by Geoff Ryman
He is suddenly aware of a scuffle further up the row of seats: some bully picking on a little fellow. Life’s too short, he thinks.
Then he knows: today he will get off at Waterloo, and turn around, and go home to his daughter. Then he knows that he won’t.
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19
MS EVELEEN DOYCE
Outward appearance
Large black woman over whom gravity has no power. She appears to have been pasted on the seat by computer imaging. All in black, except for a cap edged with gold braid. Her face beams in steady contentment.
Inside information
Made redundant by British Telecom two years ago. Pregnant with her second child. Going to Elephant and Castle Shopping Centre to collect a stereo system. She bought it on credit by claiming she was still on pregnancy leave. They asked for references and she gave her old BT boss, a batty female accountant. The woman must have taken a shine to Eveleen. She told a fib.
Eveleen has a mad, one-armed stepfather who wants to kill her. He phones her day and night to threaten her. The idea of him, one-armed, trying to do her in makes her laugh. She roars at him down the telephone, even at one in the morning.
What she is doing or thinking
A scuffle breaks out. Eveleen frowns in amusement and delicately scratches her head. These white people, she thinks. They are so selfish and it just makes them crazy. The whole world is crazy, spinning round and round. She thinks of her brother who tried to slash the seats at McDonalds. The seats at McDonalds are so hard that people won’t sit for long. The seats don’t slash, but her brother always keeps on with whatever he’s doing. He was still slashing when the police arrived.
This mad world pleases Eveleen, leaves her content. If she were to die right now, she wouldn’t mind.
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20
MRS JOY HARVEY
Outward appearance
Polished black woman. Huge coils of hair, like someone out of Dynasty. Burgundy business jacket, yellow sweater. She looks enraged and keeps pulling down on her sweater.
Inside information
Works in a one-stop shop for the Council. Today her mobile surgery will be held at the Wasteco Superstore in the Elephant and Castle. The surgery was set up to provide information about local events and the Council’s activities. But people want services instead of information. Joy has become a one-stop advocate for the illiterate who have received a final Council Tax demand, the aged who aren’t claiming benefit, the young men who can’t get a council flat, people who can’t get their rubbish collected. Etc.
What she is doing or thinking
She is looking at the obviously homeless man next to her. She deliberately sat next to him in case no one else would. She takes in his stained, rumpled trousers; the tiny woman’s coat; the thin shirt; the shoes with white water marks. Poor man, look, he’s shaved and washed. He’s spent money to clean himself up and he probably could have used it for food. Look at people, wrinkling their noses at him. Aren’t they horrible.
‘Are you all right?’ she asks. He looks around at her in misery. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks again, touching her new purse.
‘No, no,’ he pleads, holding up his hands. ‘I don’t need anything.’
Good, she thinks, that’s good. Pride. She receives an energizing jolt of anger that will see her through another day. She pulls down again on her sweater.
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21
MR JUSTIN HOLMES
Outward appearance
Homeless person—ill-fitting, flimsy clothes. His coat is orange with black fur trim, and is too small for him. The shirt is thin summer cotton and is missing a button, showing his pale tummy. His hair is curious—it is disordered but layered.
Inside information
Freelance journalist posing as a homeless person. He has spent the last week in the concourse under Waterloo Bridge roundabout. Slept two nights in a cardboard box with an older long-hair who made a pass at him but was easily deflected. Moved to a doorway in the Strand. Last night spent some of the money hidden in his shoe to shower in Waterloo Station. Went home. His flat was dark and locked. The porter came with spare keys. The locks had been changed.
Justin is now homeless for real. He will wash again at Waterloo and go to Lambeth North police station.
What he is doing or thinking
He remembers his girlfriend’s face. ‘You can borrow my old coat, but don’t expect me here when you get back,’ she told him. He has no i.d., no keys, no plastic and only five pounds left. When has he ever been fingerprinted? How can you prove who you are?
The woman next to him is talking. He looks around. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks, about to give him money. A terrible sense of fraudulence comes over him, and he pleads with her to put away the money, the sympathy.
He remembers his girlfriend’s face, and understands. He wants to go home.
He thinks of his article.
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22
MR TONY MANNOCCHI
Outward appearance
Worn, sallow, a bit beaky with deeply sunken eyes. Thin lips held in a permanent smile. Thick blue coat still zipped up, maroon sweater showing under cuffs. Hair combed across bald patch. Plays with a heavy set of keys.
Inside information
Proprietor of Roma Fine Wines near Waterloo. It has recently gone bankrupt. His son and his new wife were to inherit the business in a few months’ time.7
What he is doing or thinking
He is meditating on how everything is replaced, most especially people. There was a time when he would make this same journey and know half the faces—customers, vendors from the market on Lower Marsh or the train station, or just people on the train. He can close his eyes and see 1964. The Brylcreemed hair, the haze of tobacco, a certain kind of hatchet English face that has gone. The jokes, people used to joke all the time in London, it was what kept you going. Replacement people, a bit like pets. One dies, you buy another one for Christmas.
