Andrew held the phone away from his ear. If this is going where I think it’s going . . .
“But she’s come out of the other side of it now, and from what Sparky tells me she’s looking to, you know, get back in the saddle. So, I was just thinking, that, like, maybe you might—”
“No,” Andrew said. “Absolutely not. Forget it.”
“But, Andrew, she’s super nice from what I can tell—pretty too, from the pics I’ve seen—and I reckon you’d like her a lot.”
“That’s irrelevant,” Andrew said. “Because I don’t want . . . that. It’s not for me, now.”
“‘It’s not for me.’ Jesus, man, it’s love we’re talking about, here, not pineapple on pizzas. You can’t just dismiss it.”
“Why not? Why can’t I? It’s not hurting anyone, is it, if I do? If anything it’s guaranteeing that nobody gets hurt.”
“But that’s no way to live your life, dude. You’re forty-two, still totally in your prime. You gotta think about putting yourself out there, otherwise you’re, like, actively denying yourself potential happiness. I know it’s hard, but you have to look to the future.”
Andrew could feel his heart start to beat that little bit faster. He had a horrible feeling that his sister was building up the courage to ask him about something they’d never ever discussed, not for want of trying on Sally’s part. It was not so much the elephant in the room as the brontosaurus in the closet. He decided to nip things in the bud.
“I’m very grateful for your concern, but there’s no need for it. Honestly. I’m fine as I am.”
“I get that, but, seriously, one day we’re gonna have to talk about . . . you know . . . stuff.”
“No, we don’t,” Andrew said, annoyed that his voice had come out as a whisper. Showing any sort of emotion was going to come across like an invitation to Sally to keep up this line of questioning, as if he secretly did want to talk about “stuff,” which he definitely, absolutely, didn’t.
“But, bro, we have to at some point, it’s not healthy!”
“Yes, well neither is smoking weed your whole life, so I’m not sure you’re in any position to judge, are you?”
Andrew winced. He heard Sally exhale smoke.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t called for.”
“All I’m saying,” Sally said, and there was a deliberateness to her tone now, “is that I think it would be good for you to talk things through.”
“And all I’m saying,” Andrew said, “is that I really don’t feel like that’s something I want to do. My love life, or lack thereof, isn’t something I feel comfortable getting into. And when it comes to ‘stuff,’ there’s really nothing to say.”
A pause.
“Well, okay, man. It’s up to you I guess. I mean, Carl keeps telling me to stop bothering you about it, but it’s hard not to, you know? You’re my brother, bro!”
Andrew felt a familiar pang of self-loathing. Not for the first time, his sister had reached out and he’d basically told her to take a running jump. He wanted to apologize properly, to tell her that of course it meant a lot to him that she cared, but the words stuck in his throat.
“Listen,” Sally said. “I think we’re nearly ready to sit down to eat. So, I guess . . . speak to you later?”
“Yeah,” Andrew said, screwing his eyes shut in frustration. “Definitely. And thanks, you know, for the call and everything.”
“Sure. No problem, bro. Look after yourself.”
“Yes. I will. Absolutely. And you too.”
* * *
—
As Andrew made his way the short distance from the kitchenette to his computer he nearly walked straight into the Flying Scotsman, which chugged on unconcerned. Of all his locomotives, the Scotsman seemed to carry itself with the most cheerful insouciance (compared to the Railroad BR InterCity, for example, which always seemed petulant at being made to travel at all). It was also the very first engine, and the very first part of his model train collection as a whole, that he’d owned. He’d received it as a gift when he was a teenager, and he was instantly infatuated. Perhaps it was the unexpected source of the present rather than the thing itself, but over time he began to appreciate just how perfect it was. It took him years before he could afford to buy another engine. And then another. And then a fourth. And then track and sidings and platforms and buffers and signal boxes, until eventually all of the floor space in his flat was taken up with a complicated system of interweaving tracks and various accompanying scenery: tunnels made to look like they were cut into mountains, cows grazing by streams, entire wheat fields, allotments with rows of tiny cabbages being tended to by men wearing floppy hats. Before too long he had enough scenery to actively mirror the real seasons. It was always a thrill when he felt the change in the air. Once, during a funeral attended exclusively by the deceased’s drinking pals, the vicar had made reference to the clocks going back as part of a clunky metaphor in his eulogy, and it was all Andrew could do not to punch the air with joy at the prospect of a whole weekend of replacing the currently verdant landscape with something much more autumnal.
