He fiddled nervously with a coaster, eventually giving in to the urge to tear it into strips, leaving a pile of cardboard on the table like a hamster’s nest. He was suddenly very aware of how desperate he felt. He cringed at his cheery sign-off on the forum (Besides, it would be fun for us to actually meet up in person, no??), which now seemed glaringly ripe for dismissal and ridicule. It went against pretty much everything they stood for. The forum was a place where you could pretend to be someone else and, more importantly, do so naked while eating cheese if you wanted. How was real life supposed to compete with that?
He took a careful look around (remembering how Peggy had admonished him for his obviousness in the pub on her first day), hoping to see someone he thought might be one of the forum lot. He was doing his best not to make eye contact with the man in the leather jacket, who, when Andrew was ordering a pint from the grizzled barman, had turned to him showing his bloodshot eyes and grunted, “All right?” Andrew had pretended not to hear before scuttling away, also pretending not to hear the man muttering, “Wanker,” after him.
He straightened his coat lapel so that the little model train badge he’d affixed to it was visible. He’d hoped it was a subtle touch that would make him recognizable to the others without drawing undue attention. So it was all he could do not to burst out laughing when he looked up to see the man who’d just entered the pub was wearing a T-shirt bearing the slogan: “Model Trains Are the Answer. WHO CARES WHAT THE QUESTION IS?!”
Andrew half stood, half waved to the man, who—to his overwhelming relief—grinned back broadly.
“Tracker?”
“Yes! My name’s Andrew, you know, in real life.”
“Nice to meet you, Andrew. I’m BroadGauge—Jim.”
“Great!”
Andrew reached out and shook Jim’s hand, possibly a bit too enthusiastically judging by Jim’s expression, but Andrew felt too excited to be embarrassed. Somebody had come!
“Cracking badge, by the way,” Jim said.
“Thanks,” Andrew said. He was going to return the compliment about Jim’s T-shirt when evidently a goal was scored and the pub erupted into howls of disapproval. Jim briefly appraised the commotion, then turned back, his eyebrows raised.
“Sorry, it’s a rubbish choice of venue,” Andrew said quickly.
Jim shrugged. “Nah, it’s fine. What are you drinking then?”
“Oh thanks, lager please,” Andrew said, waiting till Jim was heading to the bar before downing the last third of his pint.
As Jim returned with their drinks he was followed over by the young woman with purple hair, who’d just come out of the ladies’. Before either Jim or Andrew could say anything she’d sat down at the table and offered them a nervous hello.
“Um, sorry,” Jim said, “but we’re actually waiting for someone.” Andrew gave the woman an apologetic smile.
“Yeah, that’d be me,” the woman said.
Andrew and Jim looked at each other.
“Hang on,” Andrew said, “You’re . . .”
“TinkerAl,” the woman said.
“But . . . but you’re a woman!” Jim said.
“Well spotted,” the woman laughed. Then, when neither Andrew nor Jim could work out how to respond, she rolled her eyes and said, “The ‘Al’ part comes from Alexandra. But people call me Alex.”
“Well,” Jim said. “That’s, you know . . . good for you!”
“Thanks,” Alex said, smothering a smile before launching into a passionate monologue about her latest acquisition. “I honestly reckon it outclasses the Caerphilly Castle 4-6-0,” she said.
“No way!” Jim said, eyes nearly popping out of his head.
The three of them continued to talk trains, occasionally having to raise their voices over the men shouting at some perceived injustice on the big screen. Despite the occasional angry glare from leather jacket man, Andrew was beginning to relax. Though if BamBam wasn’t going to turn up, then that posed a big problem. He needed him the most.
It was during a melee of celebrations as the home team pinched an equalizer that a man sauntered through the door and pulled up a chair at their table with the nonchalance of someone who was meeting people he’d seen every day for twenty years. He was wearing a dark blue denim shirt tucked into some beige slacks and smelled of expensive aftershave. He introduced himself as BamBam, then Rupert—which the others tried and failed not to seem surprised by. Jim watched Rupert shake Alex’s hand and couldn’t help himself. “She’s a woman!” he said.
