I'm on the train!

by Wendy Perriam

  He took another gulp of wine, then let out a great sigh. ‘But it couldn’t last for ever, alas. There comes a time when you’re considered just too ancient and no one wants you around. Although it’s damned difficult to take a back seat, when you’re used to being kingpin.’

  She knew all the kings and queens of England, because they were on the wall at school. There wasn’t a King Pin.

  ‘Still, old age comes to all of us, so we just have to accept it. But, listen, Jo, let’s focus on you, for a change. I must admit I am a little concerned as to why you’re alone in London. Please don’t think I’m prying, dear, but perhaps you could enlighten me as to why you’re looking for your mother. What exactly happened to her?’

  She picked up a seed and swallowed it, wondering what to say. Miss Batsby had explained that some mothers couldn’t cope if their babies were born with problems. It didn’t mean Mother didn’t love you; it just meant you were looked after in a home. She wasn’t sure what kind of problems she had, but Dave had called her a halfwit, so maybe it was that.

  ‘Well, if you’d rather not discuss it, I completely understand. Mothers are a tricky subject, aren’t they? My own mother passed away when I was just a little sprog. Consumption, sad to say. There were no decent drugs in those days, more’s the pity. And my dear wife died young, as well.’

  He looked so sad, she thought he was going to cry, but, instead, he beckoned to another waiter, who came bustling over to take away their plates. The two seemed to know each other, because they chatted for a while and the waiter called him Mr Hornby-Phillips.

  She wished she had two surnames, or at least a longer first name. Short names made you weak. Josie would be better and Joanna better still. But there was already a Josie at Sunnyhill and a Joseph, too. Sunnyhill was a lie. There was no hill anywhere and the house was so dark you hardly ever saw the sun.

  ‘My wife was the most stunning woman I’d ever met – and I’d met quite a few, I can tell you! In fact, you remind me of her in some ways – the same fair hair and dark eyes, which I’ve always thought the perfect combination. And the same English-rose complexion. She was called Rose, actually – Rose Anastasia Louise.’

  Lucky to have three names and one of them so long. His first name was Lionel. While they were having tea, in the teapot, he’d kept saying ‘Call me Lionel’. But he was so old and rich she didn’t feel she should, and she hadn’t known his surname until now. He looked nothing like a lion, because he had just a few wisps of white, straggly hair, instead of a thick, brown mane. But he had seen real lions, he said – many times, and not in zoos. He had even shot a lion, although he didn’t seem to mind about it dying. There’d been a lot of lions today: stone lions, real lions, dead lions….

  The waiter had come back now, with their dinners on a silver tray. The man had ordered duck, but she fed them every Sunday, so she wouldn’t want to eat one. She had found it very difficult to choose, so, in the end, he had ordered her a steak. It didn’t look like steak, because it was covered with thick yellow sauce, like custard. She scraped off all the custard and cut into the meat, but a trickle of red blood oozed out. They must have forgotten to cook it, so she ate the chips instead. They weren’t called chips, he said, which she couldn’t understand, because they tasted just the same as the chips in McDonald’s. She wished they’d gone to McDonald’s, instead of to his club.

  While he ate, he kept pulling at his nose, which was red and sort of squashed and had little, bristly hairs sticking out of the end of it. And he drank the rest of the wine, although he didn’t pour it himself. The waiter did that for him and, every time he came over, he and the man had another little chat. She was glad about the little chats, because then she didn’t have to talk. Even at Sunnyhill, she preferred to sit in silence, so that the others didn’t laugh when she muddled up her words. Except there was never really silence. Everybody shouted and there were always fights and quarrels.

  ‘But, to return to the subject of retirement, a chap like me is bound to feel a little spare when he’s thrown on the scrapheap, so to speak. I’ve dealt with really weighty matters, in my time, and had people’s actual lives in my hands, so it’s something of a comedown to be reduced to deadheading roses and pottering round the garden.’

  Roses were her favourite flowers. She even liked the thorns. It wasn’t just plants that had thorns; people had them, too. She could feel her own thorns, sometimes, growing sharp inside her.

