The foreign man had moved on to the next carriage, so Anna screwed up his slip of paper and looked around for somewhere to offload the Kleenex – not easy, when the three adjacent seats were all still occupied. So she simply left it on her lap and applied herself to the Standard once more, although distracted again by the couple opposite, who had switched from TV to radio and were now debating the relative merits of Moneybox and In Business.
At Motspur Park, the train stopped for an unconscionable time, as if it had lost both heart and impetus and couldn’t rouse the energy to drag its length through any more low-grade suburbs.
She sat drumming her fingers impatiently, before reaching for her mobile. She had already phoned Petra and told her not to wait dinner, but the thought of arriving when everyone else was already seated at the table made her both anxious and annoyed. However, as she was about to ring a second time, the train jerked into motion and continued in a halting fashion on to Malden Manor, where the tall, foreign man reappeared, now retracing his passage from the front of the train to the back, collecting up any unclaimed Kleenex, or cash from those with soft hearts.
Much to her surprise, the couple opposite handed him a five-pound note – enough to buy them two man-sized cartons of Kleenex, not this miniscule packet.
‘Thank you, thank you,’ he gushed, in heavily accented English. ‘God bless you.’
She wondered who his God might be – Allah? Jehovah? Krishna? If he truly was down on his luck, then the deity in question was clearly failing in his duty to protect a devotee. The man beside her handed back his Kleenex with a grunt, patently unwilling to part with so much as a penny, perhaps fearing that the feckless bloke would only spend the proceeds on drink or drugs. She was about to return her own pack, when she noticed the fellow’s large, ostentatious watch – clearly, an expensive one. In fact, his whole appearance gave no hint of penury or hardship – no ragged jeans, threadbare shirt, or shoes broken down at heel. As far as his clothes were concerned, he would pass muster at her office – except, of course, he wouldn’t have the stomach for a hard day’s work, let alone for long years of overtime and increasingly onerous deadlines.
Angrily, abruptly, she stuffed the Kleenex into her briefcase. She was damned if she’d return it. Admittedly, it was worth mere pence, but it was the principle that mattered – not to mention the fact she’d left work in such a tearing rush, she’d come out without several things she needed, including a handkerchief. A few tissues might prove handy this evening, if only for mopping up baby-slobber.
The guy was now standing over her, silently entreating either some money or his Kleenex back. But she continued studiously to ignore him until he eventually lost patience and shambled off to confront the next passenger; his English presumably too basic to engage in any argument.
And, five minutes later, when she finally reached Chessington South and found herself still reflecting on the encounter, she was surprised to realize she felt neither guilt nor shame – only a tiny stab of triumph for having made her stand in support of hard, honest work, as against skiving and scrounging.
‘Fantastic ice-cream!’ she enthused. ‘Funnily enough, there was a couple on the train discussing an ice-cream recipe they’d seen on Celebrity Masterchef.’
‘Yes, I watched a bit of that programme,’ Petra told them, doling out second helpings. ‘In fact, it gave me the idea of adding some Cointreau to my recipe. I was afraid it might curdle the cream, but it seemed to work OK.’
‘It’s delicious,’ said Jonathan, the handsome, urbane barrister sitting on Anna’s left. They had hit it off exceptionally well and, with any luck, he might suggest another meeting. She would certainly appreciate an intelligent, solvent man-friend, and one with a sense of humour and stylish taste in clothes. Her former testiness had vanished as if by magic – or perhaps magic was less the reason than the excellent wines Tom had selected from his father’s Sussex vineyard. The meal, too, had been superb, and the other guests seemed a lively and articulate bunch. And as for the baby, there hadn’t been a peep from it, nor any obligation to go upstairs and cluck and coo. Indeed, Petra had shown herself impressively proof against the usual need of most new mothers to discuss broken nights, or colic, or the advantages of breast-feeding but, instead, had steered the conversation into much more interesting channels.
