by K. L. Slater
That day still seems like a blur to me, as if I took leave of my senses for a short time and became somebody else.
It doesn’t make sense; it doesn’t have to. Over time, the negative feelings have taken root and don’t need any kind of logical explanation. Nothing can ever make what I did right.
As my therapist said at the time, until I learn to forgive myself, it’s something that will continue to play out in my head. And I’m a hell of a long way from any sort of self-forgiveness.
I stopped seeing the therapist over two years ago. She might have gone now, but the raw emotions remain.
The main road is busy already, although there’s still about twenty minutes to go to the official start of rush hour.
Shiny wet cars and buses whoosh past, too close and too loud. I wish I was watching from behind glass, up at my window on the third floor, where I’d feel calm and in control.
For a few minutes we walk in what I think is companionable silence; that is, until Archie suddenly turns to me.
‘Auntie Alice, why are you acting so weird?’ That good-natured boy who helped me with my socks and boots earlier seems to have his bite back.
I slow my pace and look at him. ‘What do you mean, weird?’
‘Well… you’re walking too close to the fences and walls and you’re sort of turned in a bit, as if you’re scared of the traffic.’
‘I don’t think I am. It’s just… I’m a bit cold, that’s all.’
‘Mum says you never go out any more.’ Archie looks at me curiously. ‘She says you’re a recluse. That means you don’t like mixing with people at all. Even with us.’
‘That’s not true.’ But my own words sound empty and untruthful, and I sigh. ‘I don’t go out as much as I used to, and I suppose you just sort of get used to it, not having many friends.’
‘Mum says you haven’t got any friends any more.’ He pats my arm. ‘It’s all right, you know, Auntie Alice. You get used to that too, after a bit.’
I wrestle with a swell of sympathy for Archie, but at the same time I’m thinking I really ought to pick my moment with Louise and ask her why she’s saying such peevish things about me. Even as the thought occurs to me, I know I won’t do it.
My sister has a short memory. There was a time when she was falling apart too. Her strong, fearless facade hasn’t always been there.
I push away thoughts about the damage Martyn Hardy did to her. It was a long time ago now.
‘Thanks, Archie, I’m fine, but it’s nice to have a few friends if you can, you know. I’m sure there are people you get on with at school who could become your friends.’
He doesn’t respond, and speeds up his pace a little so he’s slightly in front of me. Probably time to change the subject.
‘So, what lesson have you got first today?’
He shrugs and shoves his hands into his coat pockets.
‘Literacy.’ He scuffs his soles as he walks and I bite my tongue as the scraping sound agitates my ears. ‘Some of the boys on our street play football at the bottom of the cul-de-sac after school. They talk about it in lessons.’
‘Sounds fun. Do you join in?’
‘I wouldn’t want to play football. I don’t like it,’ he says, looking down at his feet. ‘Even if they asked me to, I wouldn’t.’
‘That’s a shame. Well, maybe you could just watch… or referee, even. Then you could still join in with the fun.’
He scowls. ‘I don’t care, anyway. I’m going to set up another game with some bigger boys from the academy who will beat them up if they try to join in.’
Archie is still at primary school, but in two years’ time, when he’s eleven, he’ll move up to Wilford Academy.
He stops walking abruptly and kicks a large stone hard, from the edge of the pavement into the road and the path of an oncoming car. The driver slows and glares as he passes.
I decide to ignore his silent protest. He’s obviously hurting.
‘You know, I think, if you got talking to your classmates and they knew you were interested, they might invite you to join them.’
‘I know you’re trying to help, Auntie Alice,’ he says wearily, sounding older than his years. ‘But it doesn’t really work like that. If people at school decide they don’t like you, they hardly ever change their minds.’
‘Have you spoken to your mum and dad about how you feel?’ I’m sure Louise and Darren would be mortified if they knew how lonely and excluded Archie was feeling.
His face stretches into a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and he skips ahead.
‘I know, I’ll count blue cars, you count red, and when we get to school, the highest number wins!’
Clearly the moment for confidences has passed and he doesn’t walk next to me again. We arrive at school at 7.58.
‘See you tomorrow morning, then,’ I say as he gives me a cursory peck on the cheek and heads into reception.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I wait until I see the receptionist buzz Archie through the internal security doors and into the main building, and then I turn and walk back out of the school gates and onto the side road.
Once I’m out of sight of the school office window, I stop walking and lean against the fence for a moment, closing my eyes. There is no logical reason why my heart rate is up like this, why my mouth is dry and my hands a little shaky.
I’ve walked all the way here. I’ve managed to take good care of my nephew, and nobody has spoken to me, much less bothered me in any way.
Yet as soon as I step out of my front door, I feel vulnerable and afraid of what might happen to me, to other people around me.
I know there’s nothing I can do about the past. Staying inside and avoiding contact with others might seem like a good plan, but actually, it can’t change what’s already happened.
