasn’t Mum.