The Train

by Sarah Bourne

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked May.

  Clare said nothing.

  ‘You’re wondering if I can help you – if anyone can help you, is that it?’

  How did she know that? She was a mind reader. Clare was ashamed of her doubts, and simultaneously worried that with this woman there was no hiding, no cover.

  ‘It’s common to question your therapist’s ability when you’re triggered. Part of you wants desperately to be understood and helped, another part is terrified of the same thing because “being helped” means making changes, and change is frightening.’

  Clare had heard that before. She’d also read it in several self-help books, but it suddenly made absolute, spine-chilling sense. She had to change and she was scared, but if she wanted to do anything she had to step into her life and make it happen, whatever ‘it’ was.

  She smiled. ‘Maybe I do catastrophise sometimes, and I worry I’ll die without achieving anything. But right now I’m alive. Maybe I should focus on that.’

  ‘How does it feel?’

  Clare thought for a moment, waiting for all her negative self-talk to kick in and tell her she was delusional. There was none. ‘It feels good.’ She felt light. Unused to such a sensation, she carried on. ‘I should probably talk about the journey into work this morning. There was a suicide on the line.’ She stopped and waited for her reaction. Nothing. No shortening of breath, constriction of chest, fluttering of heart. What had happened? Surely having money hadn’t cured her. She wasn’t that shallow. It wasn’t that easy. She looked at her therapist, confused.

  ‘Go on,’ said May.

  ‘I don’t know any more about the person who died.’ She paused, again waiting to see if the panic would start. ‘I had a bit of a panic attack on the train, and again when I got to work, but I don’t feel anything now. Well, I am sorry for the person and their family, but I’m not anxious.’

  ‘And?’

  Clare frowned. ‘I feel guilty.’

  ‘Guilty?’

  ‘Yes, guilty that I don’t feel more. I know panicking doesn’t help anybody, but it proves that I feel. Now nobody will know I have feelings.’

  ‘So panicking proves you feel love, happiness, sadness, concern, joy, empathy, anger?’

  Clare looked at May as if she was mad. And then realised that was exactly what she’d thought. She had been afraid all her life to express her feelings; panic was her alternative. ‘Oh, shit,’ she said.

  May smiled. ‘Indeed.’

  As she walked back to the station to get the train home, she considered how she might do things differently. Her breath quickened and her heart flip-flopped in her chest. She clutched herself, waiting for the panic to start, but nothing more happened. Maybe, she realised, she wasn’t feeling anxious. Maybe this was what excitement felt like.

  She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that all her troubles were behind her, but she vowed to herself she would enjoy this new-found feeling while it lasted, and do whatever she could to make it stay.

  For the last few minutes of her session, Clare had explored how her panic was a way of not allowing her feelings. Of not engaging with people. She caught the eye of a woman walking towards her, and smiled.

  Clare didn’t have to fantasise in the train on the way home. She had enough real-life excitement to keep her occupied. She did notice passing the field where the suicide had taken place earlier, however. Just another field full of cows again, but she’d always remember staring out at the cowshed and feeling for the poor person who’d died. And her panic attack. She wondered whether she should have asked for the name of the man who gave her his handkerchief; she could have laundered it and sent it back to him with a thank-you note. In fact, now she could send him a whole drawerful of new hankies!

  Was it really only that morning, a mere ten hours ago? One life had been lost, but hers was about to begin.

  She pulled out her notebook and started jotting down her wish list:

  Pay off mortgage

  Go on holiday – overseas somewhere –

  She stopped. Where did she want to go? She’d said Prague and the Greek islands to May, but she’d just plucked them out of the air. Now she sat, tapping the end of her pen against her lips, thinking of all the places she could visit. Iceland to see the geysers, Australia to see a kangaroo bounding through the outback. Norway to see the aurora borealis. She’d written a book in which the protagonist, Lady Sybil Fraser, had an erotic fling with a reindeer herder in an igloo under the Northern Lights. She really should go and see them for herself. Who knew what might happen?

  She looked at her list. Two items. How pathetic, but she couldn’t think of anything else she wanted. Not that money could buy, anyway.

