I'm on the train!

by Wendy Perriam

  If she was rich when she was fifty, though, it wouldn’t be so bad. Stopping to look in another shop window, she imagined having such stacks of cash she could have anything she chose, and began picking out fancy things to buy. She’d read about a pampered bitch in Cosmo, who owned ninety-seven pairs of shoes; some costing a cool three grand a pair. Her own battered trainers had set her back £8.99, although admittedly the soles were wearing thin. If you owned ninety-seven pairs of shoes, how did you decide which ones to wear? Did you follow some strict system over ninety-seven days, or single out your favourites and ignore the boring rest? It had been like that at home – the younger kids hogging all the attention, while she was simply surplus to requirements.

  The only shoes she wanted at present were a pair of fur-lined boots. Her toes were so numb she had lost all feeling in them, and her feet were murder, because she’d been on them for so long. But, if she didn’t keep moving, she’d freeze solid, like an icicle. The weather was the spiteful kind that kept sussing out the gap between her jeans and top, and pouncing on the bare bit at the back of her neck.

  She turned up the collar of her denim jacket and mooched on across the lights. This town was unknown territory and, for all she knew, she could be walking round in circles. What had struck her when she first arrived was the volume of the noise: angry drivers hooting; buses rumbling and whining; the deafening din of road-works; cop cars racing past, with shrieking sirens.

  God, the cops! If she planned on sleeping rough tonight, she’d better hide herself away in some secret little alley, or even doss down in a churchyard, if she didn’t mind the ghosts. She did actually believe in ghosts, because she’d seen her dead grandma, once, coming out of the village church. She never mentioned it to anyone – they’d only call her mad – although the maddest people, in point of fact, were the ones who closed their minds to things they couldn’t understand.

  Begging was also risky, as far as the cops were concerned. They were bound to move her on, or start asking dodgy questions. Yet she needed food as much as sleep – no, more. She’d already tried the litter-bins; found a few mince-pies, mostly reduced to crumbs, and half a mouldy loaf, but that was ages ago and her stomach was growling again. Hunger and fear kept fighting in her head, but, this time, hunger won. At least people should be generous in this season of loving-and-giving – ha ha.

  She chose her pitch with care, right outside the flashiest of the shops. Should she remove her jacket and use it as a cushion, or leave it on, for warmth? She left it on. The pavement was reasonably clean; the street-cleaners out in force, even at this hour. Of course, Christmas meant mess and litter as much as peace and good will.

  ‘Spare some change,’ she muttered; angry yet embarrassed by the nasty looks she received. Worse to be ignored, though. The two snotty females just swanning into the shop didn’t even see her – too busy gossiping. Both of them were weighed down with shopping-bags – not tat from Boots or Superdrug, but glossy, stiffened carriers, with ritzy logos and proper handles, and probably stuffed with yet more killer shoes.

  ‘Spare some change.’

  The blokes were just as bad; glared at her, like she was some grotty form of pond-life that crawled along the bottom in the mud.

  Her hand was numb from holding it stretched out. It needed a bit of exercise, such as closing round some nice fat dosh. But these people were so tight, it would hurt them to part even with 5p.

  Suddenly, an old woman stopped and bent right down, peering into her face. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady, begging for money, like a down-and-out. You ought to be at home, doing your homework or helping your poor mother.’

  Her ‘poor’ mother probably hadn’t even noticed that she’d scarpered. With so many other kids in her hair, one less would be a blessing. As for homework, what a laugh!

  Once the woman had moved on, without sparing her a penny, she began to feel so empty, she was tempted simply to nick some food from one of the big supermarkets. Except they all had store-detectives and she didn’t fancy landing up in a cell. What she really needed was a dog. People couldn’t bear animals to starve, whereas humans could die in droves, for all they cared. She’d seen a beggar just outside the station, with the perfect sort of dog: a curly, cuddly one, with a pathetic look in its big, brown, soulful eyes. It gazed at every passer-by with such a mix of pain and longing, they couldn’t help but shell out. Let its owner rot in hell, they probably thought, but save the poor precious mutt.