Anna spooned in her ice-cream, relishing the kick of the liqueur and the jewel-like colours of cherries, raspberries and apricots studding the creamy-white mixture. ‘In my opinion, Petra, you can tell Jamie Oliver, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall and all the pretentious rest of them they’d better hang up their chefs’ caps, because now there’s a serious rival on the scene!’
Everybody laughed, including Jonathan, who reached for her hand and gave it a flirtatious squeeze. Before the evening was out, she hoped to have his phone-number and a definite date in her diary.
Then, all at once, she was shaken by a sneeze, embarrassed by the hooting noise it made, although the others merely giggled or called out, ‘Bless you!’ The phrase reminded her of the man on the train, so she rummaged for his mini-pack of Kleenex and gratefully blew her nose. But, to her amazement and confusion, tears began streaming down her face – tears unconnected to the sneeze and with no cause or provocation. Indeed, the depths of pain and sadness she was experiencing seemed all the more unwarranted in light of her upbeat mood just seconds ago.
‘Whatever’s wrong?’ asked Petra, leaning over in concern, to pat her on the arm.
‘I … I don’t know,’ she tried to say, although she was actually too choked to speak. She had been rejected for a string of jobs – not capable, apparently, of even cleaning offices or toilets, or washing up in seedy hotels. Not only were there four applicants for every one position, but her nationality and even education appeared to count against her – not that she could understand all the ins and outs. Her English was too elementary, and there was little time to improve it, with three children to look after.
The tears continued as she realized she would be forced to sell her grandpa’s watch – the last remaining link with him, and thus precious as a keepsake and memorial. In the absence of her family, whom she knew she’d never see again, she’d been desperate to hang on to it, whatever else she was obliged to sell. But her children’s empty bellies were of more importance than empty sentiment.
‘Oh, Anna, please don’t cry.’ Now Caroline was trying to console her, then Petra got up and came round to her side of the table. She was profoundly embarrassed to have made such an exhibition of herself; wretchedly aware that she had disrupted a stylish dinner party, not to mention ruined her chances of making out with Jonathan. Yet, how could she not cry when she was being turned away from the Job Centre, forbidden even to register because her papers weren’t in order?
‘You’re overworking, Anna,’ Tom announced. ‘I’ve been saying so for years, and now it’s all come to a head – that’s obvious.’
‘No,’ she tried to explain. ‘I can’t get any work at all. The system’s horribly confusing and I don’t know where to go for help.’
But no words were coming out. It was as if her voice-box had atrophied, or she had forgotten her own language. And those bitter, shaming tears were still sheeting down her face – tears no one here could understand and that were seemingly beyond control. Humiliated, she kicked back her chair, sprang up from the table and rushed upstairs to fetch her coat. It was imperative to go straight home before she disgraced herself entirely.
She groped out her hand for the alarm clock, peering at the illuminated figures. 3.04. Had she slept at all? She remembered tossing and turning, but then she’d had a terrifying dream, which meant she must have nodded off, at some point. Her nose felt blocked, so she reached for a tissue – the mini-pack of Kleenex she had left on the bedside table. But, the minute she blew her nose, another bout of weeping convulsed her body with gasping, choking sobs. Her father was out, as usual, desperately looking for work again, so she was all alone in their small, dark, sm
elly room. She could hear the baby screaming, but was too ill to get up and attend to it. Their neighbour had promised to babysit and look after her, as well, but, an hour ago, he had slipped out on some errand and not bothered to return. All she could do was cry – cry in pain and terror. The pillow was soaked with tears and her eyes were smarting and hurting. And her fever must be worse, because her head was throbbing terribly and her T-shirt drenched with sweat. But the most frightening thing of all was the fact her mother had vanished. She had no idea where she’d gone and, when she had asked the neighbour, he told her she was too young to understand.
‘Mama, please come back,’ she cried, over and over and over. But no one came; no one even seemed to hear. The only sound was the baby shrieking, louder.