It was addictive, building these worlds. Expensive, too. Andrew’s meager savings had long since been spent on his collection, and other than rent, his pay packet now went almost exclusively to upgrading and maintenance. He no longer worried about all the hours, or sometimes whole days, he spent browsing the Internet for ways to improve his setup. He couldn’t remember the point at which he’d discovered and then signed up to the ModelTrainNuts forum, but he’d been on it every day since. The majority of people who posted there made his interest seem positively amateurish, and Andrew thoroughly admired every single one of them. Anyone—anyone at all—who thought to log on to a message board at 2:38 a.m. and post the message: PLEASE HELP A NEWBIE: Stanier 2–6–4T Chassis CRACKED. HELP?? was nearly as much of a hero to him as the thirty-three people who replied within minutes offering tips, solutions and general words of encouragement. In truth, he understood about 10 percent of all that was talked about in the more technical conversations, but he always read them post by post, feeling genuine joy when queries, sometimes having lain dormant for months, were resolved. He would occasionally post on the main forum with general messages of goodwill, but the game changer was after he began regularly chatting to three other users and was invited—via private message no less!—to join an exclusive subforum. This little haven was run by BamBam67, one of the longest-serving members of the site, who had recently been granted moderator rights. The two others invited into the fold were TinkerAl, by all accounts a young and passionate enthusiast, and the more experienced BroadGaugeJim, who’d once posted a photo of an aqueduct he’d built over a running stream that was so beautiful Andrew had needed to have a lie-down.
The subforum had been set up by BamBam67 to show off his new moderator privileges (and Bam did like to show off, often accompanying his posts with photos of his train setup that seemed to be more about letting them see the size of his very beautiful home). They discovered early on that they all lived in London, except for BroadGauge (the enthusiastic, avuncular member of the group), who had been “keeping it real in Leatherhead” for over thirty years, but the idea of their meeting up in real life had never been raised. This suited Andrew (who went by Tracker) just fine. Partly because it meant there were times when he could modify his online persona to mask his real-life inadequacies (this, he had realized early on, was the entire point of the Internet), but also because these were the only (and therefore best) friends he had, and to meet them in real life and find out they were arseholes would be a real shame.
There was a marked difference between what happened on the main forum and the subforum. A delicate ecosystem existed in the former. Conversation had to be strictly on topic, and any user who flouted the rules was duly punished, sometimes severely. The most infamous example of this had been when TunnelBotherer6 had persistently
posted about baseboards in a gears topic and had been branded a “waste of space” by the moderator. Chillingly, TB6 never posted again. But in the subforum, away from prying main-board moderator eyes, a slow shift occurred. Before long, it became a place where personal issues were discussed. It felt terrifying at first. It was like they were the Resistance poring over maps under a single lightbulb in a dusty cellar as enemy soldiers drank in the bar above. It had been BroadGaugeJim who’d been the first one to bring up an explicitly non-train issue.
Listen, chaps, he’d written, I wouldn’t normally want to bother you with something like this, but to be perfectly honest I’m not quite sure who else to ask. Basically, my daughter Emily got caught “cyberbullying” someone at school. Mean messages. Photoshopped pics. Nasty stuff, from what I’ve seen. She tells me she wasn’t the ringleader and feels really bad (and I believe her), but I still feel like I need to make sure she understands she can’t be part of anything like that ever again, even if it means losing her mates. Just wondered if any of you might have any advice for a useless duffer like me!! No worries if not!!!!!
