Platform Seven

by Louise Doughty

  *

  That night, back at my flat, Matthew held the back of my neck, pressing my face down into the white cotton sheet that was stretched taut over the mattress. I had to twist my head sideways to breathe. In the middle of it, he lowered his head over the back of mine and started making barking noises and I said, ‘Matthew, that’s not funny.’ It seemed to be taking a long time. He couldn’t be drunk, surely, he’d driven us home. I still felt nauseous – that rosé didn’t agree with me, I thought, or maybe it was all that fried stuff. I always eat too much when I’m drunk. I was tired and it was a Thursday and I had a full day’s teaching the next day. Matthew fell silent, his breathing harsh and effortful. I wanted to ask him to stop, but his rhythm was hard and I kept thinking he was about to finish and it seemed silly to stop him if he was nearly there. After what felt like a long while, he flopped down against me and lay still – it felt as though he had given up rather than come. I stayed motionless. He rolled off me and lay on his back, half on the sheet, half on top of the duvet.

  I lay still for a while, listening for clues. After a moment, he began to snore. I slipped off the bed, gingerly, and tiptoed to the bathroom, where I closed the door silently behind me. I was still wearing the dress I had worn that evening – Matthew had pulled off my tights and knickers when we got in. After I had been to the loo – leaving the flush in case it disturbed him – I went to the sink and splashed my face with water. I emptied the toothbrushes out of the holder and rinsed it a couple of times, filled it with cold water and then drank from it in one long gulp, thinking of my 7 a.m. alarm, knowing I would need more water, and tea, and toast, before I left the house. Matty didn’t have to be up in the morning, he was on a late turn. It felt a bit unfair that he was the one getting a lie-in after my birthday booze-up but he’d be making up for it later so I could hardly object.

  After I had drunk two tumblerfuls of water, I replaced the toothbrushes and only then did I look in the mirror above the sink. My hair was mussed, the long layers everywhere and loops of it sticking up on top – a look my mother would have described as dragged through a hedge backwards. Mascara was smeared in black-eye rims beneath both eyes, a diagonal streak of it on one cheek – I had worn far too much eye make-up that night, I thought, something else I don’t normally do. In the unflattering bathroom light, a small fluorescent strip above the mirror, my eyes looked bloodshot. None of this augured well for how I was going to feel in the morning. I stared at myself with a mixture of exhaustion and self-disgust and wondered why I hadn’t been able to feel happier on my birthday. What was wrong with me? In the eyes of that tall woman in the loo at the wine bar, I had everything, I saw it in her gaze. Why couldn’t I appreciate my own good fortune?

  When I thought back over the evening, the picture that stuck in my head was not everyone clapping and smiling at me. It was not Matty singing with open arms or Rosaria laughing at me because I didn’t get the candles. The picture that stuck in my head was of Jasmine, her smooth brown shoulders, the way Matty bent his head to hear what she was saying as she pushed a strand of hair back from her face.

  It was 1.47 a.m., technically not my birthday any more. Maybe that was it. Maybe I had actually had a really good evening but it just didn’t feel that way now it was already the day after. I thought of Elena rising from the sofa – what was it about her that seemed so knowing, so self-contained? I thought about the woman with the large nose and dyed black hair, her reflection staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears. I wondered what she would think of me and my lucky, lucky life if she could see me now.

  As I left the bathroom, I closed the door behind me very gently, padded to the bed and lifted the edge of the duvet. I pulled my dress over my head, unhooked my bra and picked up a dirty T-shirt fortuitously lying nearby. I got into bed carefully but couldn’t pull enough of the duvet back over me as Matthew was sleeping half on top of it. I thought I was so drunk I would sleep immediately but instead I stayed awake for a long time, listening to his snores, lying on my side turned away from him with one arm tucked beneath my head, watching the numbers change on the electronic clock on my side of the bed and trying to interpret my own unease.