Surely everyone must look back at something and wish with all their heart they could make a different decision at a crucial moment. It doesn’t stop them living their lives and trying to make a future for themselves.
Yet on a physical level, my body remembers and panics and feels afraid. And what happened feels just as real today as it felt when Jack died.
I take a deep breath and will my feet to start moving again. In only fifteen minutes, I’ll be home. Once I’m back, I can make a nice cup of tea and a slice of toast and calm down properly.
Taking Archie to school has forced me out of my comfort zone and I’m going to try and count that as a positive step forward in making some changes.
When I turn the corner onto the busy main road, my gaze is drawn to a crowd of people a bit further up. They’re clustered together in a way that seems familiar from looking out of my window, and I realise it’s a tram stop.
The 8.16 that I watch every morning will pick up passengers here and take in a couple of other stops before finally it reaches the hub outside my flat.
I glance at my watch. It’s 8.10. At this time, I’m usually sitting comfortably by the window waiting for its arrival.
I wonder idly what my man on the tram will think of my absence this morning.
I’d hate for him to think that because he waved to me, I am purposely staying away from the window. I know we’re strangers, but he’s shown the first tentative signs that he’s noticed me, and raising his hand like that… well, it counts as a greeting of sorts, doesn’t it?
If the same thing had happened three years earlier, in the midst of my busy life, I would have barely noticed him, but lots has changed since then.
The fact is, a man smiling and waving, passing my home every morning… that counts as more contact than I’ve had with a new person for a long, long time.
There’s something inside my recently-turned-thirty-year-old self that wants to grab him like a lifeline. However pathetic it might sound, at this very moment, the possibility of getting to know this guy – however much of a long shot that may be – feels like the only brightness in my life. At the same time, it terrifies me.
I sto
p walking when I get to the tram stop. I just need time to think, I suppose. To get my head around a crazy little idea that’s just started sprouting in there. It’s too crazy to articulate. In fact, it feels like a distinctly bad idea.
Part of me yearns for the calm safety of my apartment, but there’s another, more insistent part that zings with excitement at the thought of doing something else… something impulsive and different.
I stand for a while watching as commuters rush past in their smart clothing, clutching takeaway coffees and talking on their phones. Nobody so much as glances my way. They’re oblivious to the plain, shoddily dressed woman leaning against the wall of the newsagent’s.
The earlier moderately busy road is now choked with gridlocked vehicles.
A frisson of anticipation shivers through the tram-stop crowd and they thin out and form a ragged queue. They’re all looking over their shoulders, and when I too turn to glance behind me, I see the object of their sudden interest.
The tram is approaching, trundling past the stationary traffic on its tracks. At road level, the front of the driver’s cab resembles a friendly face. It seems much larger and more imposing than from my usual view, looking down from the third floor.
My feet start to move. I’m walking, faster now, until I reach the end of the queue.
There’s a screech of brakes, the whoosh of metal doors flying open. Voices, a beeping noise, the shuffling of feet.
My thoughts fuse together until I can’t think straight at all, but then I let go of it all; I let go of the fear of getting close to other people.
The small crowd swallows me up and carries me forward.
And before I know it, I too am boarding the tram.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The tram is busy, but everyone has a seat. I wait in line behind people who are still shuffling along the aisle, deciding where they want to sit.
Sometimes, when I watch the tram from my apartment window, I see that people are packed in and standing. They grip the long bright yellow poles that rise from the seats in an attempt to keep their balance, their expressions less than pleased.
I take the first empty seat I come to.
My man always has the same seat and he always sits in the second carriage along. That tells me he probably gets on at one of the earliest stops, which enables him to make the exact same selection each day.
Finally, the last person sits down, the tram doors close and we begin to move.
I stare at my hands, clasped in my lap. I’m willing my breathing to calm down.
Slowly in and out. In, out.
I did it. I actually boarded the tram, rather than just acting the thought out in my head. Rather than simply watching the world go by from my upstairs window.
When my breathing regulates a little, I allow myself to look up. I inch along, right to the edge of my seat so I can see through to the next carriage.
I spot him right away. He’s looking out of the window, and from here, I can only see the back of his head and his partial profile. I recognise the short sandy-brown hair, the beige overcoat and the student scarf.
His head falls forward and I know he’ll be looking at his phone. Although I can’t fully see him, I imagine his angular jawline, slightly sharp nose. The full dark pink lips that remind me so much of Jack’s.
The seat next to him is empty, as it always is, even when the tram looks busy. Perhaps he puts a bag on it to dissuade people from sitting down.
The chatter around me fades out as I imagine standing up and walking through into the next car. I often see people doing this when they’re looking for a seat. Nobody would bat an eyelid if I got up to do it right now.
My breathing speeds up again and it feels like my heart is misfiring every few beats, giving me a horrible sickly feeling in my chest.
I push my hand into my pocket and pull out the piece of paper I put in there before leaving the house this morning. I read the list through, once, twice and a third time, until I start to feel calmer.