  No good going down that path, she said to herself, and did what she always did when she felt lonely. She started writing.

  Mr Kenneth Gresham had eyes the colour of a thundercloud and a gaze that smouldered from beneath dark eyebrows. He wasn’t traditionally handsome; his nose was slightly too long, his cheekbones too wide. But those eyes, oh, those eyes. Arabella couldn’t resist them.

  She crossed the room to get closer to him. He was talking to Lord Finlay – or rather, Lord Finlay was talking to him. Mr Gresham was listening politely, one elbow resting on the mantel. Arabella sat on the love seat and opened her book, but really she was watching his every move. She adored the way he stood so erect, the proud tilt of his head, the sound of his laughter when Lord Finlay uttered an amusing comment.

  The room seemed too warm around her as she continued to gaze at him. She wanted to loosen her bodice which felt suddenly too tight.

  ‘Are you all right, Arabella?’ her mother asked, carefully lowering herself onto the seat beside her.

  Arabella started. ‘Yes, Mother. Very well, thank you.’

  ‘You look a little flushed, my dear. I hope you are not coming down with a chill.’

  ‘No, Mother, I assure you, I am in the peak of health.’

  Lady Donnington nodded. ‘If you say so, my dear. But perhaps you should not go on the hunt tomorrow, just in case.’

  Arabella’s heart sank within her tightly bound chest. Not go on the hunt? That would be too cruel. She knew she held her seat well, and in her new riding habit, her figure was shown off to full advantage. If Kenneth Gresham didn’t notice her tonight, surely he would tomorrow.

  ‘I will be quite well enough, Mother. I am looking forward to it.’

  ‘There will be other hunts,’ said her mother, and rising again, she brushed an imaginary crease from her dress and swished away.

  Arabella knew her mother would not change her mind. Instead, she must ensure that Mr Gresham noticed her this evening. She lifted her eyes to him and met the full force of his gaze.

  She reddened, her hand going to her bosom. His eyes followed.

  Clare put her pen down. Her heart was beating faster as it always did when she wrote. She got so carried away with the scenes she created, living the lives of her characters. Of course, the heroine always got her man, there was sex and lots of it, sometimes with a happily ever after, but often not. Her women didn’t need men to make them happy except in the bedroom – or the library, the forest, the yacht. Clare lured the reader in with lavish or exotic surroundings, handsome men, beautiful women – all the trappings of a romance. But she liked to think her plots were a little out of the ordinary, that she wasn’t just trotting out your typical romance. Who else would have thought of a reindeer herder having his way with a British lady in Lapland, for example?

  Two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. She smiled at her reflection in the train window, the scenery behind blurred into lines – green, brown, grey. She tried to focus on herself, but her eyes kept tracking the lines. Soon she felt sick with all the movement and had to stop. She took a peppermint out of her bag and sucked on it to stop the queasiness. With her eyes now closed, she thought of all that money. Would that many twenty-pound notes fill a wheelbarrow?

  Suddenly she sat bolt u
pright. It was a three-book deal; what if she couldn’t write three more books? What had May said about it in their session? What had she said? She couldn’t remember. Her breathing began to speed up, her heart rate too. She pushed her feet into the floor and clasped her hands together. Forcing herself not to think about anything but to concentrate on the pattern of the seat fabric, she calmed down.

  I always think each book is the last, but the reality is I keep creating other plots and new characters, she reminded herself. Long breath in, long breath out. She repeated this comforting phrase to herself for the rest of the journey.

  As the train approached Milton Keynes she made sure she had her possessions, shouldered her bag and was waiting at the door when the train stopped. She flashed her season ticket at the barrier although the ticket collector wasn’t there, and pulled her scarf tighter round her neck as she left the station. A man in a cashmere coat and in a hurry bumped into her, making her stumble as he headed off towards the car park.