The alarm shrilled through her sleep and, having turned it off, Anna eased herself out of bed. She vaguely recalled some disturbance in the night and some minor hitch at the dinner party, but she refused to clog her mind with trifling problems – it must be razor-sharp today for her meeting with the new client. And she had to look her best, of course. Once she had showered and dressed, she took pains applying her make-up: concealer first, to disguise the dark circles under her eyes, then blusher, to give her a healthy glow and, finally, a coat of her new, glossy, coral lipstick. She reached out for a Kleenex, to blot her lips and, instantly, as if a switch had been flicked, she began to cry hysterically. Her tiny belly was just a gaping hole of hunger; her nappy heavy and stinking, yet, however frantically she kicked and screamed, no one picked her up or fed her. Her lungs were breaking from the exertion of the sobs. She would die without her mother; die without a breast to suck.
Then, suddenly, she heard footsteps coming nearer and stopped crying for a second, in the fervent hope she would hear her mother’s voice – be comforted and saved, at last, before it was too late. But all hope vanished when she realized it was just a child, a child she knew and recognized, peering through the bars, but a child too small and sick and weak to help.
Anna sat at her desk, delighted by her success with the new client, whom she had persuaded to sign up. Her boss had actually sent a congratulatory email – a rarity for him – but since she was bringing in new business and proving her worth to the company, he couldn’t help but acknowledge that fact. With any luck, she would be in line for a pay-rise, and perhaps a bonus, too, come Christmas. But, right at this moment, she had the unaccustomed luxury of a little peace and quiet, to eat her lunchtime sandwich, undisturbed.
Determined to enjoy the break and not grab and gobble in her normal stressed-out fashion, she savoured the nutty wholemeal bread, the creamily ripe avocado and the generous filling of crab, swathed in lemon mayonnaise. Then, when the last morsel was finished, she sat back contentedly to sip her cappuccino, reaching for a tissue to wipe her messy fingers. But, once again, and without the slightest warning, she was engulfed in floods of tears, now lying in a narrow bed, with a mask across her face and connected to some frightening looking tubes. She had no idea where she was, except it was stark and white and claustrophobic, and she was all alone, apart from some white, starched, faceless nurses who didn’t speak her language. She had seen her husband just the once and he, too, had seemed at breaking-point – haggard and exhausted – and had come only to explain why she couldn’t see the baby. Apparently, the hospital thought she was too distressed to cope, since she was still bleeding very heavily after the traumatic birth, and also running a fever on account of her infected stitches, so they inisisted that she stay here, under observation. But that was wrong – totally and terribly – because her two other children needed her and, anyway, if she didn’t feed the baby, he might not survive at all. So she had to get out, immediately, regardless of how ill she might be.
‘Anna, what on earth’s the matter?’ Janet was looking at her anxiously from the adjoining work-station.
Anna glanced up, disoriented to see a colleague, rather than a foreign nurse. But, as Janet came over to her desk and she was jolted back to her work environment, she felt extremes of agitation and dismay. It was essential, as Janet’s manager, to seem capable, efficient and completely in control, not someone prone to fits of wild emotion.
Unable to explain her state and, anyway, too mortified to speak, she headed for the door and stumbled on to the ladies’ room, where she locked herself in a cubicle. And, sitting hunched on the toilet-seat, she tried to make sense of the last dislocated eighteen hours. Only slowly, and with a sense of sheer bewilderment, did she acknowledge the extraordinary fact that, every time she used a tissue from that foreign fellow’s mini-pack, she experienced his own pain and suffering and that of his whole family. She had dismissed him as a scrounger and a skiver, without the haziest notion of how cruelly harsh his life was, how often he must fight despair, forcing himself to carry on only for the sake of his three children. Her shame was deepened by the knowledge that she had actually stolen from him, purloined the Kleenex and given him not so much as 10p in return. In the typed slip, he had apologized for any ‘inconvence’ caused, yet for her it would have been no inconvenience at all if she had handed over fifty pounds – just the price of a good dinner out, or half the cost of a pair of shoes.