  ‘Well, my dear, I can see you’re not much of an eater! I’ve polished off my duck and all these delicious vegetables, yet you’ve barely eaten a mouthful of your steak. Never mind – just leave it, if you want, and we’ll have a look at the puddings, shall we? Perhaps you have a sweet tooth?’

  At Sunnyhill, you weren’t allowed pudding unless you’d finished your meat, so he must be very kind. And the puddings were dished out, straight onto your plate, but here you had to choose one from a big silver trolley-thing. The waiter wheeled it over, like a pram.

  ‘Anything there you fancy, Jo?’ the man asked.

  Her favourites were jam tart and Arctic Roll, but he said they didn’t have those here and she didn’t know the names of the puddings on the pram-thing, so she just stared down at her hands. He must have taken pity on her, because he asked the waiter what he’d recommend.

  ‘Well, the sherry trifle always seems to be a favourite with the ladies.’

  ‘Hear that, my dear? How about some trifle?’

  Trifle was wet, with too much soggy sponge. The waiter was pointing to the trifle on the trolley, but she couldn’t really see it, because of all the cream on top. She didn’t want more cream. Her tummy felt frothy and runny, as if Edna was beating it up with a fork, like she did with scrambled eggs.

  ‘And the mango sorbet is always very popular. In fact, it’s one of the chef’s specialities. The mangoes were flown in just this morning, madam, from Ecuador.’

  ‘Yes, I think you’d like that,’ the man said. ‘It’s rather like ice-cream.’

  It would be rude to say no, when he was taking so much trouble, so she said ‘Yes, please’, instead. And the waiter passed her a small silver dish, with three round orange balls inside. There was even a silver saucer-thing, underneath the dish, and a silver spoon with a crown on the handle, like the ones the Queen must use. The orange stuff inside the dish looked nothing like ice-cream, but perhaps it was the Queen’s ice-cream and queens ate different kinds. At Sunnyhill, ice-cream was white, not orange, and they put it out long before the meal (in plastic bowls, not silver), so it was always soft and squashy, never hard and round. She dug in the spoon, to try a bit, and it was cold, like ice-cream, but not as sweet or smooth, and there were little frozen splinters in it that made her back teeth jump.

  ‘And what for you, sir?’

  ‘I’ll have the pannacotta, please – and another bottle of wine. The Chateau Suduiraut was exceptionally good last time.’

  Pannacotta sounded weird but, when it came, it was small and pale and wobbly, like blancmange. He made her taste some, from his own spoon, which you weren’t meant to do, because it gave you germs. It didn’t taste of anything, just quiet and faint, like clouds. He also asked her to try the wine, which was yellowish, this time, instead of blackish-red. He said she’d love it, because it was sweet, but it wasn’t sweet, so he drank it all himself, again. And, although he went on talking, his words sounded rather funny now, like they’d melted in a frying-pan.

  ‘To tell the truth, Jo, when I came back to England, I felt totally adrift. I mean, I’d never so much as cleaned my own shoes or boiled a bloody egg – which is why I thank God for this place. But it’s going downhill, I’m sorry to say, like everywhere else in the modern world. Once, you used to see a decent class of person here, but they tend to be more business types these days – so-called company directors, who think they own the world, but are really little more than brash young tykes. And they certainly wouldn’t want to pass the time of day with a tedious old chap like me. When I fir
st became a member in 1986, I could count on seeing my friends, but a lot of my former chums have fallen off the twig, poor devils. In fact, sometimes I can sit here all damned day – and all evening, too – and not speak to a single soul except the staff.’

  She felt so tired, it was hard to listen. What she’d really like would be to lay her head on the tablecloth, shut her eyes and go to sleep. Last night, she hadn’t slept at all. You couldn’t sleep in London. It was too noisy and too scary and no one seemed to go to bed. But it would be rude to close her eyes while he was talking, so she left them open and thought about her mother. Perhaps tomorrow she’d bump into her, and her mother would take her home – a real home, with no rules, or pills, or punishments, or fights. And they could cuddle up together in a big, warm, comfy bed and have nice, quiet, peaceful meals. And her mother would say, ‘I’m so glad you came to find me, Jo. I don’t mind about the problems any more, so why don’t we live together, from now on?’

