Something to Live For

by Richard Roper

  “What are you . . . please don’t—”

  “I’ve said my piece, Andrew. I’m not going to change my mind. Besides, I’ve got my own mess I need to sort out.”

  Andrew just about managed to stop himself from begging her to stay.

  “Sure,” he said. “Of course. I understand. And sorry, I didn’t mean to drag you away. And I’m sorry for lying to you. I wanted to tell you the truth, I really did.”

  “I believe you,” Peggy said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “And I believe in you, too.”

  Andrew stood there for a long time after Peggy had gone. He looked down at the wine stain on the carpet. It was in the same spot where he’d stood, rigid in his own despair, the phone ringing and ringing as Sally tried to get him to speak to her, the day after Diane’s death. He felt impossibly guilty for how he’d behaved then—how cowardly and weak he’d been to hide himself away, too broken to face the funeral, refusing to let Sally comfort him—and even more so now thinking about how he’d indulged in the fantasy of how his life might have gone if Diane had never walked out of the house that morning. He couldn’t believe how kind and understanding Peggy had been after she’d learned the truth. He’d expected her to run a mile. Unless of course she was just lulling him into a false sense of security before she dashed to the nearest mental hospital to report him as a deluded, dangerous fantasist . . . Surely, surely, nobody else would be as understanding as her, if he were to simply come out and tell them? He pictured Cameron’s beady eyes widening, Keith and Meredith turning from stunned to scathing in the blink of an eye.

  He heard his mobile vibrate again. Another message from Carl, no doubt. The autopilot in him wanted to put on some Ella, but he stopped by the record player, his hand above the needle. Without music or the gentle whooshing of a train he was more aware of what he could hear. He opened the window. Sparrows were singing; a bee—a queen surely, judging from its size—buzzed past.

  Despite the fact he was feeling jittery from caffeine, he made himself another cup of tea, enjoying the comforting warmth of it as he drank, his thoughts percolating. He understood why Peggy was frustrated that he wasn’t simply going to come clean with everyone now that he’d revealed the truth to her, but what she perhaps hadn’t fully grasped was how potent the fantasy was, how tied to it he felt. It wasn’t something he could just walk away from.

  He stood and surveyed the train wreck. It was hard to tell what damage was repairable and what was ruined for good. The locomotive he’d had set up at the time—an O4 Robinson class—was probably a write-off, as were the carriages. Thank Christ it hadn’t been any of his really prized locomotives. Most of the scenery—the lighter stuff—was definitely irreparable. Trees and animals were flattened and bent. Figures lay prone on the ground. All of them, he realized, except three farmhands who were still upright in what used to be an orchard, a look of defiance about them.

  Peggy had told him he alone had to choose what to do, and maybe she was right. But what if that meant he chose only to tell people the truth when he actually felt ready? That was still him taking control, wasn’t it? He ignored the dissenting voice at the back of his head by focusing on what he told himself was the more immediate concern: namely, the approaching dinner party. It was absolutely vital that he keep Cameron happy. What he really needed was some help. Peggy was out of the question. So that left . . . well, “Nobody,” he said out loud. But as he looked again at the stoic farmhands, he remembered that, actually, that wasn’t strictly true.

  — CHAPTER 31 —

  Saturday afternoons weren’t the busiest times on the subforum, but Andrew could still picture BamBam67, TinkerAl and BroadGaugeJim checking in before the evening was out—a quick glance as they waited for dinner to simmer, just in case someone had posted to confirm that the new Wainwright H Class 0-4-4T really did justify the insane hype.

  It worked in his favor that recent events had meant his activity on the forum had been limited in the previous week, as the last two messages mentioning him, from TinkerAl and BroadGaugeJim, were written with genuine concern:

  Tracker, you’ve gone a bit quiet. All good?

  Was just thinking that! Don’t say old T-bone’s gone cold turkey??

  The fact that they were obviously concerned for his welfare made him feel a little more comfortable about asking for help like this. He composed a message in a blank document, tweaking and rewording from start to finish several times.

