Let's Meet on Platform 8

by Carole Matthews

  He wasn’t touching her foot anymore, which somehow made it worse. She couldn’t relax, because it might flop and nestle somewhere more intimate than it was now. She was going to get a cramp at this rate.

  ‘What do you do?’ he asked.

  ‘I work in television.’

  Jamie gave her a grimace. ‘Foot in mouth again.’

  ‘That’s all right.’ Teri laughed as he flushed. ‘Most of it is a load of old twaddle. I work for City Television. And I can’t claim any credit for the actual programmes. Like you, I’m at the boring end.’

  ‘I didn’t think there was a boring end in television. I thought it was all glamour and luvvies and dahlings and free booze.’

  ‘I’m a programme assistant. If you can make coffee and count, you could do my job.’ It hurt more than her ankle did to admit that, and she wondered why she’d told him. Why was she sitting here in a rush-hour commuter train with a stranger, her foot resting just centimetres away from his groin, letting him know about the frustrations of her job? She was one step away from telling him her whole life story.

  In ten years of commuting, Teri had never had a conversation with anyone else. She saw the same faces every day, year in, year out, rain, hail and snow—and never a word was spoken. It was an unwritten rule. There might be the odd person with whom she was on nodding terms, and once, about three years ago, a woman who ran the Brides’ Book at the John Lewis department store in Oxford Street had accidentally prodded her with her knitting needle just outside Berkhamsted and they had chatted amicably for the rest of the journey. She had told Teri that she was knitting a baby sweater for her new grandson and Teri had wondered if babies still wore white baby sweaters knitted by their grandmas. After that they had been on good nodding terms, which included a smile, but that was about it. She hadn’t seen the woman recently and had assumed she’d retired—or maybe died.

  ‘You’re probably underselling yourself.’ His voice broke into her thoughts.

  She shook her head. ‘No, but I don’t intend to be at the boring end forever.’

  They whistled through a tunnel, the wind buffeting against the windows making conversation impossible. The train was cold, as they always are in winter—it was only in summer that hot air belched out relentlessly from beneath the seats—and Teri stared out of the window into the street-light-flecked darkness.

  The line passed by the McVitie’s biscuit factory just outside Watford Junction. The enticing aroma of warm cookies hadn’t twitched her nostrils tonight as it usually did. It normally started her taste buds tingling and her stomach rumbling so that the first thing she did when she got through the door was head for the jar where the Jaffa Cakes were kept and immediately eat three to sate her appetite until it was time for her calorie-counted meal. But not tonight. Tonight her stomach was churning, but she certainly couldn’t put it down to the enticing smell of baking biscuits. Perhaps it was Jamie. She hoped to goodness that he wasn’t a mind-reader.

  He looked at her and winked. It was a reassuring kind of wink. A little shiver had travelled down her spine for a moment, but fortunately, this wasn’t a wink that said, ‘yes, I am a mind-reader’. It was just a wink. His face didn’t move at all, just his eyelid squeezed languorously over his eye.

  They were definitely feline, his eyes. They reminded her of one of her mother’s cats—a long-haired white one with ginger ears called Sooty, which spoke volumes about her mother’s state of mind. If anyone had winked at Teri on a train before, she would have hit them squarely on the head with the Daily Mail. Tonight, the Mail lay unopened in her traitorous briefcase and she just smiled back.

  As the train slowed into Leighton Buzzard, she reluctantly removed her foot.

  ‘Better?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘Much.’ The puffed skin was swelling over the top of her shoe most attractively. ‘Thanks for your concern.’

  ‘It’s the least I could do.’ He stood and picked up both briefcases.

  ‘I can manage, thanks.’

  ‘I want to see you safely home.’

  ‘But you live in Milton Keynes. You’ll have to wait for the next train.’

  ‘You won’t be able to drive.’ It was a reasonable assumption. ‘Is your car at the station? Or is someone meeting you?’

  ‘No, neither. I usually walk.’ She realised as she said it that walking home would be impossible. ‘It’s about fifteen minutes,’ she added lamely.

