Train Man

by Andrew Mulligan

  ‘Where was it going? Today I mean.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The steam train. Where was it going?’

  ‘Milton Keynes.’

  ‘Did it have passengers? Was it—’

  ‘Oh, God yes. The tickets went months ago. Months ago.’

  ‘You should have bought one.’

  The old man laughed.

  ‘Not this time,’ he said. ‘You can’t go every time, can you? I have in the past, and I will again. Today I just came out for a few photos – it’s an occasion, isn’t it?’

  He tapped something, and Michael found himself inside one of the compartments, looking out at a level crossing. Again, people were waving, and the excitement made him feel slightly bewildered. Michael tore his eyes away, and inspected his new acquaintance more carefully. He was even older than he’d thought, and frailer too. He could have been eighty, or even eighty-five, and his teeth were so perfectly white they had to be dentures. Sure enough, the upper plate slipped, and he saw that the man’s face was unnaturally pale and beginning to crumple. He wore a dark grey cap, and what hair Michael could see was ragged and random, as if white clumps of dirty white cotton-wool had stuck to the sides of his head. His eyes were watery and he had a skinny throat.

  ‘I was going to take my great-grandson,’ he said slowly. ‘Then we realised it was during school, and he told me he wasn’t interested anyway.’

  ‘Wasn’t interested?’

  ‘In seeing her. He said it was a bit boring, trains.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Well… there’s so many other things now, aren’t there? Phones, for example – computer games.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The dental plate shifted again, and now Michael noticed his hands and how bony they were. He was hunched forward, holding his gadget in both, and he was a little breathless. Michael stood, unable to move, for the train on the screen was still chugging silently along past houses, and he didn’t want to be like the man’s uninterested great-grandson. On the other hand, he could feel a speech coming, which he knew almost by heart because he had heard it before – or some variation. The man was about to list more of the things young people found more interesting than trains, and they would all be electronic things. The man would laugh in wonder as if the laugh could make the terrifying new world harmless. Yes, he could use a tablet, but he had still become unnecessary. Technology wasn’t interested in him, for he just wasn’t the market: his market was stair-lifts and mobility scooters, and trousers with elastic waistbands. Funeral plans, too.

  ‘I have to go,’ said Michael.

  The man didn’t hear him. Instead, he touched Michael’s arm very gently.

  ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I said to the oldest, the other day, “What’s so important that you’ve got to bring your phone to the tea-table? Who are you talking to?” He said, “I’m texting.” I said, “Why?”’

  Michael gazed at him.

  ‘“Why?” I said. “Stop bloody fiddling! Talk to your gran. Talk to a real person for a change.” If it was up to me, I’d make them turn the damn things off, and leave them at the door. They can’t have a proper conversation any more – not like my generation. In my day, we talked to each other. We communicated.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael.

  Had the man finished? There was a sudden silence.

  ‘They are different,’ said Michael. ‘Things change, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes. And you try having a conversation with a young person.’

  ‘I know—’

  ‘They look scared. They haven’t got the ability to listen, you see. And I don’t think that’s progress. Is it?’

  ‘What isn’t?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, what isn’t progress?’

  He looked over towards platform seven, and there it stood – long and empty, and impossible to get to. He needed to drink the rest of the whisky, for that’s what he’d planned to do as he walked down onto it. He’d planned to let the liquor hit him hard and fast, and that would be the fuel he needed. The old man talking was holding his sleeve, though, as if he needed to feel the material.

  ‘All this technology,’ he said. ‘Are we better off for it? That’s what I ask myself, you see – are we better off now, than in my day?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Michael.

  ‘It’s not progress, is it?’

  ‘Yes. I think it is.’

  ‘How?’

  The man wanted to know, it seemed, and now he was looking out at the tangle of rails in much the same attitude as Michael. Perhaps he felt desperate too? If that was the case, they could walk together, holding hands. They could even share the whisky, and steady each other.

  ‘I think we’re better off,’ said Michael.

  ‘In what way? You tell me, because I don’t think it’s progress, you see.’

