The K4 departs twice hourly on its twisting journey to the edge of the countryside. I settle above the wheel arch with a fine view through the spattered windows, immediately behind an orderly with a donor card displayed prominently upon her lanyard. Altogether we are fourteen strong as we canter forth towards Norbiton station, emboldened by our temporary companionship. Across the aisle are an elderly couple I choose to call Fanny and Edmund, their hair ice grey and teased into rippled strands, who sit in strained silence looking ever forwards. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. Their joint occupation of the priority seats bristles, but I do not want people to be very agreeable, as it saves me the trouble of liking them a great deal.
The car wash on the approach to London Road is bleak, and our progress slow as we attempt to filter into heavy traffic close by Lidl. When finally we emerge the relief is palpable for when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. What follows is a veritable celebration of the phonebox, which is most appropriate given that the K4 was itself a red kiosk of great repute. Old London Road in Kingston is renowned for its toppled box sculpture by artist David Mach, and those with seats on the right-hand side get a grandstand view. What's more the Christmas lights in Kingston town centre feature the very same boxes as a key motif, though sadly they're K6s and no such route number now operates in the locality. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it.
Nigh every passenger alights on Eden Street, such is the allure of shopping in a market town. But Fanny and Edmund sit tight, never stirring, for it seems one half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other. A dozen new companions now join us, many of the doddery kind who have no intention of walking any further up the vehicle than they absolutely must. This being a carriage with a single door the transition is prolonged. Last into the appointed space is a pushchair in which sits a chattering child, a small boy who has deduced that asking "Why?" incessantly doth prolong his mother's attention. "He's sweet," says an onlooker. "He's tired," retorts Mama, and within a few stops he will indeed be fast asleep. Every moment has its pleasures and its hopes.
Our driver will be taking the indirect route to Surbiton, looping via the Fair Field and the sorting office rather than the university. The Hogsmill hustles by, not to mention a hairdresser called Barnet and a fishmonger called The Chip Club, thus life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings. The Duke of Buckingham bids us good morrow from his corner plot and after that we are on our own, climbing a gentle hill no other omnibus serves. The gentleman in front shuffles the gingerbread biscuits in his luggage, somewhat longingly, yet selfishness must always be forgiven because there is no hope of a cure. Meanwhile Edmund mutters something under his breath but Fanny studiously ignores him, as if perchance her own thoughts and reflections were habitually her best companions.
How utterly delightful that the mini roundabout outside Surbiton station has been bedecked with a brightly lit Christmas tree. A further changeover of passengers occurs along Victoria Road, our newest accumulation including a spinster clutching a poinsettia and an old maid carrying a Disney Princess bag. She gossips incessantly with her unexpected travelling companion, a lively catch-up which confirms that Julia recently had a mini-stroke, it's very sad, and they didn't have any of those nice custard cakes in Sainsbury's. Meanwhile the biscuit-fiddler texts home, in extra large type, to request that someone puts the heating on. I trust you are forgiving of my observations, dear reader, because a man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others.
At long last our coachman turns off the Leatherhead Road to enter the grounds of the Mansfield Park estate. The gatehouse is a modern building where the village doctor resides, beyond which the carriage drive twists and turns between cottages barely large enough to house a family of six. So narrow is the track that at one point we find ourselves trailing behind two horsewomen out for a hack along Merritt Gardens, a ridiculously incongruous hold-up. Fortunately there is a stubbornness about the driver that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. This whole estate was once the site of RAF Chessington, hence its 17 streets are named after local residents who lost their lives during WW2, as attested by a small plaque on a bend near the spiritualist church. Time will explain.
The K4 inexorably empties out as it weaves contortedly around the last few streets. Technically we've left Mansfield Park by this point and entered Lower Hook, an older settlement, hence the destination on the front of our carriage is uncomfortably incorrect. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. On the final approach to Ripon Gardens I ask the driver if perchance we have reached the final stop and he unceremoniously flings wide the doors two streets prematurely, mistaking my mumbling for a Hail and Ride request. I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine. I have been cast out in proximity to rural fields on the very edge of Surrey, having learned a great deal about human nature as I travelled alone to Mansfield Park. I was quiet, but I was not blind.
