by Anna Legat
Some minutes later, she could bear her helplessness no longer and so she went downstairs to the flat in the basement, having resolved to ask Ahmed and Malik for help. They would know what to do, who to contact to find out if the train had arrived on time. She rang their bell, but judging by the silence and the darkness inside the flat, she could guess that they weren’t in. Yet, she refused to accept it. Perhaps they’d had an early night and were crashed out in bed? She banged on the door until her fist hurt. No answer. She was on her own.
She thought of heading for the train station. Of course, that’s what she would do! She threw on her coat and her shoes, and braved the night. She had no patience to hail a taxi and wait for it, so she walked. She cut a striking figure in the night: a disoriented old woman with a crazed look in her eye. People passing her were oblivious to her plight, going about their business, hurrying to their loved ones who waited for them at home. Pippa could wait no longer. The twinkling festive lights felt like an insult, as if someone – an evil and boastful clown – was having a laugh at her. She winced at them and buried her head deeper into the collar of her coat. She felt no cold even though the night was beginning to glimmer with frost.
The train station was quiet and almost empty. That was reassuring. She approached the man in the ticket office. ‘The train from London, from Paddington – is it delayed?’ she enquired.
‘Speak into the grille, please, madam. I didn’t catch that.’
She cleared her throat, stretched her neck and put her lips to the microphone. ‘My husband and son are late. They were on the train from Paddington, London. It was due to arrive at five to nine. Has there been a delay?’ She was just about controlling the tremor in her voice.
The man’s eyes rounded, ‘You didn’t hear? There was an... an accident. The train was derailed. They said it was a terrorist attack.’
She stared at him, thinking he didn’t understand her question. She had asked about the train from London, not about the world’s latest calamities. What was he on about? ‘No, you don’t understand. I’d like to know about the train from London Paddington. It should’ve -’
‘Ma’am, there is a number you can call, a dedicated emergency number. I’ll write it down for you,’ he looked up the number and scribbled it on a piece of paper and passed it through the ticket tray. ‘Here... They’ll be able to tell you if your son and your... did you say both your son and your husband were on that train?’ He gazed at her, a deeply sympathetic scowl crumpling his forehead. ‘If you call this number they’ll tell you if... if they’re all right.’
She picked up the piece of paper and gazed at it, puzzled. She looked up at the ticket man. He nodded weak encouragement. She frowned, resigned to the fact that clearly the man was unable – or unwilling – to assist her with her inquiry. She scrunched the paper and, absently, shoved it into her coat pocket. ‘I have to go home,’ she informed the man. ‘We’ve probably missed each other. They’re most likely waiting for me at home, wondering where I am.’
On unsteady feet Pippa Winterbourne headed back home. She was in no hurry, her main priority was to keep her balance. On a couple of occasions, she had to grasp a railing or lean on a wall in order to regain her breath. Everything seemed a bit blurred and slow-moving. Sounds were dragging in time as if she was listening to one of those old-fashioned stretched tapes. It was that drunken sensation she had not experienced in a very long time. She was concerned someone might think she’d had too much to drink. At her age!
She was taking her time. Somehow, she knew that once she was in the flat she would no longer be able to escape the fact that it was empty. Harry and Will had not made it home. She peered into people’s faces, hoping against reason that Harry or Will would smile back at her. One man asked her if she was all right, if she needed anything. She shook her head, apologised for staring and ran away. She stumbled and nearly fell. The stranger called after her, ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Quite sure!’ she nodded.
She arrived to a dark, empty building. She climbed the stairs up to her flat. The lights in the window were twinkling, just as she had left them.
‘Harry?’ she called from the threshold.
No answer. She went in.
As she stood, in her coat and shoes, she slumped into a chair. And she sat there, facing the door, waiting.
Time drags into infinity when you have nothing else to do but wait. She has been sitting in wait for several hours. The grandfather clock in the lounge struck five times some twenty minutes ago, each of those twenty minutes a stretch of eternity. She hears a knock on the door. She doesn’t question it, doesn’t ask herself why Harry can’t be bothered to use his own key. She gets up, proceeds to the door and opens it. Two people in police uniform greet her and produce their ID cards; one man and the other one, a woman. Even now, Pippa is not surprised.