  ‘Then we need to get you into a taxi.’ Jamie ushered her off the train, hand firmly under her elbow. Teri winced as she hit the platform awkwardly. He helped her towards the footbridge which led from the platform to the exit. They made slow progress. One limp, one hop. Was that an improvement or had it got worse?

  ‘I’m not a mugger or a rapist,’ he said thoughtfully as they inched their way along. ‘There’s no need to worry.’

  ‘Thanks for that character reference,’ Teri puffed. ‘It hadn’t crossed my mind until then.’

  ‘Unless, of course—’ he hesitated ‘—if there’s someone waiting for you and it would be difficult…’

  ‘No, there’s no one waiting,’ Teri answered truthfully. ‘Well, at least I don’t think so. I’m sharing my house with a friend at the moment, but I can never tell whether she’s going to be there or not. Her husband’s just run off with some teenage bimbo, and she’s staying with me.’

  They took the steps one at a time, Teri clinging on to both Jamie and the handrail for support. ‘Though how he found anyone more bimbo-ish than my friend Clare it’s hard to imagine. She’s a trolley-dolly—sorry, flight attendant—at Luton Airport, hence the irregular time-keeping.’

  His arm was strong around her and his skin still held the faint scent of a citrus aftershave that said expensive. She was glad she’d agreed to let him take her home. Not that he actually gave her a lot of choice, but she could have invented some excuse for getting rid of him if he’d shown imminent signs of turning into a nerd. She’d had a lot of practice in the past.

  To add to the bitter cold it had started to drizzle, but thankfully there was a solitary taxi still left at the rank when they emerged from the station. It was a Mercedes—one that had seen considerably better days—and its interior had been brightened by the touching adornment of nylon leopard-skin seat covers. They huddled inside, brushing a sprinkling of raindrops from their clothes.

  Teri gave her address to the driver and he swung out of the station road and headed up the hill towards her estate, which had grown over the years to make an endless sprawl of unimaginative commuter housing. Jamie was peering out of the rain-streaked and steamed-up window trying to see where he was going in the darkness.

  The taxi driver turned into the estate and threaded his way through the maze of roads. The leopard-skin-lined Mercedes slowed to a halt.

  ‘We’re here.’

  Jamie helped her out. He turned to the taxi driver. ‘Can you wait for me, please? I won’t be long.’

  Teri felt a flash of disappointment. Any thoughts that they might linger over a medicinal glass of Beaujolais had just gone straight out of the window.

  ‘Give me your key,’ he instructed. Teri obliged and Jamie opened the door. ‘I’ll resist the urge to carry you over the threshold, seeing as we’ve still to be formally introduced.’ He ushered her inside.

  The house was in darkness—which was a good sign. At least Clare wasn’t around to poke her nose in. Jamie led Teri gently to the sofa and flicked on the light switch. ‘Now let me make you a coffee or something.’

  ‘Really, I’m fine. Your meter’s running.’

  ‘Black or white?’ he insisted.

  Teri gave a sigh of resignation. ‘Black, no sugar.’

  He disappeared into the kitchen and, following the banging of several cupboards, reappeared moments later carrying a tray, which he placed beside her.

  ‘Cheese and biscuits—a very fine Camembert—not exactly a wholesome meal, but filling. One biscuit jar containing only Jaffa Cakes—madam’s weakness, i
t would appear.’

  ‘Quite.’ That…and tall dark handsome strangers, Teri added silently.

  ‘One cup of hot coffee, black, no sugar. One large brandy, two painkillers and a bag of frozen peas for reducing the swelling in madam’s ankle.’

  ‘Where did you learn your bedside manner from? Was it Match of the Day, ER or Animal Hospital?’

  ‘From your first-aid book on the shelf next to the kettle—a very sensible place to keep it.’

  He pulled the footstool towards her, lifted her foot, rolled the peas in a clean tea towel and balanced them on her ankle.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  She nodded.

  He passed her the remote control for the television and crouched down before her. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go. Is there anything else you need first?’

  A lump had risen in her throat. ‘No, you’ve been very kind, thank you. I really appreciate it.’

  ‘Well.’ He stood up to go. He really was quite tall. ‘Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again on the 18.07. Just joking!’ He made his way to the door. ‘You probably need to stay off that ankle for a few days.’ His face was suddenly serious and he looked embarrassed again. ‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right?’

  ‘Yes, fine. Clare should be back tonight. Your taxi driver will be getting impatient.’

  ‘I’ll see you then.’

  ‘Yes, thanks again.’ The front door slammed behind him. She watched, stranded on the sofa, as he got into the taxi and it drove away. He really was the nicest man she’d ever met. There weren’t many of them left anymore. She was an expert in not-nice men. No one had been that kind to her since she’d had her tonsils out and the doctor insisted she eat nothing but ice cream for days. So what if the resulting stomach-ache had made her feel even worse than having her tonsils out. It was the thought that counted.

  Teri flicked on the television and channel-hopped. Nothing but wall-to-wall soaps. There was no way she could cope with another dose of emotional strain tonight. She sipped her brandy and then, abandoning any sense of decorum, tipped the rest into her coffee and swilled it down with the two painkillers.

  Suddenly she felt alone and unloved. Her eyes filled with tears and, sobbing onto the Camembert, Teri pulled Jamie’s handkerchief out of her pocket. It was dirty, bloodied, streaked with mascara and wet, and still she had an overwhelming urge to use it to wipe away her tears. Damn the bloody man! Fancies himself as a knight in shining armour and he didn’t even think to leave a box of man-sized Kleenex to hand. Then again, he might not have imagined her crying quite so uncontrollably when he left. She certainly hadn’t.

  Chapter 2

  To hell with the expense. There was no way he was going back to the station to wait for another train now. Jamie leaned into the taxi window and spoke to the driver. ‘Can you take me to Fraughton-next-the-Green, Milton Keynes?’

  He swung into the back of the ageing Mercedes, glad of the warmth after the penetrating dampness of the night. Gratefully, he sank into the worn seat for the drive home to Milton Keynes. He glanced at his watch. It would take about half an hour, providing the driver wasn’t intent on breaking the world land-speed record as they so often seemed to be. Though tonight that might be a bonus.

  The driver turned at the bottom of Teri’s road and headed back past her house. Jamie could just make out her outline through the slatted blinds on the window and thought that he should have closed them for her. With any luck, her friend Clare wouldn’t be too long in coming home and could look after her.

  Why did he feel so ridiculously deflated, Jamie asked himself, walking away and leaving her like that? He’d done all he could. She wasn’t his problem anymore. So what was his problem? Why had he felt so ridiculously elated when she’d said that there was no one waiting at home for her? Why had he, for a brief and shocking moment, wished that he could have said the same thing?

  Pamela would be furious. Again. He had promised that he would be home earlier tonight—and he had nearly made it. If he hadn’t been rushing quite so much, he might never have rugby-tackled Teri at all. So really, this time, it was Pamela’s fault he was late…although it wasn’t an excuse he was keen to try on her. Better to stick to the old faithful, he decided—signalling failures at Watford Junction. Which was usually true. He certainly couldn’t tell her the real truth. Pamela was not an understanding woman. Anyway, why did he feel so guilty about taking Teri back home? He was only doing the Good Samaritan bit, wasn’t he? Anyone would have done the same, wouldn’t they? Possibly not these days. There might have been a considerable amount of passing by on the other side.

  Perhaps he was feeling guilty because it wasn’t for entirely altruistic reasons that he had wanted to dally in her company. Hell, she had looked so sexy with her scabby little knee and her wobbly lower lip and her hair that looked as if she had been pulled through a particularly thick hedge backwards and forwards. He’d wanted to take her in his arms and cuddle her until all the nasty men went away—except that he had been the nasty man who had knocked her down in the first place. Well, he couldn’t just abandon her after that. Could he?

  He could hear the closing bars of some cheap soap opera as he turned his key in the lock and wondered briefly whether Pamela had lost her marbles completely while she was waiting for him to come home. She was not a soap opera person. Opera, yes. But without the soap bit. Pamela had a terminal fear of all things downmarket. She seemed to think that just by her watching soaps, the standards in the rest of her life would be lowered.

  ‘Hi, I’m home,’ Jamie shouted tentatively. There was no reply. Not promising.

  MacTavish, their soft lump of a Labrador, was cowering under the radiator in the corner of the hall—this was not a good sign either. He wagged his tail tentatively and Jamie patted him. A brief ‘Good boy’ was all the encouragement he needed to be sent racing upstairs, tail battering the banisters as he went.

  Jamie pushed open the lounge door. Next door’s fourteen-year-old daughter Melanie was snogging—if that’s what they still called it—with her boyfriend on the sofa. His hand was up her skirt, and they both shot three feet in the air when Jamie peered over the sofa and said, ‘Hello.’

  Obviously, the efforts of the soaps’ best scriptwriters had failed to capture their attention. Jamie rubbed his stubble. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  They looked at each other for inspiration. Jamie moved up from his stubble and instead rubbed the frown lines on his forehead. ‘Forget I said that. ‘He waved a hand dismissively. ‘Where’s Pamela?’

  ‘She’s gone to Francesca’s school. It’s parents’ night.’

  ‘Oh, damn!’ Jamie banged the place he had just rubbed. ‘I’d completely forgotten about it.’ Pamela would do her pieces when she got home. ‘Where are the kids?’

  ‘In bed—about an hour ago,’ Melanie said sheepishly. ‘We’re babysitting.’

  ‘We had a different name for it in our day,’ Jamie said caustically. They both looked puzzled.

  He dropped his briefcase on the sofa. ‘Go on, you can clear off home now I’m back.’ They shuffled towards the door. ‘Did Pamela pay you?’

  They shook their heads. He pulled out his wallet and gave them a ten-pound note. ‘Go and book yourself a motel room or something,’ he muttered.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Duncan.’ They departed hastily— Melanie rearranging her Lycra skirt as best she could.

  Jamie took off his coat, shook the rain from it and hung it over the banister. Pamela hated that too. He would move it before she came home. Tiptoeing up the stairs, he peeped in the children’s bedrooms. Jack was curled up with his thumb in his mouth, a tumble of strawberry-blond hair curling over the duvet. He looked just like Pamela and, more unfortunately, had every sign of having inherited her temperament as well as her looks.

  Francesca was stretched out fast asleep on top of her duvet with Barbie. She was like him—tall, the tallest in her class, dark and easygoing. Lazy in school terms. He turned away from the doo
rway.

  ‘Mummy’s very cross with you.’

  Pretending to be asleep. He suppressed a smile and turned back. ‘I know. I was late home from work, when I said I wouldn’t be. She’s gone to see Mrs Rutherford.’

  ‘I bet that’ll make her cross too.’

  He smoothed her hair and laughed. ‘I hope not. Go to sleep.’ He kissed her forehead.

  ‘Mummy had to ring Kathy next door so that Melanie could come round to stay with us. She called you an inconsiderate bastard.’ It sounded appealing with a faint lisp due to the absence of two front teeth.

  ‘She’s probably right. But those are grown-up words that aren’t very nice. Don’t try them in the playground, or you’ll upset Mrs Rutherford.’

  ‘Goodnight, Daddy.’

  ‘Goodnight, darling.’

  ‘Daddy.’

  ‘Yes, darling?’

  ‘MacTavish is hiding under the bed.’

  ‘It’s probably a good place for him at the moment.’

  Pamela had continued the illegitimate offspring theme in the kitchen. He opened the oven door and took out the well-cooked plate with a folded tea towel. On it were three fish fingers that definitely wouldn’t have inspired Captain Birds-eye to cry, ‘Yo, ho, me hearties,’ some sadly deflated livid green spheres that probably used to be peas and some reconstituted potato that were arranged in a neat semicircle around the edge of the plate, spelling the word bastard.

  Jamie wondered whether his wife had got all the letters from one bag, or whether she had opened two bags specially. It seemed more vindictive to open two bags, but he fought the urge to search the freezer to check. Jamie popped the B into his mouth with his fingers. It burnt his tongue.

  He took his plate through to the conservatory, taking the tomato ketchup from the cupboard on the way. It could be a bit on the chilly side in there during the winter, but at least looking at some of the exotic plants still thriving in there gave him an indication of the warmer days to come, and helped to dispel the misery he felt at spending six months of the year always leaving in the morning and returning home at night in the pitch-dark.