  *

  In the morning I hit the alarm straight away and pushed myself up, leaving Matty in bed. I pulled the wardrobe door open very quietly and extracted a dress, eased open the top drawer of the chest of drawers for underwear and tights. Next to the chest of drawers was a bag with my presents and cards from the previous night. I would have to sort through them later, put the cards out. I felt sick and exhausted, but at least I was up in time for tea and toast. Before I left for work, I took Matty a cup of tea and put it gently down on his side of the bed. He stirred as I did, opened his eyes briefly, frowned and rolled over. I bent and kissed the top of his head, whispered, ‘See you later.’ I left quietly.

  *

  I got through the working day with some difficulty but fortunately Adrian was hungover as well and we shared rolled eyes in the staff room. There were quite a few people from work I hadn’t invited – it would have got unwieldy otherwise – so we didn’t commiserate out loud but I enjoyed our sense of conspiracy. I couldn’t wait to get home after school.

  I expected Matthew to be gone when I got back but instead he was sitting at our small kitchen table with the Peterborough Telegraph spread before him.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ I said as I came in. ‘I thought you were on lates.’

  ‘Hello,’ he said, but did not look up.

  He carried on turning the pages of the paper while I took my coat and shoes off, filled the kettle. I glanced at him from time to time, trying to interpret his silence. When the tea was made, I brought both mugs over and sat down at the table.

  ‘Hey,’ I said gently, ducking my head a little to see his face.

  He closed the paper, leaned back in his seat with a sigh, took a sip from his mug. All the time I watched.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked eventually, with the nagging feeling that it would have been nice if he had been asking me that question as I was the one who had been at work all day.

  ‘Nice of you to ask,’ he said.

  All at once, I had had enough. I rose from my seat in a swift movement and as I did, so did he, quite suddenly, and then he was there in front of me, body to body, even though I had instinctively moved back against the counter. ‘Don’t you think,’ he hissed, his face very close to mine, ‘don’t you think you could make the effort to thank me? Is that too much to ask?’ I had no idea what he was talking about. ‘You and your pissed-up mates,’ he said, ‘all that smirking and giggling you do like fucking immature schoolgirls.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I …’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, you’re fucking sorry now.’ He lifted a finger and jabbed it into my chest, into the hard bone. ‘You’re always fucking sorry.’

  He turned away, then suddenly lifted both hands and grabbed at the hair at his temples, letting out an ‘aargh’ sound of frustration.

  I was baffled. ‘Matthew …’ I said, and reached out a hand, placing it on his upper arm, on the curve of his bicep, and moving towards him.

  He shook me off, hard enough to unbalance me and tip me back against the counter top, then he went into the bedroom and slammed the door behind him.

  I followed him into the bedroom. He was sitting on the side of the bed with his head in his hands. I knelt before him. I reached out a hand to touch his hair but didn’t dare.

  ‘Darling …’ I said. I had only just started using the term. It still felt daring in my mouth. ‘Darling, I’m sorry but I don’t get it. You’re going to have to explain.’

  He sighed, sat up a bit, looked at me and said, ‘So you didn’t like it then. Don’t you think you could just have been honest about that?’

  ‘Didn’t like what?’

  He raised both hands and let them flop down. ‘Fuck, she actually has to ask.’

  Finally, it dawned on me. Just before we had gone out to The New
Place to meet the others, Matty had given me my birthday present – a silver necklace, a pendant on a chain. The pendant was wrought silver in a twisted shape, with a red stone trapped in the cage of metal. It wasn’t really my kind of thing but I was touched that he had made the effort – it would look okay with a black jumper, I had thought, or maybe a white vest in the summer. But I was already wearing a string of beads that picked up a colour in my dress. I had said, ‘It’s lovely,’ kissed him and put it back in its box.

  ‘Oh Matty,’ I said, touched by how hurt he was, ‘of course I like the necklace, I love it. The only reason I didn’t put it on there and then was because it didn’t match, I would have had to change my dress, that’s all, I love it. I’ll wear it all the time.’