  She had never had a dog, or any sort of pet, come to that. Her mother said she couldn’t cope with any more mouths to feed. Years ago, she’d tried to argue for a goldfish, pointing out that fish-food wouldn’t exactly break the bank. But her mum had changed the subject and begun banging on about the broken washing-machine and the time it took to get anything repaired.

  Shivering in her flimsy jacket, she imagined a big, furry dog – for warmth – then tried to think of a name. Maybe Granby, after the Marquis of Granby pub – the last place she’d seen her father, before he vanished into the Great Unknown. He had taken her there for a beer – or three. She’d been far too young to drink then, but no one seemed that fussed and, anyway, her dad was very matey with the barman.

  ‘Good boy, Granby,’ she murmured, already feeling better, knowing she’d have company tonight. And cash was showering in – tenners by the ton-weight. Granby was a pro; knew the trick of combining charm and desperation, so that no one could resist. She’d be a millionairess soon; could buy her own place and tell her mother to get stuffed.

  Then, miracle of miracles, a doddery old fellow shuffled to a halt and pressed a real note into her hand – a fiver, not a tenner, but riches nonetheless. She could buy a whole (unmouldy) loaf and several cans of drink and loads of other stuff. She flashed the guy a smile. It hurt to smile. The wind was so raw it set her teeth on edge.

  In fact, she ought to make a move. Why risk trouble with the law, when the fiver would see her through the night, and most of tomorrow, too? Besides, the shops would be closing soon, so she shouldn’t leave it too late. Her legs were so cramped, it was hard to get up from the pavement, and her bum was almost freezing off. Who cared? She’d look better if she lost a bit of bum.

  She stopped, baffled, by the bread counter, counting all the different types of loaf. Not just white or brown, as in Patterson’s, but organic, stone-ground, seeded, crustless, high-fibre, Danish, calorie-reduced and dozens more. It was price that mattered most, though, and the cheapest by a long chalk was a large white loaf from the ‘Basics’ range, at a mere 47p. Next, she found her way to the drinks section, again dizzied by the choice: Sprite, Tango, Fanta, Red Bull, Dr Pepper, ginger beer and lots she’d never heard of, like dandelion-and-burdock. Best to focus simply on the Cokes, or else she’d go boss-eyed. There was a bottle of ‘Basics’ cola at only 17p for two litres, which was almost unbelievable, since proper branded Coke cost £1.59. She dithered for a while – didn’t fancy lugging a great, heavy bottle – but most of the cans seemed to come in six-packs and cost twenty times as much, so she eventually plonked the ‘Basics’ in her basket.

  She was doing fine, so far, except she needed something hot, so she headed for the cooked-food counter. Sausage rolls were the best – cheaper than the chicken legs and more filling than the onion bhajis. Once the guy had handed over the package, she couldn’t resist unwrapping it and taking a huge bite. The warm, greasy pastry was bliss, flaking on her tongue, and followed by the spicy tang of sausage-meat. She tossed a piece to Granby; heard his grateful bark.

  Right – that would have to do. She must keep some money in reserve, for emergencies or maybe fares. She hadn’t worked out what to do yet, or where the hell to go. She’d intended drawing up a plan, but cold and fear and hunger had stopped her thinking about anything except how long she could keep going without losing heart entirely. Now she came to think of it, cold and fear and hunger were also ‘basics’, in a way. In fact, her whole existence at the moment could be described as pretty ba
sic. She’d left everything behind, at home, except her mobile, and her bag, and the clothes she happened to be wearing when she’d marched out after the bust-up. And even the battery in her phone had died, so she was cut off from her friends. Normally, she and Kat and Jessica spoke twenty times a day. Without those conversations, she was beginning to feel horribly alone, like that movie she and Kat had seen, where the whole earth had been destroyed, and one lone survivor went stumbling around the charred remains, eating rotting corpses, just to keep alive.

  For God’s sake, she thought, glancing up at the shelves and shelves of food, she wasn’t quite reduced yet to eating human flesh. She’d manage – ’course she would. Stray dogs got nothing and they usually survived. Perhaps she’d turn Granby into a stray; a fearless little mongrel wandering the streets, and homeless – same as her.

  As she waited at the check-out, she stared in shock at other people’s trolleys. Were they catering for whole tribes? No one in the village ever bought such loads of stuff – some of it way out. What the hell was quinoa flour, or Sharon fruit, or gravadlax?