Andrew’s scrambled eggs went cold as he waited to see what happened. It was TinkerAl who responded first, and the advice he gave was simple, sensible, yet obviously heartfelt. So much so that Andrew felt momentarily overwhelmed. He tried writing his own response, but he couldn’t really think of anything better than what TinkerAl had said. Instead, he just backed up Tinker’s suggestion with a couple of lines, and resolved (perhaps a little selfishly) to be the helpful one next time.
* * *
—
Andrew logged on, heard the reassuring sound of the Scotsman rushing past behind him, and waited in eager anticipation of the little breeze that followed in its wake. He adjusted his monitor. He’d bought the computer as a thirty-second birthday present for himself. At the time it had seemed like a sleek and powerful machine, but now, a decade later, it was impossibly bulky and slow compared to the latest models. Nevertheless, Andrew felt an affection for the clunky old beast that meant he’d cling on to it for as long as it still spluttered into life.
Hi, all, he wrote. Anybody on for the night shift?
As he waited for the reply he knew would come within a maximum of ten minutes, he maneuvered carefully across the rail tracks to his record player and thumbed through his LPs. He kept them in a wonky pile rather than in neat rows on a shelf—that diminished the fun of it. In this more ramshackle style of ordering he could still occasionally surprise himself. There were some other artists and albums in there—Miles Davis, Dave Brubeck, Dizzy Gillespie—but Ella vastly outnumbered all of them.
He slid The Best Is Yet to Come out of its sleeve but changed his mind and put it back. When he altered his railway landscapes that was because of the changing seasons, but there wasn’t as straightforward a logic when choosing which of Ella’s records to listen to. With her, it was just a case of what felt right in the moment. There was only one exception—her version of “Blue Moon.” He hadn’t been able to play that particular song for twenty years, though that didn’t stop the tune from filtering into his head on occasion. As soon as he recognized the first notes, pain would grow at his temples, his vision would fog, and then came the sound of piercing feedback and shouting, mixing with the music, and the uncanny sensation of hands gripping his shoulders. And then, just like that, it was gone, and he’d be looking at a confused pharmacist or realizing he’d missed his bus stop. On one occasion a few years before, he’d walked into a record shop in Soho and realized that the song was playing on the shop’s speakers. He’d left so hastily he’d ended up in a tense encounter with the shopkeeper and a passing off-duty police officer. More recently, he’d been channel-hopping and found himself watching a football match. Minutes later he was desperately searching for the remote to turn it off, because apparently “Blue Moon” was what the Manchester City fans sang. To hear the actual song was bad enough, but fifty thousand people bellowing it out of sync was on another level. He tried to tell himself that it was simply one of those unusual afflictions people suffer and just have to tolerate, like being allergic to sunlight, or having night terrors, but the thought lingered that at some point, probably, he would have to talk to someone about it.
He ran his fingers down the uneven record pile. Tonight it was Hello Love that caught his eye. He carefully dropped the needle and went back to his computer. BamBam67 had been first to reply.
Evening, all. Night shift for me too. House to myself thankfully. Seen they’re repeating that BBC thing from last year tonight? James May sitting in his shed rebuilding a Graham Farish 372–311 N Gauge steam loco. Apparently they did it all in one take. Anyway, don’t bother with it. It’s awful.
Andrew smiled and refreshed. There was TinkerAl right on cue:
HAHA! Knew it wouldn’t be your c.o.t.! I loved it I’m afraid!
Refresh. Here was BroadGaugeJim:
Evening shift for me too, squires. I watched the May thing first time around. Once he’d argued in favor of cork underlay over ballasted I’m afraid I couldn’t really take the rest of it seriously.
Andrew rolled his head around on his shoulders and sank down low in his chair. Now that the four of them had posted, now that Ella was crooning and a train was rattling around the room, defeating the silence, he could relax.
