I'm on the train!

by Wendy Perriam

  Weird as it might sound, since returning from her month in Rome, it actually seemed a good idea to take holidays on a bus. No lost luggage, to start with. Hers had gone missing for a whole five days, and the only clothes the airline had dished out, to make do with while she waited, were a gruesome T-shirt, printed front and back with Alitalia, and a pair of passion-killer knickers that came down beyond her knees. And, on a bus, you didn’t get mosquito-bites or sunstroke; didn’t have to queue for hours at check-in and, best of all, there wasn’t that hideous feeling of being completely alone in the world, because you were miles away from everyone you loved. In fact, she didn’t really care if they did this same bus-trip every year – for ever. And if she got married and moved away, she might even take her own kids; choose a different bus-route, but follow the same basic plan of setting out seven days in a row. Perhaps she could make it a family tradition – something a bit crazy, but original and fun, which should be carried on right down the generations by her children’s children’s children.

  ‘Are you listening, Hayley, dear?’ her father asked, pausing a moment in his account of King Charles’s death: the clothes he wore; the inspiring words he spoke….

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I am.’ And, all at once, she felt stupid tears pricking at her eyelids just because he was her dad – a clever, decent, kindly dad, who had cancelled an engagement to come to meet her at the airport, brought her a sandwich made by Mum, in case she was hungry after the flight (ham and cheese – her favourite), and lugged her heavy cases all the way to the car-park, despite his dodgy back. And he hadn’t nagged the slightest bit about her change of plan; simply said he’d missed her and gave her a big hug. Before, she’d been so clueless, in completely failing to realize that things like that were desperately important; that parents cared about you, cherished you, kept you safe and rooted, when other people wouldn’t dream of bothering. OK, she wasn’t one for sentiment and she’d rather die than admit it to her cool, globe-trotting friends, but she knew – deep-down and secretly – that being back in the haven of her family was … well, almost … precious.

  STELLAR

  The break-in had been meticulously planned. She’d deliberately waited till it was dark, chosen a dank December evening, with most people safe indoors, and made sure it was a night when Mark would be out till late. And, of course, she had avoided parking in his street, but left her car outside the Swan, a pub he never frequented.

  Nonetheless, as she slunk along St Mary’s Road, the contents of her stomach seemed to be turning curdled somersaults and, despite the weather, she was sweating from sheer nerves. Each familiar landmark only increased her agitation: the spiky railings, stunted tree, the pair of scarlet phone-boxes, disfigured by graffiti. On impulse, she darted into one and, having fumbled for some coins, dialled his number and stood listening to it ring. Phoning from her mobile was no longer really an option, because he either cut her off, or, should he fail to pick up, traced the calls and sent her angry texts to stop ‘bothering’ him. In fact, when his answerphone clicked in, his warm, friendly tone of voice seemed profoundly hypocritical, being so at variance with those cold, uncaring texts.

  Please leave a message after the….

  She slammed down the receiver. Her ‘message’ would be rather different from a disembodied voice on a machine. Besides, now she had done the necessary – double-checked he wasn’t at home – she could turn into his apartment-block with slightly less unease.

  The structure seemed to dwarf her, though; its glass and steel oppressive; even the Christmas trees in the landscaped gardens mocking her unfestive mood, with their strings of glittering lights. Yet she tried to assume an air of confidence as she walked into the building; nodding at the porter, who knew her as Mark’s girlfriend. Dead right – she was. She was.

  As the lift purred open, she stepped inside, recoiling at her reflection in its smugly mirrored walls; her wan complexion and dark-ringed eyes the result of sleepless nights. She transferred her gaze to her shoes while the lift glided up to the seventh floor. Mark had loved those shoes, yet now she was tempted to trample him with their sharp stiletto heels.

  Having emerged into the corridor, she stole cautiously along, relieved to see no residents in view. Yet, despite the fact she was unobserved, her hand was literally shaking as she approached Mark’s actual door and slid the stolen key into the lock.