They’ve torn the heart out of this area. The GLC used to be full of customers, now it’s vast and empty, soon to be Japanese. That big office block next to Lambeth North, it was full of very well-spoken people who always bought wine. Even the OPP, that’s much smaller now, and not what it was. Dark, dark, we all go into the dark.
My son says, ‘What am I going to do?’ I’m going to tell him. Get yourself a gimmick. And replace someone.
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Another helpful and informative 253 footnote
7 In autumn 1996, the shop was still empty. In autumn 1997 it became an Afghanistani grocery.
23
MISS YOSHI KAMIMURA
Outward appearance
White bulky jacket, lime green trousers, white trainers, pink hair grip. Balances on her lap a glossy pink bag with green polka dots and a plastic shopping bag crammed full of books and papers.
Inside information
Studying English at Bruenwalt International College. Yoshi is now pregnant, addicted to heroin, and moving into her new boyfriend’s flat near Elephant and Castle.
What she is doing or thinking
Yoshi lives in a dream. For her nothing in Britain is real—it is outside Japan. There are Italian fascists in the dorm. They hold pissing competitions in their rooms. She made friends with Swiss students. They stayed out late—until 11.00 PM—and sang in raucous voices on Waterloo Bridge. ‘London is a wild town,’ announced a goggle-eyed Swiss girl. Oh, thought Yoshi. One is wild in London.
In all innocence, she tried everything. She is going to have an Italian fascist’s baby. She cannot pronounce his first name and does not know his last. Her new boyfriend has many flats, and she has already turned her first trick for him. But he loves her.
She told all this to the College counsellor who stared at Yoshi for a moment with wide blue eyes and then pass
ed her a pink business card with Japanese lettering. It offered a Japanese counselling service. ‘This happens a lot,’ said the counsellor.
The touch of Japan was like a hot hand on a frosted window. Everything melted for a moment and Yoshi could suddenly see clearly. Now she wants frost everywhere, on the dark windows of London Underground.
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24
MR CLIVE KELTON
Outward appearance
Fit, middle-aged man. Grey, short hair. Sharp face, no jowls. Wears new, all-black, casual clothes. Fast asleep.
Inside information
Works in Bathroom Paradise, a massive showroom of fixtures and fittings located in railway arches near Waterloo. Clive was once a hippy, living in Devon. He started fitting kitchens to make money. There was not enough of it in rural Devon. He moved to London, and ended up in Paradise.
What he is doing or thinking
He is meditating. Over and over he mentally repeats a mantra—‘I-ying-I-ying-I-ying’. This develops concentration and releases tension. It needs releasing: pain and anger coil in his breast. His wife feels trapped and lonely and bored and doesn’t understand why they moved back to the Smoke. His two children miss horses and downs. They don’t admit it, but they are afraid of some of the children in their school.
His boss has it in for him. Clive does not live the Bathroom Paradise Promise—A Perfect Fitting Every Time. The stuff is too cheap, it’s never in stock. Most people buy their taps or their shower heads and pay someone they know to install them. Clive worries how long there will be a job for him.
Only here, on the tube, does he have any time to himself, time to rest. Then across from him someone growls ‘…you’ll get a fucking knife in the ribs.’
The mantra is broken. He opens his eyes to see two men staring at each other. One of them flees.
What am I doing here? he thinks. Could we go back?
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25
MR ALFRED CUSHWAY
Outward appearance
Ageing male model. Every hair in place, immaculate coat thrown open, brown and black Italian jacket, loosely hanging trousers. The face is handsome, dead in the water, baggy-eyed.
Inside information
An executive at Mosstains. Has not worked on a building site since his twenties. Moved into sales, then account management, dealing with customers. Has a family, a house near Ely, Cambridgeshire. Collects art and antiques. Beats his children uncontrollably.
What he is doing or thinking
Alf has started drinking again and is battling the cloud of hangover across his forehead. He knows he shouted at the kids last night, but is sure, sure that he did not hit them. At least, he can’t remember it.
Why does he lose his temper with them? He never does with anyone else. He loves them, gets frustrated by them. They can’t hit back.
It’s the one flaw in his perfect life; he can feel it like a crack across his face.
There is a bit of argy-bargy. Alf chuckles to himself, some poor kid has bitten off a bit more than he can chew. He looks at the boy’s brown jacket, green tie. No dress sense.
Then the chuckle dies. That’s me, Alf recognizes, that’s me at the same age. He remembers his wedding photograph: transparent mauve shirt, long hair like a truck driver in drag. The embarrassed, grateful eyes.
