I’m going to tell you a story. It’s not a fairytale. Nor is it a fable. But it does come with a moral of sorts. Every once in a while, something happens to remind us that decent people do exist in the world. Like last Thursday – on my way home from getting blood tests, I nipped into the local health food shop and nearly burst with excitement on the discovery that they have started stocking my vegan cheese. Alas, I had gone out without my wallet. Cue kindness to remind me of the very thing I am blogging about, as the manager offered me the chance to do a lay-away purchase. In other words, I take the goods and she trusts me to come back with the money in a day or two. Which of course, I did. All she took was my name and number. I could have given her any fictitious identity and contact information. She didn’t have to trust me and take the responsibility of my bill. But she did.

So that got me thinking, which we all know can be dangerous. What goes through people’s minds when they offer up such generosity of spirit? Why is it that some people have kindness as their default setting? Or rather, why is it that others don’t?

Instinctively hard-wired into some of us, is the impulse to be understanding, empathic, supportive and generous. For so many of us, other people rank higher than ourselves on our own list of priorities. I’m not saying this is always a good thing, but I do struggle with the idea of people whose natural drivers so completely oppose that, and lead them to a place of mean-spiritedness.

This story is about some of those people; the less decent folk who leave a somewhat unpleasant memory after they have exited a real live scene.

The tale begins on a drizzly winter Monday morning in Yorkshire. Having been up two nights straight, plus the days in between, and with the new legislations stating prescription drugs of a certain kind can put a person over the legal driving limit, the sensible option for this particular Monday, was to take the train to work.

With my Crohn’s Disease remaining fairly active, and insomnia asserting its place in my life at the moment, rail travel has become much more frequent, hence my new-found familiarity with the Yorkshire commuter trains. So, I got my taxi into town, asking the kindly driver to drop me off at the platform entrance to Keighley train station so I didn’t have far to walk. Fatigue, another of my condition’s pesky offspring, had hit with a vengeance, and the pain killers weren’t helping much that morning. There is an open access entrance from the taxi drop, straight onto the platform for the Leeds trains, so I took advantage, arriving just as a train was pulling in. I got straight on, found a seat, and waited for a conductor to come down the train so I could buy my ticket.

Crossflatts rolled by without a call for tickets. Then Bingley. Saltaire, Shipley and still no conductor appeared. Oh.

Not to worry. I knew there was a late fare window at Leeds station. I’d go straight there when we arrived. I would be able to buy my ticket retrospectively, as I’d seen so many people do before. Or so I thought.

What actually played out was something far less straight forward, and with a much less happy ending. I went to said window and made my request through the glass for a return from Keighley please. The gentleman seated on the other side smiled, reached for his ticket machine, and tapped a key. No sooner had the first button on his handheld little gadget clicked, than another gentleman had appeared on my side of the window. I was aware of this one standing uncomfortably close to me, leaning down into the hatch and with an air of the Child Catcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. (Although I am willing to admit that likeness may have only emerged in my memory since the event.) He cleared his throat. I side-stepped, wanting to maintain something of my own personal space so early on a Monday. The kindly gentleman with the gadget in his hand paused. Did I mention that he had already begun serving me when we were interrupted by the Other Mr!?

Other Mr: Where’s she come from?

Nice Man: Keighley. That’s right, isn’t it love?

Me: Yes. I tried to get my ticket on the train but there was….

Other Mr: I’ll take it from here. Step this way.

Me: But I haven’t bought my ticket yet.

Other Mr: Yes. Step this way now please. 

I hate it when people add a please to something that’s otherwise totally lacking in manners or politeness. It’s as if the addition of the word sweetens the blow when the order comes. It doesn’t. The nice gentleman shrugged at me from his side of the window. I suddenly had a feeling something unpleasant was going to happen. I was right.

The Other Mr spoke into his walkie-talkie, asking for backup by the late fares desk. In a flash, a second Other was by his side. I’m 4 foot 9 and a half! How could an adult male feel like he needed backup to deal with me? Particularly when I hadn’t even opened my mouth yet!? I am going to condense what came next into a tiny nutshell, without the he saids and I saids, otherwise we will be here forever. There was a very lengthy argument with raised voices (theirs, then mine, then mine some more), tears (just mine) and ultimately an accusation that I was a criminal and a liar. Yes. Apparently I was a criminal for not having had the opportunity to buy my ticket, despite the fact that there is unrestricted access to the trains that way at Keighley, and no posters at that station saying it is illegal to purchase tickets on trains. Well this really incensed me because I had been standing in the queue with my wallet in my hand when Other Mr had so cruelly snatched me away. I was attempting to do the honest thing and he wouldn’t let me.

But the best bit was the bit where they decided I couldn’t possibly have a chronic illness because I was standing in front of them. Well, you ask anyone who lives with one of the many invisible disabilities what their red-flag-to-a-bull button is. I guarantee that 98% of them will reply that they can’t bear it when someone tells them they look fine! Or uses their outward appearance to make a judgement of their health. Given how ill I was feeling, standing, humiliated before them; and given the fact that I so rarely even mention my illness, let alone use it to excuse any errors in conduct, I was absolutely furious at the notion that I would be making it up.

So, to cut an epic tale of paperwork, several weeks, phonecalls and prosecution notices short as promised, I was fined £86. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but that seems rather steep for a crime I hadn’t committed. If I’d tried to push through the barrier without a ticket and had been caught, then by all means, fine me. But when I went directly to pay my fare…I could honestly growl about this matter all day long.

Needless to say, I wrote a letter. Quoted the DDA (disability discrimination act) and said that I thought some situations needed to be handled at a ticket seller’s discretion, with kindness and compassion applied as appropriate. I posted the letter with a slightly heavy heart, already assuming I knew the outcome.

However, I was pleasantly surprised to receive a response around ten days later, penned by someone whose kindness drivers were clearly in perfect working order. The lovely gentleman informed me that he had of course seen fit to refund me in full on this occasion, and he agreed that the entire situation was handled with a distinct lack of sensitivity, empathy or understanding of the extenuating circumstances impacting on [my] journey. 

So you see, kindness can sometimes be found in the least likely places. It’s true that we sometimes have to encounter the antithesis of kindness to prompt us to go hunting for what lies beneath. But if we are willing to look, I am confident that 8 times out of 10, we will find the generosity of spirit we project onto the world reflected back at us. Try it – spread some kindness today and see how many small acts bounce back in your direction. Remember what the Dalai Lama said – it is always possible to be kind.