  She had never known a dinner take so long. At Sunnyhill, meals were over in ten minutes, because everybody ate fast, so they could get down from the table. But this dinner had lasted hours and, just when she thought it was finished, the waiter had asked if they would like to take their coffee upstairs in the library. Usually, you weren’t allowed to eat or drink in libraries, but this library was quite different from the one they used in Romsey. It was smaller than the other rooms, but every bit as grand, and there were no big desks with computers on, where kind ladies stamped your books. And the books were different, too – brown, boring ones with no pictures in and far too many words. And it had sofas, like a sitting-room; shiny-brown and made of the same stuff as shoes. And there was a wooden sort of ladder-thing, which the man told her people used to reach the highest shelves. But there were no people in the room – just the two of them, alone.

  Even the waiter had gone, although first he’d brought them something called ‘liqueurs’, in two tiny, tiny glasses, as if he was being mean again. She had tried a sip, to please the man, but it tasted really horrid, so now he was drinking hers. All the drinks must have made him very hot, because there were little drops of sweat on his forehead; some rolling down his face and falling onto his shirt. He’d spilt pudding on his tie, but he didn’t seem to notice either the pudding or the sweat. She hoped he’d soon go home, or even go to sleep. They were sitting on a sofa and people sometimes slept on sofas, if they didn’t have a bed. But, suddenly, he leaned towards her and put his hand on her leg. The hand felt hot and damp and had fat veins on the top of it, like swollen, purple snakes.

  ‘Have I told you, Jo, what a gorgeous girl you are?’

  He’d told her four times – no, five. People never called her ‘gorgeous’; only ‘thick’. She took a gulp of coffee, which was bitter, like the liqueur, and very fierce and black. At Sunnyhill, coffee was made with just a dash of Nescafe and all the rest hot milk, but they didn’t have hot milk here, only cream. She poured some in, but it went all sort of furry and made the coffee cold. Even the sugar was odd: brown and gritty and hardly sweet at all. When she found her mother, they’d eat sweet things all the time.

  ‘Now, I hope you’ll forgive me asking, Jo, but there’s something I need to know.’

  She felt very frightened, suddenly. He was going to ask her if she’d run away and then he’d phone the home and tell them. But his voice went furry, like the coffee, and he spoke right into her ear, so that no one else could hear. Except no one else was there.

  ‘What I want to ask you, my little lamb, is whether anyone has ever made love to you? You know what I mean, Jo, don’t you? Have you ever had … sex?’

  She shook her head. Dave had got his thing out, once, but she hadn’t liked the look of it. It was red and sort of swollen, with a drop of spit at the end. And, another time, Joseph had shoved his hand down her front and tried to touch her breasts. But Miss Batsby had walked in and gone scarlet in the face with rage.

  ‘If only I were younger, darling, I could give you a wonderful time – something you’d remember all your life. Sex is the greatest of all pleasures known to man – or woman, for that matter. But you must be absolutely sure, Jo, to save yourself for someone worthy of you; someone with a lifetime of experience who knows what the hell he’s doing. The last thing you want is some fumbling young jackass, only intent on his own thrills.’

  He was holding her hand now, so hard it hurt her fingers. And his hand was hot and sweaty and made her own hand wet.

  ‘Although I say it myself, I’m an extremely tactile person, sweetheart. I know exactly how and where a woman likes to be touched.’

  She ought to move away, but he was gripping her hand too tightly. And, when he let it go, he began stroking his fat finger round and round her palm, so, even then, it wasn’t easy to get up. The finger felt tickly and horrid, like insects crawling over her skin.

  ‘I remember one of my ex-girlfriends saying to me once, “Lionel, you old charmer, I’m convinced you were a female in another life. You’re one of those rare men who completely understand what turns a woman on.” She was a right little minx, Miranda. I used to take her to Hyde Park and we’d have it off en plein air. That’s incredibly exciting, Jo – knowing any moment you could be discovered en flagrante.’

