The Railway Station Man

by Jennifer Johnston

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Personally,’ said Mary, ‘I’m a whiskey drinker. But there are times … Mud in your eye.’

  He smiled.

  ‘Mud.’

  ‘And if you’re interested in the gramophone it’ll be five pounds and the records two pence each.’

  ‘Really, Mary …’

  ‘Take it or leave it.’ She put her mug down and turned to deal with a woman who looked as if she might be about to buy a small oriental gong on a black lacquer stand.

  ‘So, now you know,’ said Helen.

  He put the mug down carefully on the table and took a record out of the box. ‘Spring will be a little late this year. Worth every bit of two pence, I’d have thought.’

  ‘I think the records should be thrown in. After all …’

  ‘Embrace me, you sweet embraceable you. On the sunny side of the street. Deeda deedadeeda.’

  He looked weird, she thought.

  ‘This is a lovely way to spend an evening. The tune is in my head but the words escape me. Go back, Mrs … go back to your selling and leave me to wallow in vodka and nostalgia.’

  ‘If you’re …’

  ‘I am. Quite, quite all right.’

  He was brusque again, very dismissive.

  Odious, unpleasant man, she thought. How I dislike you. She moved up to the other end of the trestle, putting Mary between herself and the man. Let her extort what she can from you.

  Bong.

  Mary had just struck the gong with its padded beater.

  A fine mellifluous note. Much, much too cheap at a pound.’

  A note changed hands.

  Bong.

  The new owner struck it again before picking it up and heading for home, to a better life now that she owned a gong.

  Cakes and Biscuits were packing up, shaking and folding the white cloths with which the card tables had been covered. Home Produce and Flowers were counting money into a black tin box. Teas were still going strong. The rain was banging on the corrugated roof once more, bursting and racing down the roof and over the gutters and into the street. Women struggled into macintoshes and put up umbrellas in the porch and children were pulled roughly in off the street to the shelter of the hall again.

  ‘Would it be all right if I were to check that the machine is in full working order?’

  His voice was polite again.

  ‘Of course.’

  He lifted the domed lid and examined the turntable. He twiddled the knob that worked the shutters.

  ‘Nice piece of mahogany,’ he said.

  ‘Things were made to last in those days,’ said Mary. ‘They hadn’t cottoned on to the idea of consumerism.’

  Beside Helen some children were dropping coins into a bucket of water. The handle squeaked as he turned it.

  ‘What are we going to do with all this junk now, Mary? I don’t think anyone is going to buy anything else.’

  ‘We’ll pack it all up, dear. I’ll bring the lot home and put them in the cellar and roll them out again next time round. My dear, there are objects here have been on this stall for ten years’

  Helen picked up her two unsold pictures.

  ‘I’ll just …’

  ‘Take anything you like, dear.’

  Track forty-nine… Swelling fortissimo as he opened the shutters.

  The children by the bucket looked round, startled.

  It’s the Chattanooga choochoo –

  ‘Heavens.’

  Mary clapped her hands over her ears.

  All aboard

  Wooohooo –

  The children looked rather pleased.

  It’s the Chattanooga choochoo.

  ‘Shall we dance?’ He held out his hand to her.

  ‘I …’ She propped the pictures up on the window. ‘Why not?’

  You leave the Pennsylvania station at a quarter to four –

  A totally forgotten shiver happened in her stomach as she put her hand in his. Fright and then relief that you weren’t going to be left alone smiling into space while the whole world danced around you. Foolish Helen –

  Dinner in the diner –

  He let go of her fingers and put his hand firmly on the small of her back.

  Nothing could be finer –

  Tentatively she took hold of both of his shoulders. Was that the right thing to do?

  Than to have your ham and eggs in Carolina.

  ‘Ca-ha-rol-ina.’ He tilted his head away from her and sang.

  Woohoo.

  Everyone was watching.