‘Mrs Winterbourne?’
‘Yes.’
‘May we come in?’
‘Yes... I was just about to call you. I’ve your number somewhere here, in my pocket,’ she starts fumbling through her pockets.
‘Let’s go inside,’ the policewoman takes her gently by the elbow and guides her into the lounge. ‘Sit down, please.
We have bad news, I’m afraid -’
Pippa screams. She can’t bear to hear to it. She can’t. She puts her hands to her ears and screams.
‘Tea or coffee?’ The flight attendant is smiling at her, balancing two steaming jugs in her hands. She is wearing bright red lipstick; her attire is an immaculate suit, fitted perfectly to her petite figure.
‘Coffee, please.’ Wanda needs a boost – she’s been up all night. Since the call.
The friendly stewardess pours her coffee. ‘Milk?’ she suggests.
‘I don’t know... I don’t care! Just put it down!’ Wanda snaps at the woman, who gawps at her, piqued. What has she done to deserve this rudeness? What makes people think that just because they paid their airfare they can abuse the crew? She glances at her colleague on the opposite side of the trolley, and shrugs her shoulders with an exaggerated sigh. ‘Here you are, madam,’ she says pointedly.
‘I’m sorry... Thank you... My husband...’ Wanda stammers, picks up the cup and brings it to her lips only to scald them. She doesn’t feel the heat, though the man sitting in the seat next to her, winces in sympathy with her burnt lips. He and the stewardess exchange looks. The stewardess’ is that of I’ve seen it all before... The man, on the other hand, is concerned. And he has reason to be. Wanda puts the cup down awkwardly, it tips and the hot, black coffee spills. It drips off her tray, into her neighbour’s lap. He jumps in his seat to avoid the liquid staining his trousers.
‘What are you doing! Look what you’re doing!’ he shrills.
Wanda stares at him, horrified. ‘I’m sorry...’ She is trying to stop the flow with her hand. That only earns her another alarmed glare.
The man calls for the flight attendant, ‘Excuse me! Can you please -’
She glances over her shoulder, and shakes her head. ‘Let me,’ she comes to the rescue with a cloth.
‘I’m sorry,’ Wanda repeats.
‘Do you have any spare seats?’ the man demands. ‘Only this is my best suit, and my seat is now all wet -’
‘Yes,’ the flight attendant is only too happy to assist. ‘If you come with me, sir.’ They depart, huffing and puffing, both deeply affronted by Wanda’s antics.
‘I’m sorry...’
She doesn’t know what she’s doing. It is all too surreal to take at face value: her being on this plane back to the UK after swearing she would never go back again; her going back nevertheless. To identify Andrzej’s body.
The phone call came in the early hours of the morning. It was three o’clock, the night still thick and cold outside. The moment the phone rang Wanda knew it wasn’t an ordinary call. She sat up in bed and listened to it. Her mother must have been doing the same from her bedroom. She, too, wasn’t answering it. She, too, was numbed
with knowing...
Paulina woke up and trotted to Wanda’s bed. ‘Mum? Why’s the phone ringing?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’
‘Yes.’
She had to. It was for her. She threw on her dressing gown and went downstairs. Her mother was already there, poised by the telephone, her hand massaging her chest, her eyes fixed on Wanda. ‘What can it be? No one ever calls at this hour... What time is it in England? Could it be Andrzej?’
‘Hallo?’ Wanda put the receiver to her ear.
‘May I speak to Mrs Sokolowski?’ A foreign accent bruising Wanda’s surname.
‘You are speaking to her. What is this about? At this time...’ she mustered the courage to feign the displeasure at being awoken at an ungodly hour.
‘My name is Tracey Goulding. I’m with the police -’
‘Has something happened?’ Wanda inhaled, feeling the air flood her lungs. She reached for her mother’s hand. Her eyes told her what she already knew and what the policewoman was just about to confirm. Her worst fear.
