The British and Commuting

People say that there’s no sense of community in London, and they’re almost right. On a commuter train in the dank light of a British morning, suits fall asleep over their laptops, women apply make up to tired faces. No one is in the mood for chatting. There’s a kind of stiff upper lip about everything: if there’s a Tube strike, or a casualty on the line, the train carriage doesn’t erupt into angry exclamations. There’s a sort of muted collective sigh, and everyone sinks back into their seats.

The most incendiary the British seem capable of is a series of brisk tut-tuts. Tourists, particularly American tourists, can’t understand it. On a crowded train once, I overheard an American backpacker whisper (somewhat too loudly, to the amusement of the other travellers), “The English are so quiet!” “They’re really… formal,” her friend agreed. I’ve been to America a few times, particularly the West Coast, and I do find the friendliness and the sociability of the Americans refreshing. Yes, sometimes it can be a sort of plastic veneer, a widescreen, high-definition smile. But often it’s genuine.

When queuing for student rush tickets to a Broadway show once, (how is it that even when in another country, I managed to find an opportunity to do what the British do best?), I got talking to some girls who hailed from Arizona. We only talked for about half an hour, but I ended up spending that evening with them, and going round New York together the following day. They were just so easy to get along with. Is this something the British, in a very general sense, lack? An affableness, an instinctive warmth of character?

But early this morning, as the commuter train I was on opened its doors to the thronged platforms of East Croydon, an incensed voice called from the platform, “Move down the train! Let us on! Yes, you mate, move down the f**cking train!” Which prompted a flutter of activity: “Language!” exclaimed various shocked travellers; a mother cried, “Language, please, there are children on board!” The tut-tutting was deafening. And then everyone seemed to unite, intentionally or not, in preventing the offending man from getting on the train. We may not speak to each other, but when our basic British values of manners and politeness are affronted, hackles are raised. That’s community - a common sense of propriety, of what’s right.

As the train moved off again, there was an atmosphere of embarrassed amusement – bemused smiles were on everyone’s faces, and people chatted to each other. Before we all lapsed into silence again. But at least it was there. We may not be as open as our friends across the pond, but we certainly have a sense of community. It just takes a bit more to get it to the surface.

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