  I thought it was really quite cute, his need for reassurance. I went to put my arms around him but he pushed me away. ‘You don’t wear my necklace, we get there and you spend all evening on the sofa with your mates and hardly give me the time of day, I’m completely on my own and you’re getting drunk and having a great time. I stay sober so I can drive you home and you don’t even say thank you.’

  I thought about that one a bit. He had me there. I had been very drunk on the drive home. If you’d asked me, I couldn’t have even said which route he took or who had unlocked our front door. It was perfectly possible I hadn’t thanked him for the lift.

  ‘Well, sorry …’ I said, but couldn’t resist adding, ‘but you were hardly alone all night, looked like you and Jasmine were getting on like a house on fire.’

  His face hardened. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  I sat back on my heels, then rose to my feet and turned.

  ‘No, seriously,’ he said, catching hold of my wrist to stop me from walking away. ‘What are you implying?’

  *

  Later that evening, when I was cooking, I had a text from Rosaria. Hey how’s the hangover? I feel shit today! Party boy, all over you like a rash. Do I hear wedding bells??? Hahaha only joking lol. Srsly hope your head isn’t bad as mine. Rxx

  About ten minutes after that, I had another text, from Mum. Happy day after your birthday darling. Dad and I are really looking forward to seeing you both at the weekend. Matthew said it’s all in hand but let me know if you want me to do anything, my beautiful thirty-six-year-old daughter! Love you lots, Mum xxx

  Matthew and I ate in silence. My phone was on the kitchen table, in between us, and when it buzzed again, I hesitated before I picked it up, even though he had sent two texts while we were eating.

  Gillian. Thanks so much for the party looked for you at break but couldn’t find you. I hope you got all those cards and presents and flowers home okay the car must have been full! Your boyfriend has the most amazing voice! Had a good chat with him about my ovary issue and he was so kind and helpful so say thank you to him and I hope I get to see him again soon. Thanks again, love Gillian x I put my phone down again, carefully.

  Matty finished eating and put his cutlery neatly together on his plate. I had got no further than halfway through mine.

  He reached out and covered my hand with his. ‘Hey …’ he said gently.

  I began to cry. Hot fat tears slid down my cheeks.

  ‘Hey,’ he said again. ‘You’ve hardly eaten a thing … come on … that’s not going to help the hangover, is it?’

  He picked up the fork from my plate and lifted a piece of pastry crust to my mouth. At first I shook my head, but he nudged it against my lips and to please him I opened my mouth. He pushed the fork between my teeth, then tilted it. I carried on crying while I ate, the piece of pastry becoming glutinous in my mouth. ‘Hey,’ he said, reaching out and stroking my hair. ‘It’s okay, you were drunk, that’s all. If the old girl can’t get drunk on her birthday then when can she? Everyone behaves badly when they’re drunk. It doesn’t matter, okay? It’s no big deal.’

  He lifted the fork again. I shook my head, again. Again, he insisted. ‘Honestly, Lisa,’ he said as he fed me. ‘You don’t half get melodramatic sometimes … it was just a drunk night out, it really isn’t that big a deal …’

  I cried a bit more and he gave up feeding me. He rose from his seat, came and stood by me, bent and kissed the top of my head. ‘Go and sit on the sofa,’ he said. ‘I’ll clear up.’

  I nodded, tears still running down my face. He helped me to the sofa as if I were an invalid, lifted my feet up onto it. I put my hand over my face. ‘I’m just so tired …’ I sobbed.

  He returned to the kitchen and brought me a glass of water. ‘Drink this. All of it.’

  He went straight through to the bathroom and I heard the water begin to run. Then I heard him in the bedroom, moving around, then he came back out, went to the kitchenette and opened a drawer, returned to the bathroom.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked, sitting up a little. I had stopped crying.

  ‘Running you a bath,’ he said as he went back in. He was in there for a while, then I heard the sound of him turning off the taps, the heavy squeak they made. That bath never took long to fill. It was a small bath.

