by Don Zelma
Chapter Thirty-two
Joe glanced at the row of new locomotives, lined end to end. A hundred tradesmen had gathered in the street and also crowded the locomotive walkways. The police had closed the road and a podium had been placed on the tarmac. Joe squinted in the sunlight and watched the managers step up onto the platform. Three days had passed since he had seen Lola in the tearoom. Now, as he watched his friend, standing next to the state transport minister, he felt proud of her.
The mayor adjusted his silk tie and stepped up to the microphone. The chrome stand glinted in the sun and his words were loud from the speakers. Joe had been through these ceremonies many times before. He leaned back against the cold metal of the locomotive and listened until the end of the speech. The tradesmen began to clap and the mayor picked up the bottle of champagne and stepped down from the podium. He approached the lead rig, clasping the bottle by the neck, and dealt a blow against the chassis. The bottle did not break and the tradesmen began to laugh. The mayor laughed too; there was a good feeling in the air.
Joe looked down at his boots and listened to the mayor knocking the bottle against the train. Eventually, he heard a splash and tinkle of broken glass and the tradesmen cheer.
He glanced up at Lola on podium and his heart suddenly jumped – she was staring at him – she had picked him out of the crowd. She was not clapping with the managers and held a steady gaze. Goose bumps raced down his back and he waited for her to acknowledge him with a nod or smile, but she merely stared a little longer then turned towards Peterson. She began clapping along with him and Joe didn’t know what it meant.
The road fell silent and Peterson walked up to the microphone. ‘Righto,’ he said wearily. ‘Off you go.’ He waved them away and the sea of grey uniforms began fragmenting. The tradesmen were eager to leave.
Joe straightened but waited near the locomotive. He watched Lola and the managers talking on the platform. Peterson picked up another bottle and prepared to open it and Joe saw his face turn white with light as he followed the cork’s flight up into the air. Joe turned and walked slowly away with the thinning crowd. He put his hands in his pockets, feeling OK, and wandered alongside the locomotives. He sauntered in behind his machine, the last in the queue, and looked up and felt very satisfied with the work they had done. He thought of Lola and everything that had passed.
He slowly climbed the stepladder and meandered along the walkway, running his finger along the railing’s ‘two-pack’ finish. He felt wonderful; he had never felt this way – it was a tranquillity he had not even read about. He opened the door, wandered into the cab and stepped up to the windscreen. The cockpit was high and commanding like the bridge of a ship. He looked at the cark park and watched the tradesmen getting into their cars, feeling the cool breeze coming in through the door.
‘What a week,’ he thought, then sniggered – life was so unpredictable.
A forklift lifted the podium from the road and reversed towards the warehouse. Then, above all the noise, came the gentle clip-clop of heels along the walkway.
The steps approached, intermittent and uncertain, and he did not turn and look. He heard a hand squeak on the railing and slowly looked over his shoulder. Lola stepped reticently into the doorway. The gentle breeze was buffing her hair and she was holding a glass of champagne. ‘Oh… Hello,’ she said, acting surprised. She wiggled her glass at him, seemingly happy with everything.
He remained perfectly still. He watched her slowly step into the cab, saunter up to the driver’s seat and look out the windscreen. Her eyes picked out a tradesman peddling his bike across the car park and she followed him onto the road. She looked down at her glass.
‘Were you able to sleep?’ she said quietly.
It surprised him that she had broached the subject of the tearoom. He stared at her profile. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Very well.’
She waited. ‘Huh…’ she said. She sipped her champagne and he saw the peristalsis gently run down her throat. ‘I’m glad you did…’ she said. ‘I didn’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
She looked at him. ‘No…no, it’s OK,’ she said. She slowly turned around. ‘I wasn’t hurt… It was just a bit disarming.’ She slowly walked across the cab and her index finger guided a lock of hair over her ear. ‘Joe?’ she said, down at her glass, ‘What you said… needing nothing in return…’ She looked at him. ‘You were serious, weren’t you?’
He gazed at her. The answer was easy. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’ve never heard of such a thing,’ she said, ‘not from the outset. And the nice things you said – you don’t even know me...’
Joe smiled shyly. ‘Yes, I do, Lola,’ he said quietly. He looked down. ‘I’m sorry if I upset you.’
He felt her staring. She turned and slowly walked towards the door. ‘I think... you’re pretty unique, Joe,’ she said. ‘Do you know that?’ He looked at her and saw her stop in the bright light coming through the door. ‘Since we spoke in the tearoom,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said.’ Her manicured finger started playing with the rim of her glass and the champagne momentarily flashed the sun over her face. ‘It was very brave,’ she said. She looked up and her eyes were like black polished stones. ‘Joe, it was the most beautiful thing anyone has ever said to me.’
He waited, then looked away. Her openness was a big deal and the gravity of the moment had now silenced him. The street outside had slowly quietened and he watched the mayor get into his Statesman and the chauffer close the door and begin walking towards the driver’s seat.
‘Shall we go out for a drink sometime?’ Lola said.
Joe blinked, looking out the windscreen. He slowly turned, replaying her words. She slowly stepped towards him, then eventually pulled up.
‘A drink?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘That would be nice, don’t you think?’ He began picking at his fingers. ‘You have a good heart, Joe,’ she said. ‘I can see it.’
He inhaled through his nostrils. Yes, this is what he had always wanted and he wouldn’t let this opportunity slip. Suddenly, an idea came to him and he smiled to himself.
‘What?’ she asked.
‘Tomorrow night,’ he said. ‘Can I come and pick you up? We’ll celebrate the end of the contract. I have something wonderful to show you.’
Her face, controlled until now, shifted beautifully. Her cheeks rose and she produced a pure smile like that of a child. She slowly turned, walked away across the cabin and halted on the walkway. Her eyes looked up at the sky then she closed them.
‘OK,’ she whispered. ‘I would like that.’ She looked back at him and smiled.
She slowly walked away and he listened to those familiar heeled taps – music that had always been distant and untouchable – now somehow, ironically, walking closer towards him.