Friday, 5 July 2013
Morning
THERE IS A PILE OF clothing on the side of the train tracks. Light-blue cloth – a
shirt, perhaps – jumbled up with something dirty white. It’s probably rubbish,
part of a load fly-tipped into the scrubby little wood up the bank. It could have
been left behind by the engineers who work this part of the track, they’re here
often enough. Or it could be something else. My mother used to tell me that I
had an overactive imagination; Tom said that too. I can’t help it, I catch sight of
these discarded scraps, a dirty T-shirt or a lonesome shoe, and all I can think of is
the other shoe, and the feet that fitted into them.
The train jolts and scrapes and screeches back into motion, the little pile of
clothes disappears from view and we trundle on towards London, moving at a
brisk jogger’s pace. Someone in the seat behind me gives a sigh of helpless
irritation; the 8.04 slow train from Ashbury to Euston can test the patience of the
most seasoned commuter. The journey is supposed to take fifty-four minutes, but
it rarely does: this section of the track is ancient, decrepit, beset with signalling
problems and never-ending engineering works.
The train crawls along; it judders past warehouses and water towers, bridges
and sheds, past modest Victorian houses, their backs turned squarely to the track.
My head leaning against the carriage window, I watch these houses roll past
me like a tracking shot in a film. I see them as others do not; even their owners
probably don’t see them from this perspective. Twice a day, I am offered a view
into other lives, just for a moment. There’s something comforting about the sight
of strangers safe at home.
Someone’s phone is ringing, an incongruously joyful and upbeat song.
They’re slow to answer, it jingles on and on around me. I can feel my fellow
commuters shift in their seats, rustle their newspapers, tap at their computers.
The train lurches and sways around the bend, slowing as it approaches a red
signal. I try not to look up, I try to read the free newspaper I was handed on my
way into the station, but the words blur in front of my eyes, nothing holds my
interest. In my head I can still see that little pile of clothes lying at the edge of
the track, abandoned.
Evening
The pre-mixed gin and tonic fizzes up over the lip of the can as I bring it to my
mouth and sip. Tangy and cold, the taste of my first ever holiday with Tom, a
fishing village on the Basque coast in 2005. In the mornings we’d swim the halfmile
to the little island in the bay, make love on secret hidden beaches; in the
afternoons we’d sit at a bar drinking strong, bitter gin and tonics, watching
swarms of beach footballers playing chaotic 25-a-side games on the low-tide
sands.
I take another sip, and another; the can’s already half empty but it’s OK, I
have three more in the plastic bag at my feet. It’s Friday, so I don’t have to feel
guilty about drinking on the train. TGIF. The fun starts here.
It’s going to be a lovely weekend, that’s what they’re telling us. Beautiful
sunshine, cloudless skies. In the old days we might have driven to Corly Wood
with a picnic and the papers, spent all afternoon lying on a blanket in dappled
sunlight, drinking wine. We might have barbecued out back with friends, or gone
to The Rose and sat in the beer garden, faces flushing with sun and alcohol as
the afternoon went on, weaving home, arm in arm, falling asleep on the sofa.
Beautiful sunshine, cloudless skies, no one to play with, nothing to do. Living
like this, the way I’m living at the moment, is harder in the summer when there
is so much daylight, so little cover of darkness, when everyone is out and about,
being flagrantly, aggressively happy. It’s exhausting, and it makes you feel bad if
you’re not joining in.
The weekend stretches out ahead of me, forty-eight empty hours to fill. I lift
the can to my mouth again, but there’s not a drop left.
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