It is common, and considered entirely normal, for English commuters to make their morning and evening train journeys with the same group of people for many years without ever exchanging a word. The more you think about this, the more utterly incredible it seems, yet everyone I spoke to confirmed the story.
'After a while,' one commuter told me, 'if you see the same person every morning on the platform, and maybe quite often sit opposite them on the train, you might start to just nod to each other when you arrive, but that's about as far as it goes.' 'How long is "a while"?' I asked. 'Oh, maybe a year or so - it depends; some people are more outgoing than others, you know?' 'Right,' I said (wondering what definition of "outgoing" she could possibly have in mind). 'So, a particularly "outgoing" person might start to greet you with a nod after seeing you every morning for say, what, a couple of months?' 'Mmm, well, maybe,' my informant sounded doubtful, 'but actually that would be a bit, um, forward - a bit pushy; that would make me a bit uncomfortable.'
This informant - a young woman working as a secretary for a PR agency in London - was not an especially shy or retiring person. In fact, I would have described her as quite the opposite: friendly, lively and gregarious. I am quoting her here because her responses are typical - almost all of the commuters I interviewed said that even a brief nod constituted a fairly drastic escalation of intimacy, and most were highly cautious about progressing to this stage, because, as another typical commuter explained, 'Once you start greeting people like that - nodding, I mean - unless you're very careful, you might end up starting to say "good morning" or something, and then you could end up actually having to talk to them.' I recorded other commuters using expressions such as 'tip of the iceberg' and 'slippery slope' to explain their avoidance of premature nodding, or even making eye contact with other commuters (eye contact in public places in England is never more than a fraction of a second: if you do accidentally meet a stranger's eye, you must look away immediately - to maintain eye contact for even a full second may be interpreted as either flirtation or aggression).
But what would be so awful, I asked each of my informants, about a brief friendly chat with a fellow commuter? This was clearly regarded as an exceptionally stupid question. Obviously, the problem with actually speaking to a fellow commuter was that if you did it once, you might be expected to do it again - and again, and again: having acknowledged the person's existence, you could not go back to pretending that they did not exist, and you could end up having to exchange polite words with them every day. You would almost certainly have nothing in common, so these conversations would be highly awkward and embarrassing. Or else you would have to find ways of avoiding the person - standing at the other end of the platform, for example, or hiding behind the coffee kiosk, and deliberately choosing a different compartment on the train, which would be rude and equally embarrassing. The whole thing would become a nightmare; it didn't bear thinking about.
I laughed at all this at first, of course, but after a little soul-searching realised that I have often practised much the same kind of contact-avoidance myself, and actually with rather less justification. How can I laugh at the fears and elaborate avoidance strategies of English commuters, when I employ much the same tactics to save myself from a mere half-hour or so of uncomfortable interaction on a one-off journey? They could be 'stuck with' someone every day for years. They're right: it doesn't bear thinking about. Best not even to nod for at least a year, definitely.
The one exception to my utterly typical English behaviour on public transport is when I am in 'fieldwork mode' - that is, when I have burning questions to ask or hypotheses to test, and I am actively looking for 'subjects' to interview or upon whom to conduct experiments. Other forms of fieldwork, such as simple observation, are entirely compatible with squeamishly English contact-avoidance - in fact, the researcher's notebook serves as a useful barrier-signal. But to interview people or conduct field-experiments, I have to take a deep breath and try to overcome my fears and inhibitions. When interviewing the English on public transport, I have to overcome their inhibitions as well. In a sense, all my field-interviews with commuters and other bus, train and tube passengers were also experiments in rule-breaking, as by speaking to them at all I was automatically in breach of the denial rule. Whenever possible, therefore, I tried to minimize the distress (for both of us) by taking advantage of one of the exceptions to the denial rule.
Exceptions to the Denial Rule
There are three situations in which one is allowed to break the denial rule, acknowledge the existence of other passengers, and actually speak directly to them.
The Politeness Exception
The first situation is one I call the 'politeness exception': when not speaking would constitute a greater rudeness than the invasion of privacy by speaking - such as when one accidentally bumps into people and must apologize, or when one must say 'excuse me' to get past them, or ask if the seat next to them is free, or if they mind having the window open. It is important to note, however, that these politenesses are not regarded as ice-breakers or legitimate preludes to any further conversation: having made your necessary apology or request, you must immediately revert to the denial state, both parties pretending that the other does not exist. The politeness exception is therefore not of much use for research purposes, except as a means of gauging the degree of distress or irritation likely to be caused by any attempt at further interaction: if the response to my polite apology or request was grudgingly monosyllabic, or a mere non-verbal signal such as a curt nod, I would be less inclined to regard the person as a potential informant.
The Information Exception
Somewhat more helpful was the 'information exception', whereby one may break the denial rule to ask for vital information, such as 'Is this the right train for Paddington?' or 'Does this one stop at Reading?' or 'Do you know if this is the right platform for Clapham Junction?' The responses to such questions are often mildly humorous: I've lost count of the number of times my panicky 'Is this the right train for Paddington?' has prompted replies such as 'Well, I certainly hope so!' or 'If it's not, I'm in trouble!' When I ask: 'Is this the fast train to London?' (meaning the direct train, as opposed to the 'stopping' train that calls at lots of small stations), some Eeyorish wit is sure to respond with 'Well, depends what you mean by "fast"...' Although technically the same principle applies as with the politeness exception, in that one is supposed to revert to the denial state once the necessary information has been imparted, the more humorous responses can sometimes indicate a greater willingness to exchange at least a few more words - particularly if one can subtly engineer the conversation towards the 'moan exception' category.
The Moan Exception
The 'moan exception' to the denial rule normally only occurs when something goes wrong - such as an announcement over the loudspeakers that the train or plane will be delayed or cancelled, or the train or tube stopping in the middle of nowhere or in a tunnel for no apparent reason, or an inordinately long wait for the bus to change drivers, or some other unforeseen problem or disruption.
On these occasions, English passengers appear suddenly to become aware of each other's existence. Our reactions are always the same and minutely predictable, almost as though they had been choreographed. A loudspeaker platform announcement of a delayed train, or an abrupt jerking stop in the middle of the countryside, prompts an immediate outbreak of sociable body language: people make eye contact; sigh noisily; exchange long-suffering smiles, shrugs, raised eyebrows and eye-rolling grimaces - invariably followed or accompanied by snide or weary comments on the dire state of the railway system. Someone will always say 'Huh, typical!', another will say 'Oh, now what?' or 'For Christ's sake, what is it this time?' or the more succinct ''kinell!'