Father of the Man by Stephen Benatar

He too was a man of about his father’s age, similarly blue-eyed, though not as strikingly so, but somewhat taller and heftier. There was a strawberry mark covering the whole of one cheek—faint, however, and by no means seriously disfiguring. Roger held out his plastic folder.
    Waited.
    “Thank you, sir.” The man’s eyes flickered away from the card; after a moment came back to it. Roger’s reaction was unexpected. He felt a measure of relief.
    “Yes…I know.” Even his voice sounded calm. Now that the encounter was actually underway his heart-rate slowed. “My ticket expired on Saturday.”
    The official looked at him an instant while he assessed the situation. “Then it’s no good to you, is it?” His tone wasn’t indignant or threatening. It was merely businesslike.
    In a low voice Roger explained why he thought the man’s statement inaccurate. On the whole, because of the number of times he’d rehearsed what he wanted to say, his argument cohered. This defied the fact that the two blondes were openly attentive. Their heads swivelled impartially. Roger’s nextdoor neighbour kept his eyes lowered. Other passengers within earshot also showed undisguised interest or evidence of tact.
    “I see,” said the conductor, finally. “What happened, then, this morning?”
    “The fellow didn’t notice.” Roger had never been to public school but had the mildly uneasy sensation he was being a sneak—just as this morning, in fact, he’d had a similarly uneasy sensation, albeit one swiftly suppressed, that although he wasn’t behaving dishonestly in not holding a valid ticket he was perhaps behaving dishonourably in not drawing the man’s attention to it. He hoped he wouldn’t get him into trouble.
    “Then you were very lucky. But tonight, I’m afraid, I’ll have to charge you the full single fare.” He flipped open a pad which had an elastic band holding the used portion.
    “I haven’t any money.”
    “In that case a cheque will do.”
    “I haven’t got a chequebook.” He added: “I haven’t any credit cards, either.”
    The conductor gave a sigh. “Very well. I’ll tell you what we’ll do.” The blondes looked at him expectantly. “Tonight I’ll make you out a free ticket for Nottingham. I’ll have to take that defunct card off you but I can’t do any fairer than that, now, can I?”
    “Which means I’ll have to get on the train tomorrow without a card?” He didn’t know why he had turned it into a question.
    “No, I warn you. That would be foolish, sir. Extremely foolish.”
    “What else can I do?”
    “And in fact,” continued the conductor, “I’d strongly advise against it. If I see you on this train tomorrow night travelling without a ticket you won’t find me nearly so lenient.” He finished writing out the free one, tore it off and handed it to Roger. He stood there waiting for the card. There was a moment’s silence.
    Sheepishly, Roger took it from its folder and passed it over.
    “But the thing is…” He tried to retrieve some little dignity. The conductor began to look impatient.
    “Yes?”
    “I don’t want to be difficult or anything. But…Well, I reckon you will see me on this train tomorrow night; there’s no other way I can get home.”
    “In that case, sir, the police will be seeing you as well. Not a very pleasant experience, not one I’d really recommend. Also, it would involve a fair amount of delay. I don’t imagine that would win you a lot of popularity among your fellow commuters.” With which he turned away—quite sharply. “All tickets, please. Everybody have their tickets ready, please.”
    The train was slowing down for its approach to Wellingborough. Roger’s neighbour started putting his things back in his case. “Why don’t you contact Melanie Phillips at the Guardian ?” he said. “If there’s an arrest in the offing it’s possible they’d want to send a reporter along. Might make good copy for them.”
    “Yes. Thanks. I