  ‘Well, I’ll give you an example—’

  ‘I’m not sure we’re any happier,’ interrupted the man. ‘All these gadgets… because that’s what they are, in the end. Toys, really, and are we happier for them?’

  ‘We can stay in touch,’ said Michael quickly. ‘With the people who care about us – we can talk to them. If your… grandson, let’s say, misses the last bus, he won’t be stranded in the dark. You’ll know he’s safe.’

  ‘He’ll be on the phone for a lift, that’s why. In my day, you would have had to walk.’

  ‘Yes, but you’ll be able to keep him safe.’

  ‘Were we in so much danger? In the old days?’

  ‘I’m sure we were. Yes – definitely. I was.’

  The man said nothing, and Michael swallowed.

  ‘We are so much better off,’ he said. ‘Your great-grandson has access to so much knowledge now. With one touch on his screen he can do just what you’re doing. He can call up recordings and information. He can listen to ideas, from people who think more deeply than he does. He can get advice, and find out about other people and what they might be going through. I think that’s progress – I do.’

  ‘Playing computer games. Is that good for you?’

  ‘Don’t you play games?’

  ‘No. Not for hours on end in a room all by myself, no. Not games where you… There was one he was playing the other day, it made me feel quite nauseous. He had a flamethrower. He was a soldier, with a flamethrower, squirting fire all over people. That was the game, and he was on it all afternoon – twelve years old. With some friend halfway across the country, so they don’t even have to see each other.’

  Michael nodded.

  The man would talk about sexual predators soon – and he would have to stand there listening. He glanced at the old man again, and wondered how many months of life he had left, because he wasn’t well. He would be getting home as the light faded: his wife would see how weary he was. She would set his supper before him, and what would it be? What did a man this old eat on a Thursday evening? Meatballs. Fish fingers. A lamb chop? Had they discovered the ready-meal, and the supermarkets’ money-saving deals? Chicken tikka masala with oven-ready naan bread and a free dessert.

  He gazed out at the tracks and thought of Amy, who had used Waitrose, especially when they had special offers. The freezer was full: she would be working her way through it without him. Perhaps Charlie had organised another celebration meal, and they’d clinked glasses at his absence from the table. Monica had used a supermarket out of town, and Elizabeth? It didn’t matter, but now he couldn’t move his feet.

  They had sat at her table – Monica’s table, not Amy’s. Did it matter who was who? Were they interchangeable now? Monica liked fish, and they’d spent an evening poring over a brochure from a supermarket that specialised in frozen food. It had come through the door and there were photographs of salmon, bream and haddock fillets. Prawns, king prawns, cod and trout – you could buy them as they were, or in sauces, and you could almost smell the sea. They had gone out to the store the next day, and bought six haddock steaks for three pounds.

>   ‘My word,’ they’d said. ‘Very tasty.’

  ‘This is good,’ they had agreed. ‘Oh, this is a meaty fish. Crikey. How much was this? A bit of butter and it’s… this is… This is amazing.’

  Ross-on-Wye was the place they went together once, and somehow Monica had chosen the worst bed-and-breakfast in the country, imprisoning them both in a small, mean room with two single beds. They found out too late that the guttering over the window was broken, which meant the rain came down hard and splattered on the sill. They wouldn’t have cared on a fine day – but that night a rainstorm hit, and above the nagging, sawing wind was the gushing of water. He had lain awake, not deserving Monica’s patience, and she had begun to suspect that. They both yearned to be home, away from each other – and yet their friendship survived, because they both needed somebody to phone.

  Why do two adults of the opposite sex who like each other not sleep together, when they are both single? Why are they not drowning the sounds of the storm with joyous, experimental sex? Why isn’t one of the beds straining and heaving, the legs scraping the floor until the neighbours can’t stand it and hammer on the wall?

  A short train had appeared, and was choosing its platform. Michael looked at the driver as it approached and saw how focused he was – the last thing he wanted to do was run somebody down, even if they wanted to die.

  ‘Pornography,’ said the old man suddenly. ‘That’s what they’re looking at, half the time.’