It’s Vauxhall, he thinks. All my life I’ve been trying to get away from Vauxhall, but it follows me. Hard, sad Vauxhall. Alf looks at the kid and knows: he’ll hit his children too.
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MR PAUL HENNESSEY
Outward appearance
Near retirement. Impish face with folds of sallow flesh. Watery eyes, a head of snow-white hair. Reading The Guardian, folded down to a column’s width to keep it in control.
Inside information
Runs the purchasing department of Dun and Old. Member of the Institute of Professional Purchasers. Author of Tightening the Screws: Purchasing Secrets of Japanese Business. Commutes from Haywards Heath and writes his books on British Rail.
What he is doing or thinking
He is not reading the paper, but thinking of his wife, Elisabeth. She is 55 and has gradually given up all her interests. Instead of working with the Sunday School, she says, ‘They don’t want some old lady.’ She no longer goes to her art classes—‘I’ve stopped getting any better.’ She only half finishes books and ducks out of bridge evenings.
Their daughter now lives in Cork. She came over for Christmas with their first grandchild. Oh, he is a bouncy babe, blue eyes, a face like an apple. A light of recognition came into his eyes whenever he saw his Gran. He needed to be burped, talked to, petted, tucked in, changed. He kicked and shrieked with laughter. She played for hours with his chewable blue train. Choo choo. Choo choo.
Now they’ve gone back home to Ireland and his wife is bereft. It’s two weeks since they left. Paul came downstairs this morning and saw Elisabeth sitting at the kitchen table in her dressing gown, cradling empty air.
A crazy idea comes to him. Could they adopt? The train slows. He puts the newspaper away.
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27
MS DANNI JARRET
Outward appearance
Alarming. Bright red pantsuit, workman’s donkey jacket. Black T-shirt on which Pooh appears to be buggering Piglet. Writing with a pencil in a notebook, and giggling to herself.
Inside information
Works by day for the Department of Health, Elephant and Castle. By night she is a comedian, billed as The Stand Up Civil Servant. She is writing new material. She writes each routine only once, in very clear block capitals, using pencil so she can erase and rework.
What she is doing or thinking
She is aware that the woman next to her is reading over her shoulder and is stiffening with shock.
This is providing Danni with a great deal of inspiration. Sammy the Sperm Cell has just discovered that he’s been shot up someone’s arse and has been making love to a turd. Danni then asks the audience: have you ever been up someone’s arsehole? Tastes terrible, doesn’t it? First time I did it, I went home and stuck my face in a bucket of Flash. Whenever I do it now, I get a Flashback. Ho ho.
At that point, her pencil breaks. Sammy will have to wait. It has been great fun shocking someone, but she really needs to write in pencil. Danni stands up to get off at Waterloo and buy a pencil at W. H. Smith. She passes her neighbour, who looks about 50 and is almost certainly a virgin. In a moment of inspiration, Danni pushes her neighbour’s nose like a button. ‘You keep sticking that in funny places, it’ll get bitten off,’ she promises.
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MISS FLORA McCARDIE
Outward appearance
Looks like an athletic boy with freckles, reddish hair and bags under his eyes. In fact, a fifty-year-old woman in sensible clothes.
Inside information
Works for Christian Aid on Lower Marsh Street. The happiest period of her life was spent in Gabon with an American evangelical mission. Heartbroken when she learned that its charismatic leader was siphoning off funds. Returned to the UK middle-aged and at a loss.
Currently mourning the loss of her good friend, Lavender. Lavender was 75 years old, and produced vowel sounds that have disappeared everywhere else. Lavender was a friend of Flora’s guardian and saw Flora through childhood, giving her the nickname Poppet.
Lavender died old, cold, alone. Flora has begun to see a kind of tribe; a chain of steadfast, upright, noble, unloved women.
What she is doing or thinking
She thinks of Lavender as she reads what the girl next to her writes. Poor Lavender, with her faith in decency, progress. Here is an apparently intelligent young woman writing in such a tidy, careful hand such terrible things. I’m worthless, it seems to say, you’re worthless, here, eat this.
> The girl gets up, and in the thickness of her body Flora sees part of the chain. Then the girl pushes Flora’s nose, and insults her. Flora tuts and tosses her head, then remembers that she gets out here too.
On the platform Flora reaches forward and stops the girl and demands: ‘Why did you do that to me?’ The girl’s face is blank for a moment.
Then they begin to speak.
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MRS HELEN BALE
Outward appearance
Faded English rose. Merry face, rather rural looking with pink cheeks, long nose, tiny mouth. No make-up. Beige and black scarf, thick sweater, gloves held to her wrists by cords. Home-knitted. She looks upward at something, smiling as if having seen the Light.