Appalled by her failure to comprehend a life so wretchedly different from her own privileged and prosperous one, she knew she had to make some recompense. And, lacking any fool-proof way to find the man, she would have to trek to Chessington again, in the hope he plied the same route every day. And, if she didn’t spot him on the first occasion, she’d be duty-bound to repeat the journey; perhaps ask the other passengers if anyone had seen him – at a different time, maybe – and whether he travelled that line regularly or switched to different routes. In truth, it seemed a crazy plan and might prove to be a total waste of time. And, since time was what she didn’t have, it would add an extra burden to her already arduous day. Yet the alternative was to blank out the whole incident, which seemed an impossibility, when the experiences had been so searingly intense. She had lived the fellow’s life, felt his pain, seen things through his eyes, so she was compelled to take some action that might improve his lot.
Again, she made her way to Waterloo; again, she bought a day-return to Chessington South; again, she boarded the crowded commuter train, forced to stand, as usual. She was becoming so fatigued by this tedious post-work journey, she had come to the decision that today would be her final trip. Several passengers had, indeed, assured her that the man did still board this line and was still distributing his Kleenex, yet she hadn’t seen him on any of her trips, so far, and couldn’t continue indefinitely in this exhausting and probably pointless way. She would simply have to send a cheque to some charity for the homeless or jobless, or for refugees or sick children, and allow that to suffice. Otherwise, she was in danger of losing her own job.
At Earlsfield she was offered a seat and smiled her thanks, glad to be no longer standing in tight, uncomfortable shoes and pressed against commuters’ sweaty bodies. As always, she kept her eyes peeled, but not a sign of the man. In fact, she was beginning to doubt the testimony of those who claimed to have spotted him. They could well be unreliable, or confusing the recent past with the present, whereas, for all they knew, he might have returned to his country of origin, or moved out of London, to find cheaper accommodation, or even died from malnutrition or despair.
With far less cause, she felt close to despair, riled by these slow and futile journeys, by the apathetic train, the maddening music leaking from people’s headphones, the litter of discarded Metros crumpled on the floor. But, however hungry, tired and frustrated she might feel, that was a triviality compared with the man’s far more urgent hunger and fatigue. Up till now, she had more or less ignored such people and, if her friends condemned them as on-the-make immigrants, had never really bothered to present a more compassionate view. Yet, these last few nights, she had lain awake, haunted by graphic images of the man’s grievous situation. Indeed, her sleep had been so seriously disturbed, she’d been feeling let
hargic all week and, even now, was obliged to suppress a whole series of yawns; her eyes finally seeming to close of their own accord.
She had all but drifted off, when she was jerked awake by the woman on the adjoining seat trying to push past her, but hampered by her briefcase.
As Anna apologized and moved the case, she suddenly glimpsed the very person she had just abandoned hope of ever seeing. He was wearing the same clothes as before and progressing slowly along the carriage, his supply of mini-Kleenex at the ready. She was so overwhelmed with relief that her journeys hadn’t been in vain, she did absolutely nothing except watch him for a moment. And she noticed, as she’d failed to do the first time, how gracious was his bearing; how dignified his stance. Far from approaching people sullenly, or thrusting the packets into their hands with ill-concealed aggression, all his movements were tentative and gentle, and he went about his task with a certain quiet humility, giving everyone a smile, however hostile or unresponsive their reaction.
Aware that he had almost reached her seat, she quickly withdrew the envelope she had ready in her bag. By now, it was a little crumpled, but its contents were the crucial thing and those were perfectly safe, since she checked them very carefully each time she set out. As he came to stand in front of her and handed her the pack of Kleenex, she passed him the envelope in return. Instantly, his expression changed, a look of terror on his face, as if he feared it was a letter of complaint, or an official warning that he was forbidden to tout for cash on public transport. He made no move to open it, so she tried to reassure him with a friendly nod and a smile, until, finally, he tore it open, still looking petrified. But the minute he saw the bank-notes, his expression changed again, from fear to astonishment and then to arrant disbelief.
Bad Mothers Brilliant Lovers Page 23