  He twirled her into the middle of the floor. It was sticky, she thought, her feet wouldn’t slide, damp patches on the floor and Coke bottle tops, crisp packets. Not quite the Metropole ballroom or the Gresham Hotel. ‘Whirl,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Let’s whirl. Let’s show them something.’ They whirled in spite of the sticky floor. It was fun, she thought. Such long-ago fun. It’s amazing he dances so well with his … disabilities. Rhythm. That was always the important thing. Rhythm. He must have been good when he was … when he was … I suppose at some time he was whole. People’s pink faces smiled.

  Won’t you choochoo me home.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and bowed quite formally.

  Several people clapped.

  ‘Avanti, avanti,’ shouted Mary from beside the gramophone. She put another record on the turntable and gently lowered the needle.

  Plinky plonky plinky plonky –

  ‘Mmmm,’ said the man, taking hold of her back again. His eye smiled at her.

  Why do you whisper green grass?

  ‘Why indeed,’ he said.

  Why tell the trees what ain’t so? Some of the children began to dance as well, swaying slowly on their own.

  Whispering grass –

  ‘I know this one,’ shouted Mrs Walsh, sweeping the floor by Home Produce. ‘This brings me back. The trees don’t need to know,’ she shouted.

  Oh no.

  ‘Remember the Ink Spots.’

  ‘Mr Hawthorne …’

  ‘Why tell them all your secrets? Call me Roger.’

  ‘I haven’t got any secrets.’

  He smiled. ‘I don’t believe that. You have the most secretive face I have ever seen. Cool, private. Hiding things.’

  ‘You dance well.’

  Then she blushed. What a cow-like thing to say. His hand pressed her back for a moment.

  ‘I used to dance a lot.’

  Don’t tell it to the trees or they will tell the birds and bees and everyone will know because you told the babbling –

  ‘1944.’

  He laughed.

  Tree … ee … eeoooeeooee – slower – and oooeeooee –

  ‘Oooeeoooeee,’ crooned one of the children and the record stopped turning.

  He let go of Helen and turned away. He walked quickly to the white elephant stall, just leaving her there standing in the middle of the hall.

  ‘I’ll have it,’ he said to Mary. He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and produced two five-pound notes. He handed her the money.

  ‘Here. That’s what I’ll give you.’

  ‘Too much,’ she said surprisingly. ‘Give me seven.’

  ‘Take it.’ He pushed the money into her hand. ‘I’ll go and get my car. It’s down by the hotel. If someone could …’

  ‘That’s all right. One of the boys will carry it out for you. Wait a while though till the rain eases off. You’ll drown in that.’

  He shook his head and walked away towards the door.

  ‘Fifty-seven pounds twenty-six pence.’

  She put the money into the cash box.

  She repeated the figure to Helen as she arrived beside her.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘It must be a record. It just shows the quality of our white elephants.’

  ‘Or perhaps that our customers have more money than sense.’

  Mary laughed.

  ‘Vodka all gone. Let’s clear up as quickly as we can and get home. Hot bath. Feet up
. Here you, Kevin … it is Kevin, isn’t it …? Carry that machine out to Mr Hawthorne. He’s gone to get his car. And the records. Don’t drop it for heaven’s sake … and don’t let those records get wet’

  Helen took the folded plastic bag out of the coat pocket and carefully put the two pictures back into it.

  ‘Mad as a hatter,’ said Mary.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That railway station man.’

  ‘A grumpy bear, I’d have said. Mother had one of these. I always thought they were lovely.’ She was folding a green velvet bridge cloth with gold tassels at each corner. ‘I stole it once and wore it to a fancy-dress party. Wrapped round me like a cloak. I felt so rich. I spilled something on it, lemonade … something like that. There were ructions.’

  She put it into the box they were filling.

  ‘I suppose people don’t play bridge with such formality any longer.’

  ‘In and out of hospitals for years. Reggie and Anne know his people. He’s been a thorn in their flesh for years. He buys railway stations.’

  ‘A fairly harmless thing to do, I’d have thought.’

  ‘One thing leads to another.’