  He was still finding it hard to get completely warm, so he’d rooted around in a cupboard and found some blankets, which he’d washed and tumble-dried before wrapping around his shoulders, so that it looked like his head was poking out through the top of a wigwam. He had also—in a moment of madness, suddenly consumed by derring-do—made some soup from scratch.

  He copied and pasted his message into a new post on the forum, gave it one final check, and then, before he could back out, he hit “send.”

  * * *

  —

  Andrew took a sip of lager and made a note to remind himself that his instincts—much like burgers bought from rest-stop vans and people who started sentences with “I’ll be honest with you”—were not to be trusted. He’d chosen the pub near King’s Cross because it was called the Railway Tavern, and that felt like a good omen. He had visions of Barter Books—the same ambience, but substituting tea, scones and books for thick pints of bitter and interesting crisps. Instead, the pub felt like the sort of place you only ever heard mentioned in the same breath as “fled the scene” and “unprovoked attack.” Andrew had long since lost track of which clubs were battling it out at the top of Division One, or whatever it was called now, but the twenty or so other men in the pub were, to put it mildly, invested. Insults were leveled at the screen with furious relish. More confusingly, a man with ginger sideburns kept clapping whenever a decision went his team’s way or there was a substitution, as if his applause could actually travel through the screen and reach the player coming on. Another man in a leather jacket worn over his team’s colors periodically threw his arms up in the air and turned to try to make conversation with a group of fans who steadfastly ignored him. A young woman was standing further up along the bar, pulling nervously at her hair, which was purple and looked like it had the consistency of cotton candy. Never had Andrew seen so many people in the same place, supporting the same team, wearing the same shirt, looking so alone.

  Under other circumstances, he would have left and found somewhere else, but that wasn’t an option. He’d concluded his message on the forum by naming the pub and the time. For all he knew there might’ve been three instant replies, apologetic or otherwise, rejecting the plan, but he hadn’t been able to face looking to see if anyone had responded. The closest he’d gotten was scrolling down with one hand over his face, peeping through a gap between his fingers, as if he were looking at an eclipse.

  He fiddled nervously with a coaster, eventually giving in to the urge to tear it into strips, leaving a pile of cardboard on the table like a hamster’s nest. He was suddenly very aware of how desperate he felt. He cringed at his cheery sign-off on the forum (Besides, it would be fun for us to actually meet up in person, no??), which now seemed glaringly ripe for dismissal and ridicule. It went against pretty much everything they stood for. The forum was a place where you could pretend to be someone else and, more importantly, do so naked while eating cheese if you wanted. How was real life supposed to compete with that?

  He took a careful look around (remembering how Peggy had admonished him for his obviousness in the pub on her first day), hoping to see someone he thought might be one of the forum lot. He was doing his best not to make eye contact with the man in the leather jacket, who, when Andrew was ordering a pint from the grizzled barman, had turned to him showing his bloodshot eyes and grunted, “All right?” Andrew had pretended not to hear before scuttling away, also pretending not to hear the man muttering, “Wanker,” after him.

/>   He straightened his coat lapel so that the little model train badge he’d affixed to it was visible. He’d hoped it was a subtle touch that would make him recognizable to the others without drawing undue attention. So it was all he could do not to burst out laughing when he looked up to see the man who’d just entered the pub was wearing a T-shirt bearing the slogan: “Model Trains Are the Answer. WHO CARES WHAT THE QUESTION IS?!”

  Andrew half stood, half waved to the man, who—to his overwhelming relief—grinned back broadly.

  “Tracker?”

  “Yes! My name’s Andrew, you know, in real life.”

  “Nice to meet you, Andrew. I’m BroadGauge—Jim.”

  “Great!”

  Andrew reached out and shook Jim’s hand, possibly a bit too enthusiastically judging by Jim’s expression, but Andrew felt too excited to be embarrassed. Somebody had come!

  “Cracking badge, by the way,” Jim said.