  ‘What?’ said Michael.

  ‘Aren’t they? Parental controls? Do me a favour.’

  ‘How old’s your great-grandson? You said he was twelve.’

  ‘Twelve, yes. No… eleven.’

  ‘And he’s looking at pornography?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sorry, you said he was.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. I’m just saying it probably won’t be long. That’s what they do, isn’t it? You read about it – they send pictures of each other, and before you know it your best friend turns out to be your worst enemy. Too late – she’s sent the whole lot to everyone else. Every day, you hear about it. Then they’re changing their gender.’

  Michael nodded.

  ‘Boys become girls,’ said the old man. ‘They put on a skirt, and then they swap back again. They end up not knowing what they are, and I blame the pornography – I do.’

  ‘When did you first see pornography?’ said Michael.

  ‘What?’

  The man thought he had misheard, and was putting his ear closer to Michael, so his head was on one side. There was a station announcement, but the words were inaudible.

  ‘When did I what?’ said the man.

  Michael tried to speak clearly. He knew he smelled of whisky, but he wasn’t going to search for a mint now.

  ‘I was asking you,’ he said. ‘When did you first see a… you know, a pornographic magazine or film?’

  The man looked baffled. ‘Why are you asking me that?’ he said.

  Michael so nearly said, ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He so nearly diffused it again, but for some reason he decided that the topic had to be examined, properly.

  ‘You’re saying your great-grandson sees images,’ he said patiently. ‘Or will see images, at the age of eleven – that’s what you’re saying. And you’re telling me that, as if it’s unusual or… I don’t know – a new thing. Part of the danger of technology, and the age we’re living in. But it seems to me that boys have always found ways of looking at pornography.’

  ‘Not at the touch of a button.’

  ‘Perhaps not, but—’

  ‘There’s so much of it.’

  ‘Does that make such a difference? Didn’t you borrow or buy magazines? That’s what I’m asking.’

  ‘I didn’t know where to get them. No, I didn’t.’

  ‘You never looked at pornography?’

  ‘What?’

  Michael’s astonishment must have been clear in his voice, for the man was looking at him with just a trace of fear.

  ‘No,’ he said, as if the idea was offensive to him.

  ‘You must have, though,’ said Michael.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because everyone does. Mayfair. Penthouse. There was a boy at my school who got them from somewhere, and hired them out. Fifty pence, I think, for a weekend. What about the Sun, for goodness’ sake? When does a boy first see a copy of page three?’

  ‘That’s a very different thing.’

  ‘But it’s not.’

  ‘Not what?’

  ‘It’s not different. It’s the same—’

  ‘It’s totally different.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, for one thing—’

  ‘You think the pictures are more tasteful? More… artistic, or what? Less naked?’

  ‘Ah, but they don’t display themselves, do they? Page three is a joke – just a… woman’s bare chest for a bit of fun.’

  ‘A pair of knockers.’

  ‘What?’

  There was a pause, and then the man chuckled, and looked away.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘All I know—’

  ‘That’s what we called them,’ interrupted Michael. ‘That’s what people called them: a right good pair of knockers. “Look at the size of them, eh?” That was how we spoke. That was the kind of thing you’d hear on television, but it was all part of something else. We’d made her body horrible, so it was something to leer at. To lust over. Do you know what I mean? And there was something disgusting about it, always. You know? You’d take the magazine home, and you had to hide it. So sex becomes a shameful thing, and I’m just wondering – how do you grow up normal if you glimpse a woman and she’s… turning herself inside out, in a magazine? It used to terrify me. I used to hate it. And I used to worry that I was abnormal for hating it, while wondering if everyone hated it, but couldn’t say so. Do you know what I mean?’

  The man said nothing for a moment, and then he sighed. Michael waited, wondering if his companion was about to say something wise. It was the most serious speech he’d made in weeks, or even months – and he’d made it to a stranger who now seemed to be pondering his response.

  ‘You’re talking about the objectification of women,’ he might say. ‘You are. You’re talking about attitudes that – yes – can go unchallenged, or… fail to change. It’s sometimes hard to learn new behaviours, isn’t it? That’s what you’re saying, mister.’