  She wished he wouldn’t use hard words. She wished he’d just be quiet. No one older than thirty had sex, and he was eighty-four. But perhaps he was like God the Father, who’d had a son when He was really, really old.

  He was still talking in the whispery voice and still stroking with the finger. ‘But you must have been kissed, Jo – I’m pretty sure of that. At least once in your young life?’

  She shook her head again. Kissing was germy, like using the same spoon.

  ‘Well, if you have no objection, mon petit chou, that’s a deficit I intend to make good.’

  Suddenly, his big, wet, flabby lips were pressing right against her own. She could smell wine and duck and coffee, all mixed up. And she could feel his tongue, like an angry little animal, trying to get inside her mouth. She closed her lips as tight as possible, but his tongue was so impatient, it was forcing them apart. She wanted to shout ‘No!’, but she couldn’t speak at all. There was no room for words in her mouth. His tongue had filled it up and was wiggling now inside it, all slimy, like a slug. His chin was scratchy against her face, and even his teeth were sort of banging into hers.

  All at once, she pulled away – roughly, which was rude. But if you kissed a man, it meant you’d have a baby – Josie’s gran had said. Josie and the others all told her that was crap, but she knew it must be true, because her mother had kissed a man and then had her.

  She didn’t want a baby. Edna said it was the worst pain in the world – worse than a broken leg, or an abscess on your tooth. And, as well as the baby, blood and poo came out. And her baby might be a halfwit, so they would send it off to a home, and it might never find her again, because of all the strangers in the way.

  ‘I need the … the toilet,’ she shouted, jumping to her feet. Her voice came out very loud, not just because she was frightened, but because she did need it, desperately. But he grabbed her arm and tried to get up, too, so maybe he would stop her going and keep her here, a prisoner.

  Then, all at once, he lost his balance and fell back into the chair, and made a funny sort of noise: half a laugh and half a groan.

  ‘Promise you’ll come straight back, darling. I just have to kiss you again. You’re so utterly enchanting, I can’t bear to let you out of my sight, even for a moment!’

  She crept towards the door. It seemed a long way off; across miles of dark red carpet, the colour of dried blood. But, when she heard him following, she ran, instead of tiptoeing, and managed to get out. She dared to look behind her and saw him bumping into things and tripping over a rug, but then he reached the doorway and stood there, holding onto it.

  ‘Don’t get lost, Jo, will you?’ he called after her, in his funny, furry voice. ‘Ask someone to show you the way. The ladies’ roo
m is right down in the basement, so make sure they take you there in person and bring you safely back. Say you want the library. It’ll be three floors up – they’ll know. I’ll be waiting for you, darling!’

  She didn’t need somebody to take her – she knew where basements were. There was one at Sunnyhill, where they stored mattresses and broken chairs. You were always safe in basements, because people didn’t go there, only things.

  She began walking down the stairs, which were very grand, with more pictures and tall mirrors, and even armchairs on the landings. But she didn’t look at anything except her feet, going down each step. No one stopped her; no one told her off, so she just carried on, down and down and down. Then she reached a different sort of staircase – much narrower and smaller, without the fancy carpet. She was glad they’d run out of carpet, because it was covered with gold swirly things that made her tummy swirl.

  At the bottom was a big black door, with a notice saying ‘LADIES’. But, when she went inside, it was nothing like a ladies’ room and she couldn’t see a single toilet anywhere. It looked more like a sitting-room, mixed up with a bedroom. There were two sofas, like the ones in the library, but green instead of black, and a soft green carpet (with no swirls), and a round polished table, with lots of magazines on, and a vase of expensive flowers; the sort people sent if you were rich and went to hospital. But there was also a dressing-table – which were usually in bedrooms – with a silver hairbrush on it, and a matching silver comb, and three dark-green bottles: big, medium-sized and small, like the bowls in The Three Bears. And there were rows and rows of hangers in a kind of cupboard with no door, for people to hang their coats. Except all the hangers were empty and there were no people in the room, not even the lady who cleaned the toilets and gave you change if you didn’t have 10p.