Monday, 8 July 2013
Morning
It’s a relief to be back on the 8.04. It’s not that I can’t wait to get into London to
start my week – I don’t particularly want to be in London at all. I just want to
lean back in the soft, sagging velour seat, feel the warmth of the sunshine
streaming through the window, feel the carriage rock back and forth and back
and forth, the comforting rhythm of wheels on tracks. I’d rather be here, looking
out at the houses beside the track, than almost anywhere else.
There’s a faulty signal on this line, about halfway through my journey. I
assume it must be faulty, in any case, because it’s almost always red; we stop
there most days, sometimes just for a few seconds, sometimes for minutes on
end. If I sit in carriage D, which I usually do, and the train stops at this signal,
which it almost always does, I have a perfect view into my favourite trackside
house: number fifteen.
Number fifteen is much like the other houses along this stretch of track: a
Victorian semi, two storeys high, overlooking a narrow, well-tended garden
which runs around twenty feet down towards some fencing, beyond which lie a
few metres of no man’s land before you get to the railway track. I know this
house by heart. I know every brick, I know the colour of the curtains in the
upstairs bedroom (beige, with a dark-blue print), I know that the paint is peeling
off the bathroom window frame and that there are four tiles missing from a
section of the roof over on the right-hand side.
I know that on warm summer evenings, the occupants of this house, Jason and
Jess, sometimes climb out of the large sash window to sit on the makeshift
terrace on top of the kitchen-extension roof. They are a perfect, golden couple.
He is dark haired and well built, strong, protective, kind. He has a great laugh.
She is one of those tiny bird-women, a beauty, pale-skinned with blonde hair
cropped short. She has the bone structure to carry that kind of thing off, sharp
cheekbones dappled with a sprinkling of freckles, a fine jaw.
While we’re stuck at the red signal, I look for them. Jess is often out there in
the mornings, especially in the summer, drinking her coffee. Sometimes, when I
see her there, I feel as though she sees me too, I feel as though she looks right
back at me, and I want to wave. I’m too self-conscious. I don’t see Jason quite so
much, he’s away a lot with work. But even if they’re not there, I think about
what they might be up to. Maybe this morning they’ve both got the day off and
she’s lying in bed while he makes breakfast, or maybe they’ve gone for a run
together, because that’s the sort of thing they do. (Tom and I used to run together
on Sundays, me going at slightly above my normal pace, him at about half his,
just so we could run side by side.) Maybe Jess is upstairs in the spare room,
painting, or maybe they’re in the shower together, her hands pressed against the
tiles, his hands on her hips.
Evening
Turning slightly towards the window, my back to the rest of the carriage, I open
one of the little bottles of Chenin Blanc I purchased from the Whistlestop at
Euston. It’s not cold, but it’ll do. I pour some into a plastic cup, screw the top
back on and slip the bottle into my handbag. It’s less acceptable to drink on the
train on a Monday, unless you’re drinking with company, which I am not.
There are familiar faces on these trains, people I see every week, going to and
fro. I recognize them and they probably recognize me. I don’t know whether
they see me, though, for what I really am.
It’s a glorious evening, warm but not too close, the sun starting its lazy
descent, shadows lengthening and the light just beginning to burnish the trees
with gold. The train is rattling along, we whip past Jason and Jess’s place, they
pass in a blur of evening sunshine. Sometimes, not often, I can see them from
this side of the track. If there’s no train going in the opposite direction, and if
we’re travelling slowly enough, I can sometimes catch a glimpse of them out on
their terrace. If not – like today – I can imagine them. Jess will be sitting with
her feet up on the table out on the terrace, a glass of wine in her hand, Jason
standing behind her, his hands on her shoulders. I can imagine the feel of his
hands, the weight of them, reassuring and protective. Sometimes I catch myself
trying to remember the last time I had meaningful physical contact with another
person, just a hug or a heartfelt squeeze of my hand, and my heart twitches.
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