‘I’m afraid so. I’m afraid -’
What is it with them being so afraid, always afraid so, a rebellious thought shouted inside Wanda’s skull. ‘Just tell me!’ she shouted into the receiver, her wits leaving her.
‘There was an accident. The train your husband was driving last night was derailed.’
‘No, no...’ she was muttering into the phone. She had watched it on the late night bulletin on television – the suspected terror attack in England. A South Western train to Bristol Temple Meads. Andrzej could’ve been the driver. She hoped to God he wasn’t. She acted as if he hadn’t been. She and her mother talked about all that vicious terrorism everywhere you go, everywhere you step. Spreading all over Europe, like the Plague. She talked about it as if it had nothing to do with her personally. As if it was their problem, whoever they were. She put distance between herself and the terror, which, horrendous as it was, had no bearing on her life. She had gone to bed, put the lights off, listened for a while and when nothing happened, let herself drift into sleep.
Until the phone had rung.
‘Your husband was one of the victims. He’s dead.’
‘No, no...’
‘I’m very sorry.’
‘No... This... How can you be sure?’
‘He was the driver of that train, and... We need you to come and identify the body.’
Tracey Goulding is waiting for her at the Arrivals. She is a biggish, voluptuous woman – a Mother-bear type. She puts her arm around Wanda and rubs her back. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I... I spilled coffee on the plane,’ Wanda feels compelled to explain the stain on her skirt.
Tracey Goulding nods thoughtfully. ‘Please, come with me. Have you got any luggage to collect before we go?’
‘Luggage?’ Wanda stares at her without comprehension.
‘Main luggage.’
‘No. I’ve this bag,’ Wanda lifts her handbag.
‘Okay. I’ll take you to the mortuary to -’
Wanda shudders.
‘Sorry.’
They get into a police car. Tracey Goulding is driving. The traffic is atrocious. So is the weather – foggy, disorientating. Tracey has to focus on the road. She says nothing. Wanda says nothing. It is like a voyage into the Afterlife. It has been feeling surreal right from the start. There should be a way to wake up from this nightmare.
But Wanda can’t find a way.
Like a lamb to the slaughter, she follows Tracey up to the Mortuary building, then down a flight of stairs, into the basement. How fitting for the mortuary to be located under the ground...
The body is lying on a trolley in impersonal surroundings, not at all in a nice quiet room filled with white flowers and incense. For some reason, Wanda has imagined it to be more like a funeral parlour. It isn’t.
Two more people are with the body. They introduce themselves, but she can’t hear them.
‘Are you ready?’ Tracey Goulding asks.
How ready can anybody be? Ever? Wanda nods.
One of the people lifts the white sheet to reveal Andrzej’s tranquil face. It is grey, the lips are faint purple; a cut on his left temple is clean of blood, almost like a line drawn with one of Paulina’s crayons. The stillness in his features is not like him, but it is him.
‘Is it your husband, Andrzej Sokolowski?’
‘He was coming home,’ she must tell them that. ‘For Christmas... And he was coming to stay, do you understand? He was to stay with us for good.’
Tracey Goulding guides her out of the room. Wanda’s legs buckle under her. Luckily there is a chair, a soft chair to sit in.
‘Can I get you something? Coffee?’ Tracey Goulding offers.
‘No, not a coffee. I’ll only spill it.’
XXVI
Haji is up for his share of work. Yesterday he set up some traps and today he brought three decent size hares. He skinned them skilfully – it seems skinning a hare is just the same as skinning any other wild animal. A hare has plenty of lean meat. A good winter stew was what this lot of misfits needed. Haji broke into the allotments by the canal and requisitioned potatoes, carrots, parsnip – even some herbs. The wood and the allotments provide rich pickings. He investigated the Weston Estate from a safe distance over a couple of days, and decided to give it a wide berth. Primarily, because of the dogs; they would follow his scent into the camp and bring trouble. Haji doesn’t need trouble. He is having a break from trouble.
