I think you will find that they are talking about another type of skunk

Nov 27 2007 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

WINTER’S sudden coming is felt in the dark reaches of falling night, when newly soaped skin goosepimples to the creep of the cold and the kind old priest’s voice quavers to a high-chant, behind the dripping trees in the brick church, where men and women rustle in their pockets for the collection coins.

Go on, man; you can make it. “Forever and ever – Amen!”

In the early morning, too, it is dark, and the few people about are bonded by the spirit of experiencing a time of day unknown to their sleeping friends.

“Good morning. Is it cold enough for you?” they ask, one to the other, as the van man drops the daily papers with a thud on the pavement and the milk float whistles and strains on the steep hill.

For the first time this year, I pulled my heavy, blue coat from the cloakroom and noticed that it had developed a slight hunch from hanging on the same peg for so long. But the need for the coat is reassuring in itself, a sign that all is well – the seasons are still changing despite endless talk of global warming.

Women like clothes because they are new, men like them because they are old and have accompanied them on many campaigns. It is an important difference between the sexes.

On this particular morning, as the darkness slowly rose, I walked to the railway station, through clusters of gossiping schoolgirls with ear-studs, make-up and hair dyed to the limits of the teachers’ tolerance. They flirted casually with the gum-chewing boys who swaggered by, all broad-shoulders, acne and cool.

I gathered the right money in my hand and stood at the fare kiosk, as the train shuddered to a halt by the platform. But, in my haste, I forgot to pick up the return tickets. By then a queue had formed at the window. If I went back for the tickets, I would miss the train.

What should I do? For several seconds, I hopped from one foot to the other, torn like a pilgrim caught at the crossroads, with one sign pointing to Heaven and the other to Paradise. The choice between Birkenhead and Liverpool was at that moment equally testing.

Finally, I sprinted for the train, boarding as the automatic doors were about to close. We were squeezed in tightly enough to excite the pity of sardines. I was wedged between two men with shaven heads, the older of whom was telling the younger one that his girlfriend was pregnant “again” and “spewing her guts out” at home. It seemed, though, that home might soon be her mother’s house, as a benefits agency had failed to pay the rent on their own place.

Even in this confined space, passengers recoiled while he decorated each utterance with curses, blasphemies and vulgar words. After some ribald exchanges, he said that he was stopping off in town to meet a skunk dealer. Would his companion like some?

Imagine my surprise! It is so easy to be prejudiced about people and until that moment I had not thought of either man as a likely animal lover, but how wrong can you be?

I even considered interjecting with the helpful suggestion that a single skunk might be sufficient to begin with. After all, when alarmed, the skunk squirts a malodorous liquid. And one could imagine a cloud being cast over the young chap’s domestic arrangements by a row of skunks all squirting together. But an inner force advised me to hold my counsel.

As passengers left the train, a seat became vacant by a sensitively featured woman, reading The Guardian. The father-to-be began advancing towards the seat, stretching in the face of the woman a magnificent picture of the liberal classes flushed with disapproval.

“Is anyone sitting there?” he asked. She stared at the empty space, perhaps hoping that Nelson Mandela would materialise.

“No,” she said finally, retreating into her paper.

At my destination, I explained what had happened to a very courteous ticket inspector, who, after checking at the station of embarkation, let me pass. Once at my desk in the office, I told a worldly colleague about the two men and their skunks.

“I think,” he said, sipping his tea contemplatively, “you will find that they are talking about another type of skunk.”

“By Jove,” I thought, “whatever can he mean?”

That night, I hung the old coat in the cloakroom and smiled to myself, before sinking into a hot bath. Ah, the pleasures of winter. Soon they will be singing carols and roasting chestnuts.

Slowly the steam cleared my head and I thought of skunks and liberals. Every train carries a thousand stories.

LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk