MEGAN
One year earlier
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
Morning
I CAN HEAR THE TRAIN coming; I know its rhythm by heart. It picks up speed as it
accelerates out of Northcote station and then, after rattling round the bend, it
starts to slow down, from a rattle to a rumble, and then sometimes a screech of
brakes as it stops at the signal a couple of hundred yards from the house. My
coffee is cold on the table, but I’m too deliciously warm and lazy to bother
getting up to make myself another cup.
Sometimes I don’t even watch the trains go past, I just listen. Sitting here in
the morning, eyes closed and the hot sun orange on my eyelids, I could be
anywhere. I could be in the south of Spain, at the beach; I could be in Italy, the
Cinque Terre, all those pretty coloured houses and the trains ferrying the tourists
back and forth. I could be back in Holkham with the screech of gulls in my ears
and salt on my tongue and a ghost train passing on the rusted track half a mile
away.
The train isn’t stopping today, it trundles slowly past. I can hear the wheels
clacking over the points, I can almost feel it rocking. I can’t see the faces of the
passengers and I know they’re just commuters heading to Euston to sit behind
desks, but I can dream: of more exotic journeys, of adventures at the end of the
line and beyond. In my head, I keep travelling back to Holkham; it’s odd that I
still think of it, on mornings like this, with such affection, such longing, but I do.
The wind in the grass, the big slate sky over the dunes, the house infested with
mice and falling down, full of candles and dirt and music. It’s like a dream to me
now.
I feel my heart beating just a little too fast.
I can hear his footfall on the stairs, he calls my name.
‘You want another coffee, Megs?’
The spell is broken, I’m awake.
Evening
I’m cool from the breeze and warm from the two fingers of vodka in my Martini.
I’m out on the terrace, waiting for Scott to come home. I’m going to persuade
him to take me out to dinner at the Italian on Kingly Road. We haven’t been out
for bloody ages.
I haven’t got much done today. I was supposed to sort out my application for
the fabrics course at St Martins; I did start it, I was working downstairs in the
kitchen when I heard a woman screaming, making a horrible noise, I thought
someone was being murdered. I ran outside into the garden, but I couldn’t see
anything.
I could still hear her though, it was nasty, it went right through me, her voice
really shrill and desperate. ‘What are you doing? What are you doing with her?
Give her to me, give her to me.’ It seemed to go on and on, though it probably
only lasted a few seconds.
I ran upstairs and climbed out on to the terrace and I could see, through the
trees, two women down by the fence, a few gardens over. One of them was
crying – maybe they both were – and there was a child bawling its head off too.
I thought about calling the police, but it all seemed to calm down then. The
woman who’d been screaming ran into the house, carrying the baby. The other
one stayed out there. She ran up towards the house, she stumbled and got to her
feet and then just sort of wandered round the garden in circles. Really weird.
God knows what was going on. But it’s the most excitement I’ve had in weeks.
My days feel empty now I don’t have the gallery to go to any longer. I really
miss it. I miss talking to the artists. I even miss dealing with all those tedious
yummy mummies who used to drop by, Starbucks in hand, to gawk at the
pictures, telling their friends that little Jessie did better pictures than that at
nursery school.
Sometimes I feel like seeing if I can track down anybody from the old days,
but then I think, what would I talk to them about now? They wouldn’t even
recognize Megan the happily married suburbanite. In any case, I can’t risk
looking backwards, it’s always a bad idea. I’ll wait until the summer is over, then
I’ll look for work. It seems like a shame to waste these long summer days. I’ll
find something, here or elsewhere, I know I will.
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