  Memories came flooding back the instant she walked in: cruel flashbacks to her last time here: the horror and humiliation of discovering she’d been traded in for another, younger woman. At first, he’d cravenly pretended there was no one else involved and that he simply wasn’t ready for commitment, but, by dint of pestering, she’d managed to extract the whole unedifying story. Basically, he’d picked up some piece of trash at a conference in Las Vegas – a city every bit as trashy as the uncouth bimbo he’d hooked. And he had even had the nerve to claim he was genuinely in love, rather than admitting to a brief and tacky affair.

  It was then she had decided to make off with his key; realizing how vital it was to retain the means of entry to what had been their love-nest. Besides, the key seemed almost symbolic, as if it might possess the power to unlock the portcullis of his heart.

  Again, she winced at her reflection as she passed the circular mirror in the hall: no more flattering than the mirrors in the lift. All the time that she and Mark had been together, she had felt no need to apologize for the slate-grey of her eyes, or the unexuberant mid-brown of her hair. But the pictures of her rival, continually swarming in her mind, always showed the Vegas bitch as a flaunting redhead or spectacular ash-blonde, with the sort of dramatic violet eyes normally found in romantic fiction. And, no doubt, the vulgar woman had already put her imprint on the flat; made it resemble some bordello.

  Fearful of such outrage, she steeled herself to creep into the living-room, which, to her great relief, looked totally unchanged: elegant white walls, contrasting with the two black leather sofas; distinctive marble floor; huge abstract painting in dramatic bluey-black. Just months ago, she had lain on one of those sofas, while slowly Mark unpeeled her dress, then knelt to….

  No! This was not the time for reminiscing, let alone for tears. She had to be safely out of here before the pair of them returned, which meant getting down to business right away. Unzipping her large shoulder-bag, she removed the bundle of letters – sixty-three in total – most of which she knew by heart. Extracting each from its envelope, she began spreading the sheets of notepaper on the table, chairs and sofas, then right across the floor, so that Mark’s energetic handwriting seemed to be imprinted on the room itself.

  She saved some twenty letters for the bedroom, gazing with disgust at the preening double bed, now the lair of odious Barbara. Well, tonight that brazen female wouldn’t be lying there with Mark – not once she’d cast her eye over this cache of rapturous outpourings. She arranged them in a row across the counterpane, then placed a few on the dressing-table, where a cluster of garish-looking pots and jars, with gold lids and fancy labels, now supplanted her own self-effacing toiletries. Mark had acted out of character in opting for a type like Barbara; favouring frippery and empty show above any sterling qualities. But although she despised his lack of taste, she preferred to regard this recent fling as just an aberration; something he would come to view as a mortifying lapse and soon bitterly regret. Far from feeling she was well rid of him, her whole purpose was to win him back – back not only to his senses, but back to her embrace.

  Which is why it was imperative to force the Yankee numbskull to understand that Mark was deeply serious; a knowledgeable and cultured man who craved intellectual companionship. Their own, two-year relationship had never been confined to sex but involved mind and spirit, too, so how could a crass and clueless type like Barbara possibly compete?

  ‘There’s the proof,’ she muttered, propping the last missive against a bottle of cheap scent. ‘Read these letters and you’ll see.’

  The very fact she was talking to h
erself – worse, talking to an absent woman she hadn’t even met – only proved how disturbed she was. Indeed, Barbara seemed to have turned her from a coping, capable PA to an insomniac, neurotic wreck now permanently off work. Yet she felt compelled to formulate what she’d like to say, at least, to show the ignoramus exactly how unworthy she was of Mark’s rhapsodic sentiments.