He has been lying low for nearly a week now. This place and these people are God-sent: oblivious to the goings-on and detached from the world. Coming here was like stepping into another dimension. Haji has struck it lucky.
They are misfits, but a nice lot. Maybe because they are all misfits, they do not judge him. Nor do they ask him any questions. Maybe because they just can’t be bothered. They aren’t bothered with much at all. From time to time, someone goes to the town – called Sexton’s – and brings provisions. Not everyone is equally good at that. Some, like Ron, spend all their benefit money on booze. Ron drinks away most of it by the time he gets back to the camp, but occasionally even he produces a six-pack to share with the others. When he does, the festivities – and crudities – carry on through the night until they are all falling off their feet. The following day, they aren’t half as jovial as the previous night, but they are still loud and foul-mouthed. And so it goes on. There is a rhythm to their lifestyle – an excess followed by a lull, and back to excesses with a vengeance. Sally and Twitch are on methadone, but that’s not a big deal, they say. It keeps them alive. Without it, they’d be long gone – down the drain, as Twitch puts it. He says he is a veteran. No one has lasted as long as he has. He says he’s forty, or thereabouts. That’s ancient in junkie years, especially if you’re all with it. Haji isn’t convinced Twitch is all with it; for one, he can’t understand a word he says. The rare comments that Twitch makes, Izzie translates for him. Twitch is as pikey as they come, Haji is reliably informed by Sally; it takes time to get your head around what the fuck he be on about. Mostly bollocks!
‘Tis fuckin’ amazin’!’ Sally is licking her chops. Haji’s stew is a hit. ‘A fuckin’ feast for the kings!’
‘Wan’ a beer, like?’ Ron is offering one of his own. That means a lot. That is a mark of respect.
Haji shakes his head. ‘You know I don’t drink.’
‘Suit yerself!’ Ron grins, displaying the stumps of his incisors. He promptly retreats his beer can and snaps it open; raises it to Haji, ‘I drink for you, Sandman!’ He pours it down his throat.
Twitch says something animatedly, and spits in the fire. ‘Yer right there, Twitch,’ Sally seems to agree. ‘Sandman be a saint if he weren’t Muslim!’ They chuckle, pleased with themselves and their sharp observations. They know more than they let on.
Haji smiles. He forgot how to smile but this lot – they just reminded him how to go about the busines
s of being jolly. ‘I am not a religious man.’
‘Who said you was?’ Sally ribs Twitch, and they are in stitches, almost falling off the log. Anything will make them happy. Haji envies them. They have nothing on their conscience. Maybe he should get drunk one day, to water down his memories? Except that he can’t afford to be off guard. He has to watch out for himself at all times. He is watching them, too, even when they are just larking about, harmless as mutton.
Ron has fallen asleep. It’s uncanny how he can simply freeze in a most awkward sitting position, and drift off. Right now, his head is dangling between his shoulders, his jaw dropped, but he still has a firm grip on his beer can, which he is holding, slightly tilted, over his drawn-up knees. Izzie puts a blanket over him, and he wakes briefly, mumbles something, and resumes his position.
Haji takes out his drawing pad, and starts sketching Ron with his tilted beer can. No one bats an eyelid. So he is a saint, and a Picasso! It’s all the same to this lot. He likes his newly found freedom. It is a freedom. Of sorts.
Izzie returns his gilet to him. ‘Thanks, Sandman. Have it back.’
‘You can keep it,’ he tells.
‘No, I don’t need it. I’ve got my own. You need it more than I do – it gets cold at night.’
‘I don’t feel cold.’
‘Nevertheless. It’s yours.’ She throws it over his shoulders.
Twitch starts twitching funny and winking at Sally. And she ribs him again and bursts into a throaty laughter. By now, Haji can tell that this amounts to an indecent proposal, and its keen acceptance. The two of them get up, elbowing and hugging each other in turns, and stagger away from the fire. Soon, they’ll be making their usual grunts and squeals, and then they will come out for a joint. Which they will share with everyone except Haji, who is a habit-free saint, of course.