  Helen laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Mary. He’s a harmless bad-tempered crank. You’re making him sound as if he were a homicidal maniac.’

  ‘You just never know, dear, with the deranged when something terrible may bubble up to the surface. His family consider him to be deranged. Norfolk or somewhere like that they come from. There, I think we’ve done enough, dear. The others can cope with the final clearing-up. Just let me dispose of the cash and I’ll drive you home.’

  ‘I have the bike, thanks.’

  ‘You’ll get wet.’

  ‘No matter.’

  ‘Rain never hurt anyone.’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Run along then, dear, and thank you. See you soon. Tooraloo.’

  ‘See you soon.’

  Helen tied a scarf around her head in the doorway before stepping out into the rain. Dismal chiaroscuro street disfigured by prosperity. What a dismal thing to think. What nobility is there in the picturesque hovel? A horn hooted as she stepped into the road. Patience, she muttered. Her bike was leaning against a concrete lamp standard. Should I get a flashy new one? Gears? Thin wheels? All that sort of thing? Keep up with the times. Or keep old faithful for ever.

  Old faithful, we’ll roam the range together.

  The horn hooted again.

  Old faithful, in every kind of weather.

  Old faithful never knew about the North West of Ireland, that was for sure.

  Damn! Hole in a sole and water seeping … now that was one of the world’s most unpleasant sensations. Water seeping across the sole of the foot, clammy tights, cold, squelch.

  ‘Squelch.’

  ‘I’ve been blowing the horn at you for two minutes and all you say is squelch.’

  He leaned over awkwardly and opened the door of the car. ‘Get in.’

  ‘I …’

  ‘It’s too wet to argue, just get in.’

  ‘My bike …’

  He gestured impatiently with his hand. ‘In, woman. In, in, in.’ Goodbye, old faithful. She got in and closed the door.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘I thought we might go for a drive and then I’ll leave you home.’

  ‘It’s not a very nice day for a drive.’

  ‘If you want to drive any day will do.’

  He did things with his feet and the car moved off.

  ‘Perhaps you have other plans?’

  ‘Perhaps I have.’

  ‘I won’t eat you,’ he said gently.

  ‘I feel I’m being kidnapped.’

  ‘That’s right. Only temporarily though. You don’t need to be nervous. I handle a car very well.’

  She felt her face going red.

  ‘I’m not nervous.’

  ‘This car cost a lot of money. If I were to pass out at any moment it could drive itself home and put itself in the garage.’

  She laughed.

  At the end of the village he took the right fork. This was onto a road that wound out through the rocky hills of a small peninsula. Water was spinning everywhere, blown by the wind. Wet trees squatted by wet stone walls, burnt slashes where the whins had been, glittered in the rain. No one lived any longer on this inhospitable headland. Sheep grazed among the rocks and the tumbled gables.

  ‘The last time I danced was in 1944,’ he said eventually. ‘Thirty-five years ago, or thereabouts.’

  ‘You dance one hell of a lot better than some I know who’ve been on the floor regularly for the last thirty-five years’

  ‘September the tenth.’

  Oh God, she thought, he’s going to tell me the story of his life.

  ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Some people mind. They hate their cars reeking of stale smoke. I can’t say I blame them.’

  She felt in her pocket for the packet.

  ‘They say nowadays that we … the smokers of the world are slowly poisoning all the rest. It’s a dismal thought really. I suppose it’s true too. I have tried to give up … oh ages ago, that was. My husband … late … my late husband gave it up just like that.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘I tried … but … He encouraged me in every way … but … as you see I’m still at it. My character is woefully weak.’There was silence. She clicked her fingers again to disperse the silence, but it remained. She put a cigarette in her mouth and lit it. The road had become very narrow, almost a track. Wet branches from the hedges scraped the sides of the car.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, after a long time. ‘I interrupted you.’