Wake up
Get dressed
Archie arrives
Breakfast, chat… keep him calm
Leave house
Walk to school
Drop Archie off and walk back
It was the lists that saved me back then. When the simplest everyday tasks threatened to overwhelm me, I would think through the steps of making a cup of tea or telephoning the benefits office and I’d write them down.
For months, I was virtually incapacitated. The physical injuries to my hips and the bottom of my spine weren’t serious, but they impacted on my life and still continue to do so. But it was the anxiety that rendered me a nervous wreck, leaving me barely able to function on some days.
Yet someone had to look after Mum. Somehow we managed to get through that hellish time together. Although I struggled with the simplest tasks, I found I could write a list through the pain, extract straightforward steps that took the fire out of the constant burn of anxiety.
Even if I didn’t follow the actions through, the act of writing the list made me feel as if I had achieved something.
Today’s list has also served its purpose. I completed and actually surpassed the steps on there. Instead of walking back home as per the final step, I now find myself in the startling position of sitting in close proximity to a man I feel like I almost know… in a weird sort of way.
After glancing down my entries, I fold the list in half and push it back in my pocket.
I could reach his seat in approximately fifteen to eighteen steps. He wouldn’t know I was even there until I sat down next to him. I can imagine it now… how surprised he’d be when he looked up and realised it was me. And then he’d probably smile.
He has the type of colouring that means his cheeks would flush quite easily. I know I would be exactly the same and we could laugh about our shared timidity.
I’m aware the tram is beginning to slow as we approach the next stop. A glut of faces appears at the window as passengers crowd towards the doors. This stop is busier than the last, even more so, I think, than the hub outside my apartment block.
This must be the stop where the tram really fills up.
Several people are already standing, waiting by the doors so they can be first off, and I take the opportunity to also stand up and move towards the second carriage. Then I’ll be even nearer to him.
I look through into the next car to see that there are spare seats two rows behind him.
Impulsively, as the doors open and passengers alight, I rush through and sit down.
Now there are just two rows of seats between me and him.
There’s a woman in front of me and a man sitting in front of her and directly behind my man. I curse him silently, wishing I could sit there, close enough to be able to smell his aftershave.
My man coughs. It’s a polite, restrained cough that fits with what I perceive to be his quiet, friendly nature.
I wish his phone would ring so I can hear his voice. I’d guess he’ll be well-spoken and intelligent; he looks confident and comfortable in his own skin. Just like Jack used to be.
I look out of the window, willing my heart to quit its hammering. Sitting behind him, watching him, feels sneaky… sly, somehow. Yet I’m only riding the tram like he and about a hundred other people are doing this morning.
Maybe we’ll look back together and laugh at this, one day soon.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I’m willing the passenger seated behind my man to get up, but annoyingly, he stays put in his seat.
There are more people on board now, some milling around in the aisle, getting in the way of my line of sight.
The tram sets off again, and its smooth electric wail fills my ears. I try to get my thoughts organised. Do I get off at ‘my’ stop? He’ll see that I’m not at the window and never know I was so close to him all along.
There’s a risk he’ll spot me getting off and walking to the apartment building. Would I be forced to smile and wave to him from
the kerbside… will he wonder why I didn’t say hello?
I look down at my scruffy leggings and flat boots. I look a mess. It wasn’t such a good idea, impulsively boarding the tram like this.
Annoyance bubbles in my chest as a woman adjusts her position and stands directly in front of me. I know it’s illogical to get angry with an innocent stranger, but I feel like giving her a mighty push to get her out of the way.
The tram slows to stopping. It’s time for me to decide whether to get off or not.
I stand up and take a couple of steps towards the exit door behind me before turning back again. Dithering. I can see the back of his head and a partial side view of his face from here, and he’s looking up at the apartment building… He’s looking for me.
I can’t see my own window from this standing position and I can’t see if there’s disappointment on his face the moment he realises I’m not there for the first time in weeks.
The last passengers are now alighting. The woman blocking my view has found a seat. I could walk over to him right now, move the brown leather satchel I can now see lying on the seat next to him.
‘I’m not up there, I’m right here,’ I’d say to him, and we’d smile together…
The doors whoosh closed and I sit back down in my seat. His head turns away from the window and he looks down at his phone again.
I wonder if his heart feels as heavy as my own. Being so close and yet too scared to approach him feels like torture.
Staring out, I feel the thump thump thump of my heart on the wall of my chest. The houses and shops pass by in a confused blur, reflecting my unfocused thoughts back at me.
Panic has clenched its ugly fist inside me, and suddenly I feel alone and vulnerable.
Why did I act so impulsively, getting on the tram this morning? These days I always strive to stay calm, to think things through in order to protect myself from getting in precisely this situation. To avoid doing something that might impinge on other people’s safety.
Now I’m travelling away from home at a speed of knots and I can feel a dull pain unfurling at the bottom of my spine. It’s waited, picked its moment. Mine is an intelligent back pain, always striking at the worst possible time.