  He came back out, went back into the kitchen and started clearing the table. ‘Go on,’ he said softly, ‘I’ll wash up, you go and have your bath.’

  In the bathroom, the light and the extractor fan were both off and the small room was full of steam, lit by the glow of over a dozen candles, the old ones and the new ones I had been given last night, which he had taken out of their boxes. Some were scented, some not, some short and fat and others with tall thin flames. The old ones made tiny crackling noises as the puddles of melted wax around the wicks widened and consumed the dust that rimmed their surfaces. He had added a bath bomb and it had already dissolved – the water was milky and pink petals, still clenched tight, were floating on the surface. The room was in soft focus; the mirror misted. In the condensation, he had used a finger to draw a heart.

  16

  ‘I’ll be at the hospital later,’ I said brightly to Matty, one morning.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  It was the February half term. Everybody thought that the best thing about being a teacher was the long summer holidays but it wasn’t – they were great, of course, apart from the fact that I couldn’t afford to get a flight anywhere because it was peak travel time thanks to all those bastards with children – really, though, it wasn’t summer or Christmas or Easter: the great luxury was the half-term breaks, that one week of grace in the middle of a busy term. It wasn’t time off, of course: there was in-service training, shedloads of marking or preparation, all the administrative things that needed to be done – but for five whole working days, I would wake up and remember that I didn’t have to prepare myself psychologically to face the classroom.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t like my job – I loved it, and thought of myself as quite good at something pretty difficult – but there was that feeling each morning as I rose and dressed, as if I was donning armour. Certain clothing was out of the question, anything too short, anything that showed even a hint of cleavage, unless you wanted to face death-by-mockery. Even the most ordinary of items: ‘Oh my God, did you see her earrings!’ I once heard a group of Year Ten girls scream as they came out of one of the biology labs. In the staff room, I checked out Mrs Carraway’s earrings – pewter circles the size of pennies clipped to her earlobes. They looked innocuous enough to me, rather good with her pixie haircut, in fact.

  I used to think it would get worse as I aged – with each passing academic year I got older and my classes stayed the same age, after all – but the girls were gentler with the older teachers, particularly the ones nearing retirement. Women of that age were like their nans, a kind of human being so far ahead in the distance they could never imagine becoming like them. They were much more judgemental about the twenty- or thirty-something teachers – we were too close in the future for their comfort. We were walking premonitions, what they would become.

  And so, each morning, there was this sense: that I was getting ready to be found ridi
culous. Not just my clothes or hair or jewellery but the way I talked, my gait – any physical tics or habits. No teacher is ever confident in themselves because they spend six hours every day being stared at by the toughest judges on the planet. And however much you love your job, as you dress each morning, walk to work, approach the school gates, there is always a sense of clenching, of readying yourself for combat.

  And so, half term – no early alarm, a morning in pyjamas – however much marking or paperwork there is to do, a whole week of being unobserved. It’s bliss.

  *

  Like most teachers, I also had to use half term to do all the things that other people get to do during working hours – visits to the dentist, mornings off to shop midweek when the shops are not too busy. And this half term, I had my annual check-up with my neurologist.

  ‘Appointment with Dr Barnard,’ I said to Matty. ‘I meant to say, I thought we could have lunch but then I thought you probably won’t have time.’

  I liked Dr Barnard very much, a thin, professorish type who took me seriously even though I only saw her once a year since I’d stopped taking the sodium valproate. I’d been medication-free for nearly a decade but as I was ‘of childbearing age’ – a term they had been using since I was fifteen – I still had check-ups. She never made me feel that because I had grown out of epilepsy I should have also grown out of my anxiety about it. I’d never had a seizure at work and although my colleagues were aware I had a medical history, I didn’t need any special allowances. I’d never had to use the red card system they have for some teachers – but Dr Barnard understood it was a possibility that I felt required vigilance.