  ‘Granby, d’you fancy some gravadlax dog-biscuits? Or quinoa-flavoured Pedigree Chum? Sorry – can’t afford them.’

  Bored with inspecting people’s shopping, she inspected the blokes, instead – older blokes, of course. Her dad might turn up anywhere, so she had to keep a constant look-out. Dads were always on her mind – dads like Natalie’s, who bought his kids anything they wanted and told them they were brilliant; dads like Kat’s, who laughed a lot, instead of throwing things; dads who didn’t drink; dads who stayed around. At least she’d had a dad – off and on – for nearly eleven years, although more off than on when she’d been a tiny sprog. He hated babies, so her mum said. How weird was that – hating babies and having seven? Perhaps he wasn’t her real father. How would you ever know?

  ‘Hello, there! Can I help?’

  Jodie jumped. She hadn’t even realized she’d reached the head of the queue and that the check-out guy was waiting – polite, maybe, but frowning. He frowned still more when she dropped the change he gave her and had to root around on the floor to pick up every coin. The old bag behind her began tutting and complaining; saying she didn’t have all day to waste. Too bad. Even the 2ps were precious, so she couldn’t simply walk away. She had only £3.60 left, so how was she going to eat next week – or next month, come to that? Maybe she could find some sort of job, except they were bound to want references and stuff. But, first, she had to get some food inside her, so, even before she left the shop, she wolfed the rest of the sausage roll and washed it down with cola.

  The cold slapped her face as she stepped out of Sainsbury’s and trudged, head down, along the street, now looking for somewhere to sleep, or at least some sort of bolt-hole. The crowds were thinning out, although every time she passed a pub or café, she envied those inside: people with families and friends, who were warm and safe and snug and had jobs and plans and futures.

  ‘Heel, Granby!’ she instructed, stopping at the kerb and waiting for the lights to change. If you could train a dog, why not a dad? ‘Stay!’ she ordered her dad – a bit late in the day, of course. She often wondered if her mother had tried to make him stay. They’d never talked about it. Her mum clammed up if she so much as mentioned him.

  Soon, she had left the shops behind, but the main street was still quite busy, so she turned off into a side-road and began walking up the hill. The further she went from the town-centre, the safer she would be. It wasn’t just the cops she feared, but weirdoes, gangs with knives. She broke into a run, just to warm herself up. She should have bought some woolly gloves in Sainsbury’s, but they would have cost as much as half-a-dozen ‘Basic’ loaves, and it was a question of priorities. The whole of life was a question of priorities. Was school more important than work, or love than independence? She had never been in love – although, judging by her mother’s example, love never lasted long, so probably best, on balance, to live without a bloke.

  By the time she’d jogged another mile, she was out of breath and knackered. Running with a bag of shopping and a bottle banging against your side wasn’t exactly a breeze. She panted to a halt, just yards from a boarded-up pub. Its sign, the Hope and Anchor, was hanging loose and swinging in the wind. Hope and Anchor – how ironic was that? – just what she didn’t have. It might be a place to hide, though. Warily, she glanced around, but there was nobody in sight. The whole street seemed derelict: a few run-down shops, all permanently closed, by the looks of it. Maybe the area was due for demolition, which suited her just fine, since it meant no one much would come here.

  She sneaked round the side of the building. The rear wasn’t boarded up, but the two back doors were locked and barred; their paint blistering and peeling. In the grudging light, she could make out a stretch of wasteland – the pub garden, once, maybe, but now overgrown and tangled. It would be far too manky to sleep on, not to mention perishing cold. She peered up at the sky. The clouds looked bruised and ragged; the moon was just a sliver, so thin and sharp it could cut. Continuing round the other side, she stumbled upon a lean-to: a small wooden structure, with a corrugated roof. It didn’t have a door, but at least she’d be protected from the wind there.

  She stepped in very gingerly, scared of rats, or bats, or worse. She should have bought a torch – more use than gloves or Coke – but there were no rustlings or scrabblings, thank God. The floor was squelchy underfoot, littered with old dead leaves, but the advantage was she’d have the place to herself, apart from Granby, of course. Dogs could protect you: growl in warning if anyone came near; pin down an attacker; bite a chunk out of his leg if he was spoiling for a fight.