  ‘No, that’s okay. Don’t bother apologising,’ she said to his retreating back. She watched him go, briefcase in one hand while the other fished in his pocket for his car keys. She wondered what kind of car he drove, where he lived, if he had a wife waiting for him at home making dinner, ready to pour him a drink as soon as he walked through the door. He walked tall, his long legs striding fast. Rude though he’d been, she liked watching attractive men and couldn’t tear her eyes away. She imagined him getting home to a kiss, a smile, small talk over dinner. They’d watch the ten o’clock news together, he’d say, ‘time for bed?’ and hold a hand out to her. And she’d smile a knowing smile and lead him upstairs.

  Clare sighed. She had to stop these fantasies. Or try to channel them into her writing rather than get enveloped in them outside the station at half past six in the evening with commuters spilling out into the night all around her, pushing her this way and that, tutting as she stood lost in thought.

  She decided to walk home rather than catch the bus. It only took a few minutes longer and she wanted to enjoy these last few moments of peace. As she walked, she allowed herself to think more about how she’d spend her new-found wealth. A donation to the local animal sanctuary – she’d call Judith about it. New clothes. Nadia hadn’t mentioned it, but maybe there would be a book tour and she’d need to look her best. A personal trainer might be a good idea too. She always meant to exercise and never got round to it. Paying someone to make her do it would be a good investment. The house needed repainting inside and out. And maybe she could add another room, a study. Or build one in the garden with a bathroom and kitchenette. A Room of One’s Own where she could write and dream. It would be an extravagance, certainly, but why not? Didn’t she deserve it?

  Too soon she arrived at her front door. As she was trying to find her key, it opened.

  ‘Evening, Clare.’

  ‘Hello, Marion. How were they today?’

  ‘Your mother’s been quite upset. She kept asking when her mummy was coming to see her and wouldn’t be fobbed off with my usual “tomorrow”. I had to ring my sister and ask her to pretend to be her mother so they could talk. It cheered her for a few minutes, until she forgot it had happened and asked again when she’d be seeing her mother.’ Clare suddenly felt deflated. Dream had collided head-on with reality. She took a deep breath.

  ‘That was creative of you, Marion. What about Dad?’ She didn’t really want to hear any more, but Marion prided herself on her ability to look after them both and provide a detailed report at the end of the day. Clare couldn’t afford to piss her off by not letting her present it.

  ‘He’s been quite chirpy. Took his medication, ate his lunch, watched a bit of TV, had a sleep this afternoon. He says his left arm is sore, but I’m not sure it really is – he hasn’t been able to feel it properly since the last stroke, has he? It might be he’s getting some feeling back, but unlikely. Anyway, he asked me to make him an appointment to see the doctor, so I have. And I’ve ordered the taxi to take him.’

  ‘Thank you. You’re a star, you really are. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’

  Marion smiled. ‘Well, I’ll be off then,’ she said, and put her bag over her shoulder. She always had it ready and waiting in the hall when Clare got home.

  ‘Wait a moment, Marion.’ Clare fished out her phone and transferred a hundred pounds to Marion’s account. ‘I had some good news today. Here’s a little bonus for you. Give yourself a treat.’

  Marion looked at the screen Clare was showing her and a smile lit up her face. ‘Thank you, Clare. Very generous of you.’ She called goodnight to Clare’s parents, and left.

  Clare hung up her coat and scarf thinking how nice it was to make someone happy, how easy to make them feel appreciated. She took a deep breath and opened the sitting-room door. Her father turned to her and gave her his lopsided smile. He’d been a good-looking man until he started having strokes. Now one side of his face was frozen, forever unlined, and the other, by comparison, looked like it had aged twice as fast as normal as the skin slid towards his jaw and sagged there, empty, useless flesh. A thin line of saliva dribbled from his mouth but he seemed unaware of it. Her mother sat in her chair, a table clipped in front of it so she couldn’t wander. She had a pack of cards in her hands and was shuffling them over and over again. She had loved card games. Not the highfalutin bridge, but whist and canasta. No one could beat her until she started getting forgetful, couldn’t remember what cards she’d played. It used to frustrate her, and she’d throw the cards in the air with a scream of anger. Now she was content just endlessly shuffling them.