This was when everything came together.
This was everything.
— CHAPTER 5 —
As Andrew’s packed lunches went, this was another textbook effort, even if he said so himself. “Ham and cheese,” he boasted to the camera. “Blob of pickle goes central, then we’ll just spread it out to each corner. I like to imagine it’s a traitor’s body parts being sent to the four corners of England, but come up with whatever metaphor you want. Hang on, is this a bit of iceberg lettuce? You bet it is. So who’s coming with? A packet of salt and vinegar from the multi-bag? Tick. And how about a satsuma from the Big Red Net? Ditto. Though do be careful to check it’s not one of those sneaky ones who’s pretending to be fine despite the fact its bottom’s gone moldy. I always picture a vainglorious young soldier protesting he wants to go on patrol despite a shattered fibula, but again, do choose your own metaphor.”
He was about to launch into an explanation of his Tupperware system when he faltered, staring ahead as if the autocue had broken, the wholly unwelcome reminder of Keith and Meredith’s tag-team interrogation coming into his mind.
Sitting on the train to work (wedged into the armrest by a man whose legs were spread so far apart Andrew could only assume he was performing some sort of interpretive dance about what a great guy he was), he found himself thinking back to his very first day in the office. After his momentary excitement at getting the job, he’d spent the following days desperately panicking about how he was going to set things straight with Cameron about the small matter of his made-up family. He reasoned his best chance would be to get on with Cameron very, very quickly—to go against all instincts and actively befriend him. A few illicit chats in the corridor slagging other people off, a pint of lager after work on a Friday—that’s what people did, wasn’t it?—then he’d confess, say it had been a moment of madness between you and me, mate, and they’d chalk the whole thing up to one of those white lies everyone told in interviews.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be. As is dictated by UK law, Andrew had said a brief hello to his new colleagues before immediately locking himself out of his e-mails and sitting in silence for an hour because he was too embarrassed to ask for help.
That’s when he saw Cameron appear. This was Andrew’s first big chance to get on friendly terms. He was just planning a witty opening gambit about his current admin crisis when Cameron, having interrupted to wish him a happy first day and rambled on and on about “KPIs” without giving him a chance to speak, concluded by asking in a voice clearly loud enough that everyone else could hear, “How’s the family? Steph and David okay?”
So thrown was he that Cameron had blown the whole thing this early, he responded to the question of how his children were by saying, “They seem fine, thanks.”
It would have been an appropriate response to an optician asking how his new lenses were, but not so much when referring to the well-being of his flesh and blood. Flustered, he gabbled on about them seeming to have lots of homework at the moment.
“Well,” Cameron said when Andrew had finished rambling. “Easter hols, soon. You and Diane off anywhere nice?”
“Um . . . France,” Andrew said.
“Oh, top banana,” Cameron said. “Whereabouts?”
Andrew considered this.
“South,” he said. “South France.”
And that was that.
In those early days, when conversation turned to family he was forced to think on his feet. He learned quickly that he could pretend to be distracted by something on his computer, or ask for a question to be repeated as if he hadn’t quite caught it, to buy him time, but he knew he needed a more long-term strategy. In his second week, there were a few days when nothing came up, and he wondered if he might be out of the woods. Looking back, he’d been incredibly naive. This was family. This was what normal people talked about. The situation wasn’t helped by the fact that Meredith seemed to exist on a diet of nosiness and gossip, constantly pressing Andrew for more specific information. A case in point had been when she, Keith and a nervous graduate called Bethany were talking about weddings.
“Oh it was so excruciating,” Meredith said, gloating about a friend’s nuptials that weekend. “They were standing there up at the altar and they just couldn’t fit the ring on his big fat finger.”
“My dad thinks it’s a bit namby-pamby for men to wear a wedding ring,” Bethany said in her quivering voice that made her sound like she was perpetually being driven over a cattle grid.
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