In an open carriage on the Romney, Hythe and Dymchurch light railway I meet a man who began life around the corner from my place of birth in Eastney. Whilst Worsley Street is still standing, Number One, far from bearing a distinguishing blue plaque to commemorate my entry into the world, has long since been demolished. Very probably, the associated infamy was too much for Portsmouth to carry for this was the abode where, during advanced stages of pregnancy, my mother was subject to the unwanted attentions of a monkey that had escaped from a local hostelry, The Eastney Tavern. The story of my father returning home from his job at Brickwoods’ brewery one evening, only to find a flash mob outside his house who had gathered to watch the acrobatics of said primate on the wire that held the net curtains in place, is well known. The part we keep secret is the bit where the monkey, prior to discovering an audience, had bitten mum. It’s a hidden narrative because those who’ve read Mary Webb’s Precious Bane know only too well what might happen to women with child who engage with a wild animal.

Originally, on boarding the train, I’d sat in a rather comfortable bucket seat. There were two of these, behind which was a little leather covered raised bench for small people: ideal for dripping ice cream down the back of the necks of unaware parents. However, on overhearing a worried conversation in the next carriage, concerning which way the train might leave on departure, I changed tack in order to be facing forwards. Meanwhile, Colin and Joan had been evicted from their covered compartment due to the advance booking of a forward-thinking party. Thus, they found their way into the now backward-facing buckets in my carriage. It didn’t take long to establish Colin’s provenance and our joy in finding each other. We shared stories of old Eastney. Mine were rather limited as I left when I was two years old but no matter: I was only able to fill in the context of dad’s stay at the nearby Royal Marine barracks, but Colin and Joan knew of the service road behind Handley’s department store on Palmerston Road where we subsequently resided in a flat over Brickwoods’ social club.

As we traversed the barren wilderness from the station at Dungeness, which, in its surreal bareness, is only superseded in desolation by the Parkdean caravan camp at Camber Sands, we waved a cheery farewell to the power station and exchanged life stories. On the part of Colin and Joan, this was hastened by the fact that they’d hardly spoken with anyone since the onset of the pandemic. On my part, it was because I am extraordinarily nosey. Immersed in the lives of others, which are always extraordinary in their self-perceived ordinariness, I missed most of the scenery. Nonetheless, I did look out of the unglazed window at St Mary’s Bay at a moment sufficiently opportune to notice that a crowd of folk in the back garden of a seaside bungalow were taking tea al fresco around an exact miniature copy of the railway, except theirs had plastic flamingos.

Sadly, Colin and Joan disembarked at New Romney and I was sorry to lose my new friends. I was even sorrier when two women, who clearly had no desire to engage with a lone wanderer, took their place. I tried but I could tell they had little interest in anything other than themselves. Such is life. Some folk like to talk and others don’t. It gave me time to look at the passing scenery which included a fine vista of a castle on the hill; (Ed Sheeran might consider that as a song title). I asked the woman opposite if she knew what it was. ‘It’s where I live’, she replied. Might’ve been funny from someone else.