“It’s true,” Alex said. “I’ve got a certificate and everything. Right, who wants crisps?”
The four of them drank and ate from bags of potato chips that were democratically opened out on the table. As they talked about new purchases and various upcoming conventions—already promising to meet up at an exhibition day at Alexandra Palace—Andrew was starting to wish he didn’t have to upset the balance by bringing his plan into the mix. But after he returned from the toilet, the others clearly using the opportunity to discuss his message, Jim cleared his throat and said, “So, Andrew, you, um, invited us here for a . . . thing?”
Andrew had carefully rehearsed what he was going to say, but he could still feel the blood thumping in his ears. He’d decided to get everything out as quickly as possible, revealing only as much as he had to. He spoke rapidly without pausing to draw breath, so much so that he was actually light-headed by the time he’d finished.
“That’s it,” he concluded, taking a big gulp of beer.
There was a horribly long pause. Andrew grabbed another beer mat and started to tear and twist it.
Then Rupert cleared his throat.
“Just to be clear,” he said, “you need my house to host a dinner party in?”
“And for all of us to help you cook for said dinner party?” Alex said.
“And just generally be on hand to help out . . . and stuff,” Jim added.
“Because,” Alex said, “redundancies are on the cards and you need to keep your boss on your side.”
Andrew realized how mad it all sounded, laid bare like that. “I honestly can’t explain to you how insane my boss is. I thought he was just making us do these dinner parties because he wanted to be friends with us all, but it seems like it’s more to do with him trying to decide who he likes the most and who he can bring himself to let go. And I . . . well, I really can’t afford to be that person right now.”
The others exchanged glances, and Andrew sensed they might want to confer.
“I’ll get a round in,” he said. Despite worrying about what Jim, Rupert and Alex were deciding to do, he couldn’t help but grin to himself as he made his way to the bar. I’ll get a round in—so casual! As if it were the most natural thing in the world!
“I need to change the barrel for the pale ale,” the barman said.
“That’s fine, take your time,” Andrew said, realizing too late that this might have sounded sarcastic. The barman stared at him for a moment before heading to the cellar.
“You wanna be careful,” leather jacket man said. “I’ve seen him kick seven shades out of a bloke for less. He’s fine one minute, mental the next.”
But Andrew wasn’t listening. There was a mirror just above the row of spirits, and in the reflection he could see the others deliberating at the table. He was suddenly very aware of the ebb and flow of noise from the fans around him, as if the groans and expletives and shouts of encouragement were the soundtrack to the conversation he was watching.
“Why you ignoring me, mate?” leather jacket man piped up.
Andrew acted oblivious and counted out his money for the round.
“Helllooooooo,” the man said, reaching over and waving a hand in front of Andrew’s face.
Andrew pretended to be surprised. “Sorry, I’m not really with it today,” he said, wishing he didn’t sound qu
ite so much like a flustered substitute teacher.
“No excuse to totally ignore me like that,” the man said, poking him in the shoulder. “Basic fucking human politeness, that.”
Now Andrew was desperate for the barman to return. He looked at the mirror. The others still seemed to be in deep discussion.
“So what you reckon?” the man said, indicating the screen.
“Oh, I don’t really know,” Andrew said.
“Have a guess, mate. Bit of fun.” The man poked him in the shoulder again, harder this time.
Andrew backed away as subtly as he could. “A draw?” he said.
“Pah. Bollocks. You West Ham in disguise? Oi, everyone, this one’s West Ham!”
“I’m not, I’m nobody,” Andrew said, his voice going falsetto. Luckily, no one paid them any attention, and to Andrew’s relief the barman finally reappeared and finished pouring drinks.