  Clare watched her for a moment, this shell of a woman who had once been funny, intelligent, caring. She was the kind of mother who still sent Easter cards when no one sent them anymore and remembered birthdays and anniversaries. Clare had taken it all for granted at the time, but in the last few years she’d missed them.

  ‘Did you have a good day?’ Her question was for both of them, though she didn’t expect an answer.

  ‘What’s for tea, Mummy?’ asked her mother.

  ‘I’m not your mother, I’m your daughter,’ said Clare.

  Her mother straightened, sitting taller and put the cards down. ‘No one told me. I think I’d know if I had a daughter.’

  Clare sighed. Her father closed his eyes. The left one drooped and didn’t close completely. It looked red and sore and Clare reached for his eye drops.

  ‘Here, Dad, let me put these in for you.’

  ‘Oh, Clare, you’re good to me.’ Tears welled in his eyes making the drops redundant.

  ‘I had good news today,’ she said.

  Her mother started shuffling the cards again, her father wiped at the tears running down his cheek. ‘I have earned a bit of money from my writing.’

  She looked at her parents, neither of whom had responded. She tried again, louder. ‘I said, I have received money from selling my books.’

  ‘That’s good, dear,’ said her father. ‘What are you going to do with it? You deserve a holiday, that’s what. You’ve always wanted to go to Scotland, haven’t you? Why not go there for a day or two?’ He started crying again and wiped angrily at the tears falling down his left cheek. He’d been labile since the last stroke, crying at the drop of a hat, getting angry over nothing. There was no telling what he’d do next.

  ‘No need to cry, Dad.’

  ‘I’ll miss you, though, you know that. You’re all we’ve got.’ He put a hand out to grasp hers, and she squeezed it gently.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ said her mother.

  Clare felt a lump in her throat and a vice around her ribs. She stood holding her father’s hand, counting her breaths until she’d managed to subdue both sensations.

  ‘I’ll start dinner.’ She sighed and went into the kitchen.

  Marion had left a pot of soup on the stove and there was a loaf of bread on the side. Clare heated the soup, cut the bread and buttered it, got out the plates, bowls, spoons, served up and put it
all on trays. All the while pushing away any thoughts other than what she was doing. She focused entirely on organising dinner, noticing that one bowl was chipped (I’ll have that one), and one of the spoons hadn’t been washed properly (she rewashed it and dried it on a clean tea towel).

  She went back into the sitting room and put her father’s table in front of him, tucked a napkin into his collar and brought him his dinner, making sure the spoon and the bread were on the right side for him to feed himself. Then she went back to get her mother’s.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ she said as Clare put it down in front of her.

  ‘Come on, it’s lovely lentil soup.’ Clare’s voice was bright, encouraging as she offered her mother a spoonful. Her father slurped his slowly.

  ‘I want my birthday cake,’ said her mother. ‘It’s my birthday, you know.’

  Clare tried to smile at her mother, but her jaw was tight. ‘Cake after soup. You know the rules.’

  Her mother shut her mouth and turned her head away.

  Clare let out a long, slow breath. She was exhausted, her earlier elation spent.

  ‘Just one mouthful,’ she tried to cajole her mother, but she wasn’t having it. Quick as a flash, she upended the bowl on the table. Clare had to clench her fists and bite her tongue so as not to lash out.

  Hot tears of frustration ran down her cheeks.

  ‘It’s burning me,’ shrieked her mother, lifting one leg after the other as if she was trying to run.

  Clare mopped up as much as she could with paper napkins and went into the kitchen to get a cloth. She knew it wasn’t burning her mother, it was only tepid, but she couldn’t be bothered arguing.

  ‘Are you okay for the moment, Dad? I need to get Mum changed.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.

  Clare pulled the table away from her mother’s chair and held out her hands. ‘Up you get, Mum, let’s get you into dry clothes.’

  ‘I’m not going anywhere with you. You want all my possessions and you’re not getting your hands on any of it, I can tell you that for nothing.’ She clutched the sides of her chair with bony fingers. ‘And tell the ugly old man there to get out of my house. My husband will be home soon for his dinner and he won’t want that goblin here.’