  Fumbling in the darkness, she emptied out the Sainsbury’s bag and put it on the ground, so she could sit on a piece of plastic, rather than on grunge and grot. She felt a sudden longing for her bedroom – those things she took for granted: the rug, the radiator, the big, thick, cosy duvet, the amazing fact you could press a switch and immediately the lights came on. She wondered if her mother had started worrying about her. Unlikely. Lucy’s mother worried if Lucy was even seconds late. And Kat’s parents drove her everywhere, to make sure that she was safe. Great to have a car. The minute she was old enough, she’d learn to drive and buy one. Except a car cost thousands, didn’t it?

  ‘Granby, what sort of car shall we have? A Porsche? A BMW?’

  How pathetic was that – talking to a dog that didn’t exist? But since she had always gone in for imaginary things, she was clearly mega-pathetic. When her mother put her foot down about one piddling goldfish, she’d imagined a whole tropical aquarium; then a Persian cat, followed by a horse – thoroughbred, of course. And she’d had imaginary dads by the score. A pity people couldn’t pick out their own parents, instead of making do with the ones laid on by Fate. She knew what sort of mum she’d choose: someone who didn’t smoke or shout; had no other kids but her, and who’d let her have any pet she wanted – rabbits, budgies, hamsters, a whole tribe of cats and dogs – and a mother who could cook.

  Sitting cross-legged on the Sainsbury’s bag, she breathed in the smell of baking. Her mum was in the kitchen, making fairy-cakes. She was allowed to scrape out the mixing-bowl; allowed to eat as many as she chose. No – first they had to be iced. She wasn’t sure exactly how you iced cakes, so she ditched that stage and just admired the finished results. There were loads of different colours – pink, white, yellow, lilac, blue – and every sort of topping. The lilac ones had Smarties on top, and the pink ones had whole strawberries, and the yellow ones had sugar stars, and the blue ones sugar hearts and kisses. She bit into a heart; felt it explode in a sugar-rush of love and, suddenly, her mum was kissing her – a real, adoring kiss.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ she muttered to herself. ‘That’s way over the top.’ Her mother could no more cook than run the marathon, and to imagine her kissing her kids really was a fantasy too far. Even Granby was pretty useless – not warm at all and, actually, no help.

&nb
sp; She jumped up, to stamp her feet and swing her arms, just to keep the blood moving. Maybe she should go back into town and buy herself a hot drink. Except being cold was preferable to being nabbed – or knifed – so she stayed put where she was. Perhaps some food would warm her up, so she reached out in the murky dark to find the loaf of bread; removed a slice and chewed it, dry. It tasted limp and flabby, but she added butter and jam, then a bit of cheese and pickle. Easier to imagine cheese and pickle than to imagine a kiss from her mother.

  ‘Was she always undemonstrative?’ the counsellor had asked.

  ‘She was always bloody angry,’ she’d retorted, and the counsellor had smiled. Mary, she was called – the Blessed Virgin’s name. And she had the same sweet, motherly face as the statue of the Blessed Virgin that stood outside the Catholic church; the same gentle, kind-blue eyes. She was small and sort of fragile, like she might blow away in a puff of wind, and her voice was soft and whispery; a voice you’d use in church. She had never shouted; not in all five sessions. They’d promised her ten sessions, but, smack-bang in the middle, Mary had moved house and begun working somewhere else.

  The news had been so gut-wrenching, she’d locked herself in her bedroom and refused to budge, for days. But then Christopher took over and he was just as nice. His voice was like warm custard: velvety and smooth. He was older, though, much older, and had a wrinkled, jowly face that didn’t seem to fit his hair, which was weirdly thick and dark. But, when she saw him for her second session, the hair had disappeared and he was completely shiny bald. It was such a shock, she just stood and stared, however rude it seemed. But he sat her down in her usual chair and explained that he’d lost his hair after cancer treatment and no longer wished to wear his wig, because it was uncomfortable and hot. After that, she simply couldn’t concentrate – not once in the whole hour. She’d kept worrying about him having cancer and maybe actually dying before they’d completed all the sessions.