  He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

  Maybe he is a homicidal maniac, she thought. But how efficient can you be with only one arm? One eye? Superhuman strength in his wrist, kicking, trampling feet? A rapist perhaps? I’d rather be raped than dead. No question. She looked cautiously at his face. She could only see the Picasso profile, the travesty.

  How young he must have been on September the tenth, 1944.

  ‘I was fourteen,’ she said.

  There was a gate in front of them. He stopped the car. He reached into the back of the car and handed her his anorak.

  ‘Put this on,’ he said. ‘There’s something I’d like to show you. I hope you don’t mind getting a bit wet.’

  ‘But you

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  He opened the door and got out of the car.

  ‘It’s only a couple of minutes’ walk. You see when the wind is coming from the west like this … strongly from the west.’ He moved towards the gate, where he fumbled with the bolt. ‘Well … you’ll see …’

  She put the anorak over her shoulders and got out. The rain and the west wind battered at her. The left sleeve of the anorak was tucked neatly into the pocket. She pulled it out and shoved her hands into the sleeves. He bumped the gate open across the grassy track. She walked beside him in silence. She knew where they were going. She knew the track like the back of her hand. Round to the right, down into the slight hollow where three thorn trees tangled their branches together. The wet oozing in through the soles of her leaking shoes as she walked. I will have pneumonia tomorrow, or at least chilblains. Up a steep short hill and out through a hedge of whin bushes onto the headland.

  When they reached the edge of the grey plateau of rock he stopped walking. Without saying a word he pointed to a spot half-way between where they stood and the edge which hung out over the sea. They each stood in their own silence and waited. Grey is a most dismal colour, she thought. Dismal veils of rain. Dismal wind. I could be at home in a hot bath. She shivered with sudden delight at the thought of that pleasure ahead of her. Suddenly, like fireworks erupting, a great spray of water shot high in the air from a fissure in the rock.

  ‘Ah,’ she said with satisfaction.

  ‘It only happens,’ he said, ‘when there is a strong west wind blowing. The
water is thrust into an opening in the rocks below with such force that the only way out is up through that hole there.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned and looked at her.

  ‘You’ve seen it before?’

  She smiled.

  ‘I’ve lived here quite a long time, you know. Six, seven years.’

  ‘I’m sorry.

  ‘I didn’t mean to sound rude. I thinks it’s amazing … and it’s ages since I’ve been here. Thank you for bringing me.’

  He nodded abruptly.

  ‘Jack and I used to bike along here when he was … younger … a kid. It’s a good place for picnics. No sand to get in the sandwiches … and a marvellous view. You need a good day. Sometimes you feel if you screw your eyes up into slits you could see America.’

  Great bars of rain moved in towards them, no America today.

  ‘A good day,’ he repeated.

  ‘Perhaps you’d bring me back on a good day. We could have a picnic too. I haven’t been on a picnic for ages.’

  The column of water spouted again. Twenty feet straight up into the air, and then melted into the rain.

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned and set off back the way they had come at an odd jogging run. It looked as if it was quite hard for him to keep his balance. By the time Helen reached the car he was sitting inside it mopping at his face and hair with a handkerchief. She took off the dripping anorak and threw it into the back.

  ‘They used to tell me when I was a child that rain would make your hair curl.’ She slammed the door and wriggled her shoulders to keep the stiffness temporarily at bay. ‘It never did me any good.’

  He laughed. ‘Nor me.’

  He began to manoeuvre the car around. ‘After all,’ he said. ‘Curly hair is a disease. A well-known fact.’

  ‘You can’t mean that all those millions of Africans are diseased.’

  ‘Every one of them. The American blacks; all those Greeks and Italians with hair like corrugated paper, all, all diseased.’

  ‘That just leaves you and me and Hitler.’

  ‘Absolutely correct.’

  The car was pointing in the right direction at last.

  ‘That was what the last war was all about. The survival of the straight-haired. No kinks, waves, bends left on the face of the earth. Even the criminals, the perverts, the loonys, the murderers and the child rapists are to have straight hair. That’s why I’m alive. I’m a straight-haired loony.’