The train driver was at lunch. The next train to depart, according to her blackboard, was 13.00. It was now 12.45. The miniature diesel locomotive and the row of blue carriages were empty in the station. Shut in his house on the far side of the lake, the lion, deeply troubled, was roaring his head off.
My grandson chose a carriage two from the front. He insisted on being the one who turned the little brass knob that opened the low door. The zoo train’s carriages are open carriages with room for two passengers, one facing forward, one back, knees touching. Our ice creams were starting to melt and drip. I found a paper serviette in my pocket and wiped the ice cream from his chin and hands and then I licked his lopsided ice cream back into shape and returned it. Alone on our beloved zoo train, we sat and finished our ice creams in perfect accord.
We’d had a marvellous morning. We’d seen tigers, we’d seen lions, we’d seen a matamata. (The matamata was standing glumly in exactly the same place in its tank of brown opaque water as it was the last time we came.) We’d seen the new orangutan baby that was featured on the local television news. We’d seen a huge mountain gorilla swing over and thump the safety glass so violently and unexpectedly with his forearm that a woman with a pushchair had screamed hysterically and made everyone, even herself, laugh.
Oscar had literally jumped for joy when I’d picked him up earlier that morning. He jumped up and down twice, an arm reaching for the sky. I don’t think anybody has jumped for joy to see me before. A good part of his joy, though, I expect, was inspired by the expectation of a ride on the zoo train. And now that wonderful prospect was nearly a reality. In ten minutes’ time the driver would return from lunch, contort herself into the driver’s cabin, toot the whistle, and our happiness would be complete.
More passengers arrived: a mother and father with two girls. They scrutinised the time chalked on the blackboard and compared it with that shown by their own and each other’s watches. Mother and father (especially father) were remarkably fat, even by the standards of the day. They looked at the row of waiting carriages and at us sat there licking our ice creams.
Father was wearing a Bridgend rugby shirt. He lit a tailor-made cigarette and puffed it furtively. Mother sank down on to a wooden bench. Their two girls swarmed delightedly into the front carriage from where they taunted their father about his great fatness. He will be able to fit his arse on to a carriage seat only with the greatest difficulty, they predicted. Father accepted this with a sheepish look and another furtive puff.
The friendly Welsh, God bless them. But we were in unfriendly England. As much as I would have liked to have offered them a welcoming ‘Afternoon!’ or ‘All aboard!’ I abstained. Unless you are having a manic episode you can’t go to the zoo in England and greet absolutely everyone who catches your eye. So I said nothing. I sat there instead with as much self-containment as it is possible for an adult to have sitting on a toy train licking an ice cream. I did, however, do a friendly eyebrow waggle over my ice cream at the girls to indicate that we in our carriage were in a quietly celebratory mood, and therefore they must feel free to misbehave and insult their father as much as they liked.
Father finished his cigarette and discreetly disposed of the end. Surely he wasn’t really going to attempt to squeeze himself into a carriage seat, was he? He was. He ambled over to the train, stooped to turn the tiny brass knob on one of the carriage doors and climbed in. His girls went wild with hilarity. He aligned his vast bulk above the seat and gingerly lowered himself into place. It was an agonising squeeze, but he made it, in spite of his person being wider physically than the carriage. The girls said he would never be able to get his fat arse out again and that he would have to go round and round on the train all afternoon. Father looked dispiritedly resigned to the fact.
Then — blessed moment! — the train driver returned from her lunch break and collected all the tickets. More passengers filled the carriages. And at one o’clock precisely, she inveigled herself into the driver’s cabin of the locomotive and let go a long shrill blast on the whistle. ‘Here we go!’ shouted Oscar, his disconcerting pellucid blue eyes wide with joy. From across the lake, the lion roared out his disgruntlement.
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