When he arrived back at the table it was to what felt like an awkward silence, and he realized he’d forgotten one vital point. “I forgot to say, I’m not asking you to do this for free. We can work out, you know, a payment, whether that’s cash or you taking your pick of my kit. I managed to damage my O4 Robinson recently, but there are my other locomotives, and scenery, so just let me kn—”
“Don’t be silly,” Alex interrupted. “Of course you don’t need to pay us. We’re just trying to work out logistics.”
“Oh. Good,” Andrew said. “I mean, great, that you’re on board and everything.”
“Yep, definitely,” Alex said. “We’re friends, after all,” she added, in a voice that made it sound like she was settling the issue. She widened her eyes at Rupert.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” he said, “and you’re welcome to have your soiree at mine. My partner’s actually away with work next week, so the timing’s decent. Though I’m a lousy cook, I’m afraid.”
Jim linked his fingers together and extended his arms, cracking his knuckles. “You can leave the cooking to Jimbo,” he said.
“So. There we go. Sorted,” Alex said.
They talked a little more about the whens and wheres, but after a while conversation turned back to trains. For the second time that afternoon, Andrew had to concentrate on hiding the goofy grin that kept trying to wriggle onto his mouth.
* * *
—
The football was finished—it was a draw in the end—and most of the fans had already filed out, shaking their heads and grumbling. Leather jacket man had other ideas, however, and Andrew groaned inwardly as he watched him meander over and pull up a chair at the table next to them.
“Model trains, eh,” he said, eyeing Jim’s shirt before resting his feet on the back of Andrew’s chair. “Fuck me, do people still actually bother with that crap?”
Alex raised her eyebrows at Andrew. “Do you know him?” she mouthed. Andrew shook his head.
“Sorry, mate,” Alex said, “we’re a bit busy. Mind giving us some space?”
The man made a big show of looking Alex up and down. “Well, well, well, if I was ten years younger . . .”
“I’d still utterly ignore you,” Alex said. “Now go away, there’s a good boy.”
The man’s leer turned into a scowl. He kicked the back of Andrew’s chair. “You wanna tell that bitch to shut her mouth.”
“All right, that’s enough,” Andrew said, getting to his feet. “I’d like you to leave us alone now.” His voice was shaking.
“Yeah, and what happens if I don’t?” the man said, standing and drawing himself up to his full height. This was the cue for Rupert, Jim and Alex to stand up, too.
“Jesus, look at this lot,” the man said. “A wimpy prick, a slag, a tubby ticket inspector and a shit Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well that’s not very nice, now, is it?” Rupert said, sounding remarkably calm. Andrew would have questioned whether such a sarcastic tone was the right approach, but then he noticed what Rupert had already. Namely, that unbeknownst to leather jacket man, the barman was walking toward him, rolling his head around his shoulders as if he were about to run the hundred meters. He waited for the man to take one more step toward Andrew before he advanced swiftly, grabbed him by his collar, hauled him toward the exit and shoved him through the door, aiming a kick at his backside for good measure. As he made his way back to the bar he even rubbed imaginary dirt off his hands, something Andrew had only ever seen in cartoons.
Andrew, Jim, Alex and Rupert all just stood there for a moment, nobody seeming to know what to say. It was Jim who broke the silence. “Tubby ticket inspector? I’ll take that, I reckon.”
— CHAPTER 32 —
Peggy was worried about Andrew’s coming straight back into work. You should take some time off, get your head together, she texted him. Remember how grim this job can be. You’re not an ice cream taster. But Andrew was struggling with being at home. It was just him and his own thoughts, and he hated his own thoughts; they were largely bastards. Since Peggy had come to his flat he was also beginning to realize quite how ridiculous the state of the place was. He spent the evening after the subforum meet-up cleaning everywhere until he was sweaty and exhausted.
As he left the building the following morning he caught a tantalizing glimpse of perfume woman’s door closing behind her. He was so surprised to actually see evidence that she existed he very nearly called out.
* * *
—
The evening of the dinner party coincided with Andrew and Peggy’s first property inspection for two weeks (Malcolm Fletcher, sixty-three, massive heart attack on a lumpy futon), and for once it only took them a few minutes before they had a breakthrough.
“Got something,” Peggy called from the bedroom. Andrew found her sitting cross-legged on the floor of a walk-in wardrobe, surrounded by pairs of pristinely polished shoes, nearly identical suit jackets hanging above her, like she was a child playing hide and seek. She proffered Andrew a posh-looking address book. He flicked through but there was nothing written on any of the pages from A to Z.
“Last page,” Peggy said, reaching up for Andrew to pull her to her feet. Andrew flicked to the “Notes” section at the back of the address book.
“Ah,” he said. Mum & Dad and Kitty were written at the top of the page in small, spidery handwriting, with corresponding phone numbers next to them. He took out his mobile and called Mum & Dad, but it was a young-sounding woman who answered who’d never heard of anyone called Malcolm and had no record of the previous occupants. Andrew had more luck with Kitty.
“Oh goodness, that’s . . . he’s my brother . . . poor Malcolm. God. What a horrible shock. I’m afraid we’d rather fallen out of touch.” Andrew mouthed along with the last six words for Peggy’s benefit.
* * *
—
“So how are things?” Andrew said as they left the flat, deciding to keep the question vague enough that Peggy could respond however she wanted.
“Well, Steve came to collect the last of his stuff yesterday, which was a relief. He told me he hadn’t had a drink in ten days, although he did smell like a distillery, so unless he got very unfortunate and someone spilled an awful lot of vodka on him, I think he was probably lying.”
“I’m sorry,” Andrew said.
“Don’t be. I should have done this a long time ago. Sometimes you just need that extra little push. A reason to help you make the decision.”
Andrew could sense Peggy had turned her head to look at him, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet her eye. He knew what she was getting at—and he didn’t want to concede that she was right.
Just then, he received a text from Jim with the menu for that evening (the food sounding reassuringly posh—what, indeed, was kohlrabi?) and asking him to pick up some booze. He shook the doubts from his mind. He had to focus on everything going perfectly tonight, no matter what Peggy thought.
“
I just need to make a quick detour,” he said, taking them into Sainsbury’s and heading for the alcohol aisle.
“That person you spoke to today—Kitty, was it?” Peggy said.
“Mmm-hmm,” Andrew said, distracted by reading the label on a pinot noir.
“She must’ve been the hundredth person you’ve heard saying ‘we’d rather fallen out of touch,’ right?”
“Probably,” Andrew said, reaching for a bottle of champagne and passing it to Peggy. “Is this classy?”
“Erm, nope, not really. How about this?” She handed him a bottle with some silver netting around the neck. “What I mean is,” she said, “it’s all very well doing what we do, but it all feels a bit ‘after the fact,’ you know? I mean, wouldn’t it be nice if everyone did more to at least give people the option of finding company, to be able to connect with someone in a similar position, rather than this sort of inevitable isolation?”
“Yeah, good plan, good plan,” Andrew said. Nibbles. Do we need nibbles? Or are nibbles passé these days? He hadn’t felt that anxious up until then, but he was really starting to feel the nerves bubbling now.
“I was wondering,” Peggy continued, “if there was, like, a charity that did that, or—I know this sounds a bit mad—whether we could actually look at setting one up ourselves. Or if not that, then finding a way to make sure at least someone other than one of us turns up to the funerals when we can’t find a next of kin.”
“Sounds great,” Andrew said. Why does paprika have such a monopoly on spice-flavored crisps, anyway? Fuck, what if someone is allergic to paprika, or any of the food Jim is cooking? Okay, just calm down. Deep breaths. Deep. Fucking. Breaths.
Peggy sighed. “And I’d also like to ride an elephant into the sea, naked, while singing the words to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody.’”
“Mmm-hmm, good plan. Hang on, what?”
Peggy laughed. “Never mind.” She took the bottle out of his hands and replaced it with another. “So, tonight . . . ,” she said.
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