  ‘Look at what he called me: “beloved Stella”, “bewitching Stella”, “sublime and special Stella”. Stella’s the Latin word for “star” – although I don’t suppose you’d know that. And I was his star, he told me – a radiant Cassiopeia who lit up his whole universe. He wrote me these amazing verses in almost all the letters, describing me as his midnight sun, his eye of heaven, his meteor. He promised me the Pleiades, to wear as diamonds in my ears; said he’d buy me the whole Milky Way – I only had to ask. I’ve never met another man so incredibly romantic – a poet, through and through, not scared of expressing feelings most other guys would avoid as over-the-top. Of course, to you he’s probably nothing more than a cash-cow. You just saw this successful City bloke and used your wiles to….’

  She tensed in shock, as the sound of footsteps broke into her imaginary tirade. Was it coming from outside, or from another floor? Or had he and Barbara left the function early and were now entering the building, about to burst in and discover her? Paralysed by indecision, she stood stock-still and listened; unable to locate the sound. The acoustics in the flat were strange and, several times when here with Mark, she had mistaken a noise below for one outside. Yet the risk of being seen was so unthinkable, she bolted in a panic straight out through the door and headed for the emergency stairs. The lift was just too risky. What in God’s name would she do if they stepped out as she stepped in?

  She dashed headlong down the seven flights of stairs, yet, even in her haste, she was aware of their grubby concrete and of the bare, unpainted walls. Everything in Marlborough Court was outwardly luxurious, but here was its grungy underside, concealed from common view. And, doubtless, that was true of Barbara: a seductive face and figure disguising a base core.

  As she juddered to a stop at the bottom of the stairs, she paused to catch her breath; experiencing a sense of triumph, mingled with the fear – she had wreaked a truly gratifying revenge. That interloper wouldn’t last, not when she saw the passion steaming from Mark’s letters and knew he would never address a slut like her in so high-flown a fashion. Indeed, once her tinsel coating had rubbed off and he came face to face with the dross beneath, he would realize just how badly he had been duped. Even her name was inferior. Barbara, meaning ‘foreigner’ or ‘stranger’, was utterly appropriate for some barbarous little upstart he had met on alien soil. ‘Stella’, on the other hand, suggested celestial spheres.

  She emerged into reception, exchanged a brief word with the porter, then quickly left the building; darting past the plashing fountain and shimmering Christmas trees. Once in the street, she broke into a run, trying to conceal herself in the shadow of the fence until she had turned the corner and was almost at the car. She was about to drive straight home, when, suddenly, she changed her mind and strode into the pub. The deed was done, so she deserved a drink, to celebrate.

  Stumbling out of the Swan, having lost all track of time, she walked over to the river and stood shivering on the bridge, reluctant to return to her lonely, empty flat. How black the water looked; fathomless and sinister, with the threat of dangerous currents churning underneath. And the sky was equally dark; entirely overcast; no glint of moon or stars; just lowering banks of cloud, pressing down remorselessly, as if to suffocate the earth.

  All at once, she slumped against the parapet; hands gripping its rough edge. Only at that moment did recognition dawn; a surge of horror shuddering through her body as she realized what she had done. How could she have been so utterly obtuse, in casting away a source of genuine treasure: the lasting proof and record of Mark’s love? He could easily destroy those letters – and destroy her in the process. Maybe, even now, he was consigning them to the shredder; blitzing them to paper-dust. Perhaps Barbara hadn’t even read them – he might have lured her into the kitchen, or delayed her in the hall, while he annihilated every shred of evidence. Which meant this act of revenge was not only completely pointless, but had left her the ultimate loser.

  She paced up and down the bridge, still unable to believe her folly in actually relinquishing a poet’s homage. She might know those letters off by heart, but that was little comfort. If only she possessed them still, in authenticating black and white, she could have re-read his praises constantly, as a source of pride and pleasure throughout her later years; a reminder and a validation of the fact she’d been exalted and extolled. So long as she retained that tribute, she owned part of Mark himself – his romantic spirit, poetic fire, the white heat of his love. By jettisoning them, she had extinguished her own light and become as drear and lustreless as this funereal December. Now she was condemned to live in darkness; her star eclipsed, burnt out, and – even at this very moment – collapsing into the blackest of black holes.