  “Thanks,” Andrew said. He was going to return the compliment about Jim’s T-shirt when evidently a goal was scored and the pub erupted into howls of disapproval. Jim briefly appraised the commotion, then turned back, his eyebrows raised.

  “Sorry, it’s a rubbish choice of venue,” Andrew said quickly.

  Jim shrugged. “Nah, it’s fine. What are you drinking then?”

  “Oh thanks, lager please,” Andrew said, waiting till Jim was heading to the bar before downing the last third of his pint.

  As Jim returned with their drinks he was followed over by the young woman with purple hair, who’d just come out of the ladies’. Before either Jim or Andrew could say anything she’d sat down at the table and offered them a nervous hello.

  “Um, sorry,” Jim said, “but we’re actually waiting for someone.” Andrew gave the woman an apologetic smile.

  “Yeah, that’d be me,” the woman said.

  Andrew and Jim looked at each other.

  “Hang on,” Andrew said, “You’re . . .”

  “TinkerAl,” the woman said.

  “But . . . but you’re a woman!” Jim said.

  “Well spotted,” the woman laughed. Then, when neither Andrew nor Jim could work out how to respond, she rolled her eyes and said, “The ‘Al’ part comes from Alexandra. But people call me Alex.”

  “Well,” Jim said. “That’s, you know . . . good for you!”

  “Thanks,” Alex said, smothering a smile before launching into a passionate monologue about her latest acquisition. “I honestly reckon it outclasses the Caerphilly Castle 4-6-0,” she said.

  “No way!” Jim said, eyes nearly popping out of his head.

  The three of them continued to talk trains, occasionally having to raise their voices over the men shouting at some perceived injustice on the big screen. Despite the occasional angry glare from leather jacket man, Andrew was beginning to relax. Though if BamBam wasn’t going to turn up, then that posed a big problem. He needed him the most.

  It was during a melee of celebrations as the home team pinched an equalizer that a man sauntered through the door and pulled up a chair at their table with the nonchalance of someone who was meeting people he’d seen every day for twenty years. He was wearing a dark blue denim shirt tucked into some beige slacks and smelled of expensive aftershave. He introduced himself as BamBam, then Rupert—which the others tried and failed not to seem surprised by. Jim watched Rupert shake Alex’s hand and couldn’t help himself. “She’s a woman!” he said.

  “It’s true,” Alex said. “I’ve got a certificate and everything. Right, who wants crisps?”

  The four of them drank and ate from bags of potato chips that were democratically opened out on the table. As they talked about new purchases and various upcoming conventions—already promising to meet up at an exhibition day at Alexandra Palace—Andrew was starting to wish he didn’t have to upset the balance by bringing his plan into the mix. But after he returned from the toilet, the others clearly using the opportunity to discuss his message, Jim cleared his throat and said, “So, Andrew, you, um, invited us here for a . . . thing?”

  Andrew had carefully rehearsed what he was going to say, but he could still feel the blood thumping in his ears. He’d decided to get everything out as quickly as possible, revealing only as much as he had to. He spoke rapidly without pausing to draw breath, so much so that he was actually light-headed by the time he’d finished.

  “That’s it,” he concluded, taking a big gulp of beer.

  There was a horribly long pause. Andrew grabbed another beer mat and started to tear and twist it.

  Then Rupert cleared his throat.

  “Just to be clear,” he said, “you need my house to host a dinner party in?”

  “And for all of us to help you cook for said dinner party?” Alex said.

  “And just generally be on hand to help out . . . and stuff,” Jim added.

  “Because,” Alex said, “redundancies are on the cards and you need to keep your boss on your side.”

  Andrew realized how mad it all sounded, laid bare like that. “I honestly can’t explain to you how insane my boss is. I thought he was just making us do these dinner parties because he wanted to be friends with us all, but it seems like it’s more to do with him trying to decide who he likes the most and who he can bring himself to let go. And I . . . well, I really can’t afford to be that person right now.”