  Michael would nod.

  ‘Yes,’ he would reply. ‘I don’t know how I became what I am. I can’t blame magazines, or Mr Trace. Can I? I just long to understand it.’

  ‘Who was Mr Trace?’

  ‘My Latin teacher.’

  ‘What happened? What’s he got to do with it?’

  Michael would tell him, and perhaps they would stand together with bowed heads, and finally clasp hands. The old man’s voice would drop to a whisper.

  ‘Me too,’ he would say.

  ‘What? You too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you lost, too?’

  ‘I’ve been lost all my life. What happened to us? How did we end up here – in Crewe?’

  ‘Crewe.’

  ‘Why Crewe?’

  The old man was still, but he said nothing at all and the silence only got longer.

  He held up his tablet, slowly, and took a photograph of the rails. He stepped to one side, and Michael realised he was actually filming, panning slowly from right to left to take in the whole side of the station – and there could be no reason for it, for who would ever ask to see that sequence of film? Who was waiting at home, yearning to watch an empty section of this particular station on a September afternoon? If Michael walked onto the line now, would he carry on filming? Would he show it to a journalist, and get his great-grandson to upload everything onto some website where the world could enjoy Michael’s last moments, and comment on them?

  ‘Phew, look at this one – whoa! #Splat! (57 likes)’

  The old man flipped the c
over, and put the tablet under his arm.

  ‘That’s it for today,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve run out of time.’

  ‘Is it late?’

  ‘It is for me. I’m ready for a cup of tea.’

  Michael smiled.

  ‘Where do you go for that?’ he said.

  ‘Oh, here and there. Different places.’

  He didn’t want Michael to know. He didn’t want the conversation to resume – he just had to get away.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Michael.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said goodbye. Have a nice afternoon – it was nice to chat.’

  The man nodded.

  He turned and walked carefully off. His legs were not reliable, and he should have had a stick. Michael didn’t watch him for long, but turned back to stare at the warehouses. He thought of those poor women again, forced to expose themselves in magazines. The ones he’d seen had held their legs wide open so their genitalia were like a wound, and he remembered hard, glassy eyes – a sense that he was looking at corpses, mutilated by a madman.

  Deep in thought, he didn’t hear the announcement, or the approach of the train he’d been waiting for. It was suddenly on him, hurtling in from behind on his very own platform – not platform seven after all. He’d missed the warning and there it went, its slipstream rocking him so hard that he found himself cowering. It really was the train he’d planned to be in front of: the absolutely punctual non-stop express, just a blur of red blazing through at fifty miles per hour with a confidence and purpose that Michael found shocking. Even if he ran at it, he’d simply be bounced off the side. He’d spin and tumble like a clown, and there he’d be on his back looking up from the ground – would he laugh at himself, he wondered, as the staff gathered round him? He’d have to listen to his very own announcement:

  ‘If there’s a doctor in the station, could you please make your way to platform…’

  ‘Let me go,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t save me.’

  ‘There’s someone coming, pal – stay still. Don’t try to move.’

  ‘But I must.’

  ‘Has he got water? Give him a snack – call the refreshment trolley!’

  Would they wrap him in a blanket, and hold his hand? Was that the best shortcut to love, in fact? You smashed yourself up so badly someone had to be tender. Was that the way to a relationship? Michael smiled, knowing he should be dead by now, and knowing that it wasn’t a question of why any more, but why not? He could not stand another pub, or another café, nor another trip to the supermarket with a small wire basket waiting for the yellow-sticker girl to price down the end-of-the-day stock. No, please no: not another evening in an armchair, or an excursion to somewhere he didn’t want to be. The choral society, again – he could never again face that. The ceramics group – he couldn’t face that nonsense either. Evensong, or the cake-and-coffee group. The Japanese season at the club cinema, which was a bus ride away, all for a quick chat with the person who tore his ticket: a quick, jaunty chat. No, this wasn’t self-pity. This was… a decision just to stop.