  It was Barbara’s star that was firmly in the ascendant.

  THICK HAIR

  ‘The trouble with this system, love, it’s ancient!’

  Like me, thought Connie – malfunctioning and old.

  The plumber shook his head, as if despairing of the radiator. She hadn’t caught his name – something unpronounceable. He seemed a decent type, though, with a friendly face and kind, brown, trusting eyes.

  ‘You can’t get the parts, you see. This gland-valve’s had it, so I’ll need to find a replacement, but the problem is where?’

  She already knew that replacements weren’t always available. Her two hip-replacements had been reasonably successful, but there was no similar solution, as yet, for her arthritic feet and spine.

  ‘There’s just a chance I might have one in the van, but don’t hold your breath, love – OK?’

  She liked the way he called her ‘love’. Love had always been in short supply, so she was storing up these ‘loves’ in the pantry of her mind. Five, so far.

  Following him into the tiny hall, she stood watching at the entrance to her flat, as he went out into the street and wrenched open the door of his battered old white van. Then he disappeared from view – well, all except for the top of his head. His hair was exceptionally thick. She had noticed that the minute he arrived, because it reminded her of a horse’s mane, or the thatch on a cottage-roof: close-packed, dense and strong. No one she knew nowadays had hair as thick as that. Most of her friends had passed on, anyway, and the near-strangers at the day centre had either wispy, thistledown hair, similar to hers, or none at all, in the case of the two men. Yes, men were also in short supply: a mere couple, as against at least a dozen ladies, attended the luncheon club.

  ‘You’re in luck, love!’ The plumber returned with a small metal object, brandishing it as excitedly as if it were a gold doubloon. ‘This was sitting at the bottom of my junk-box. I must have kept it from a job I done years and years ago.’

  He looked far too young to have been working ‘years and years ago’. Twenty-one, she’d guess – Frank’s age when he’d died.

  Having ushered him back to the bedroom, she returned to keep her vigil by Frank’s photograph, which she’d been doing, off and on, all day. She observed the self-same ritual every year, on the day of the anniversary; placing a lighted candle by the photo and a posy of fresh flowers. Today was the sixty-ninth. There was no telling, of course, whether she’d still be around for the seventieth. It already seemed extraordinarily unfair that she should have lived so much longer than Frank, yet, in all those decades, she had never once been tempted even to look at another man. Her name was Constance, after all – and constancy the loveliest of virtues.

  ‘Excuse me, love,’ the plumber called, having come to the door of the living-room. ‘I’ll need to drain the radiator down, so—’ He broke off when he saw the candle, casting its gold gleam across the photog
raph. ‘That your son?’ he asked.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Grandson?’

  ‘No. My … fiancé. He went down in the Hood.’

  ‘Beg your pardon?’

  Young people today knew nothing. The two teenage boys in the flat above had never even heard of the Second World War. ‘The Hood was a battle-cruiser,’ she told him, ‘and, once, the pride of the Royal Navy.’

  ‘Yipes! So what went wrong?’

  This is the BBC Home Service … The radio announcer’s voice seemed to stun the room again; the news slashing across her face, like jagged shards of glass: HMS Hood has been lost. Shelled by the battleship Bismarck, she broke in two and sank.

  Her heart also broke in two – although not at that actual instant, because every fibre of her being was determined to keep hoping. Hope was a need, a duty, a raw, overwhelming instinct. She just had to believe that Frank had escaped:, been transferred to another ship, maybe, before the Hood was hit, or rushed to hospital with some serious but non-terminal disease, or – if he had been on the fated ship – managed somehow to struggle to safety, through the churning waves and wreckage. But, three days later, his distraught, weeping mother called round at the house and unfolded the dread telegram. She hadn’t cried. Tears were for lesser things: a lost job, a stolen purse.