  The others exchanged glances, and Andrew sensed they might want to confer.

  “I’ll get a round in,” he said. Despite worrying about what Jim, Rupert and Alex were deciding to do, he couldn’t help but grin to himself as he made his way to the bar. I’ll get a round in—so casual! As if it were the most natural thing in the world!

  “I need to change the barrel for the pale ale,” the barman said.

  “That’s fine, take your time,” Andrew said, realizing too late that this might have sounded sarcastic. The barman stared at him for a moment before heading to the cellar.

  “You wanna be careful,” leather jacket man said. “I’ve seen him kick seven shades out of a bloke for less. He’s fine one minute, mental the next.”

  But Andrew wasn’t listening. There was a mirror just above the row of spirits, and in the reflection he could see the others deliberating at the table. He was suddenly very aware of the ebb and flow of noise from the fans around him, as if the groans and expletives and shouts of encouragement were the soundtrack to the conversation he was watching.

  “Why you ignoring me, mate?” leather jacket man piped up.

  Andrew acted oblivious and counted out his money for the round.

  “Helllooooooo,” the man said, reaching over and waving a hand in front of Andrew’s face.

  Andrew pretended to be surprised. “Sorry, I’m not really with it today,” he said, wishing he didn’t sound quite so much like a flustered substitute teacher.

  “No excuse to totally ignore me like that,” the man said, poking him in the shoulder. “Basic fucking human politeness, that.”

  Now Andrew was desperate for the barman to return. He looked at the mirror. The others still seemed to be in deep discussion.

  “So what you reckon?” the man said, indicating the screen.

  “Oh, I don’t really know,” Andrew said.

  “Have a guess, mate. Bit of fun.” The man poked him in the shoulder again, harder this time.

  Andrew backed away as subtly as he could. “A draw?” he said.

  “Pah. Bollocks. You West Ham in disguise? Oi, everyone, this one’s West Ham!”

  “I’m not, I’m nobody,” Andrew said, his voice going falsetto. Luckily, no one paid them any attention, and to Andrew’s relief the barman finally reappeared and finished pouring drinks.

  When he arrived back at the table it was to what felt like an awkward silence, and he realized he’d forgotten one vital point. “I forgot to say, I’m not as
king you to do this for free. We can work out, you know, a payment, whether that’s cash or you taking your pick of my kit. I managed to damage my O4 Robinson recently, but there are my other locomotives, and scenery, so just let me kn—”

  “Don’t be silly,” Alex interrupted. “Of course you don’t need to pay us. We’re just trying to work out logistics.”

  “Oh. Good,” Andrew said. “I mean, great, that you’re on board and everything.”

  “Yep, definitely,” Alex said. “We’re friends, after all,” she added, in a voice that made it sound like she was settling the issue. She widened her eyes at Rupert.

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” he said, “and you’re welcome to have your soiree at mine. My partner’s actually away with work next week, so the timing’s decent. Though I’m a lousy cook, I’m afraid.”

  Jim linked his fingers together and extended his arms, cracking his knuckles. “You can leave the cooking to Jimbo,” he said.

  “So. There we go. Sorted,” Alex said.

  They talked a little more about the whens and wheres, but after a while conversation turned back to trains. For the second time that afternoon, Andrew had to concentrate on hiding the goofy grin that kept trying to wriggle onto his mouth.

  * * *

  —

  The football was finished—it was a draw in the end—and most of the fans had already filed out, shaking their heads and grumbling. Leather jacket man had other ideas, however, and Andrew groaned inwardly as he watched him meander over and pull up a chair at the table next to them.

  “Model trains, eh,” he said, eyeing Jim’s shirt before resting his feet on the back of Andrew’s chair. “Fuck me, do people still actually bother with that crap?”

  Alex raised her eyebrows at Andrew. “Do you know him?” she mouthed. Andrew shook his head.

  “Sorry, mate,” Alex said, “we’re a bit busy. Mind giving us some space?”