Trains and Lovers

by Alexander McCall Smith

  “What about home? Has he got family anywhere?”

  “We’ve spoken to them. They’re in the dark too.”

  I asked whether he had done this before. Perhaps it was his job. Perhaps he was working somewhere else for a few weeks.

  A snort of derision came down the line. “Job? You obviously don’t know Johnny very well. Ever seen Johnny do any work? I haven’t.”

  I concluded the call and sat back in my chair. What had Jenny said? I should do something about him. It was an appalling thought. No, it was impossible. And yet Johnny had said, very deliberately and as if he really meant it: I think my life would be in danger.

  I closed my eyes. These things did not happen in real life—in fiction, yes, because you suspend disbelief in novels, but not in the everyday world about us. You simply don’t meet women on the run from the police at railway stations. And these women don’t then make muttered threats against men who have tumbled to their secret, and then carry these threats out. It doesn’t happen.

  IT WAS JENNY’S TURN TO COME TO LONDON THE following weekend. I toyed with the idea of calling the visit off, but when she telephoned me a day or two later everything sounded so normal and she seemed to be so looking forward to the trip that I said nothing.

  “I can’t wait to come,” she said. “It’s turning into a dreadful week at school. The kids are all excited about their sports day and being hyper in the classroom. I’ve had three pant-wettings, two full-scale punch ups, and one case of aggravated hair-pulling—and that’s by Wednesday.”

  I had to laugh. “Occupational hazards.”

  “Yes. Remember those films where the children sat at desks all in a row, even the small kids. They sat at their desks and weren’t allowed to get up without permission. What happened?”

  “The nineteen-sixties.”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s when it started.”

  “But conditions were dreadful before that,” she said. “Somebody like Mary Lewis would have been slapped for her pains.”

  “Mary Lewis?”

  She explained that Mary Lewis was the girl who stood accused of pulling another girl’s pigtails. “She comes from a badly behaved family,” she went on. “Her brother set fire to a farmer’s barn, and the father, I gather, is a well-known thief.”

  I listened to this and then, without really thinking about it, I said, “Mary. It’s a name that I’ve always liked. Yet I think it’s not as popular as it used to be. Do you like it?”

  The question hung in the air for a time before she answered. “It’s all right.”

  Mary Broughton, I thought.

  Then I said, “Would you like to be called Mary?”

  There was complete silence. My heart gave a leap. I had not intended to test her; it had simply slipped out.

  At length she said, “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, names are odd, aren’t they? Some people are dissatisfied with the names they have and like to think of themselves as being called something else. When I was about ten I wanted to be called Roger and started writing Roger on the title page of books I owned. This book belongs to Roger. That sort of thing.”

  “You’re not Roger,” she said.

  I laughed. “And you’re not Mary.”

  She brought the conversation to an end. There was something on the cooker, she said, and she had the children’s homework to correct.

  “See you Friday evening,” she said.

  “Yes. I’m looking forward to that.”

  I WAS NERVOUS WHEN JENNY ARRIVED AT THE flat that Friday evening. I had spent several days thinking about our situation, and I had decided that I could not continue with a relationship that was affected by such a major issue of trust. I could have telephoned her and spoken about it, but I decided that it was just too difficult a subject to handle in anything but a face-to-face meeting. So I had made the decision to speak to her about it that Friday evening when we went out for dinner. I would tell her about how I had found Mary Broughton’s passport and I would tell her exactly what Johnny had said to me in Paris. I would then raise the issue of Johnny’s disappearance.

  I hardly dared think about what I should do after that. Was it my duty to go to the police to tell them of my suspicions? And if I did go to them, should I just tell them about the finding of the passport, or should I bring in Johnny Bates too? If Johnny had been reported missing, then any information about what might have happened to him would surely have to be looked into. And yet one could not go around reporting people who one merely thought might have committed a crime; surely it had to be more concrete than that.

  Jenny spotted my nervousness shortly after she came into the flat.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think you are. You’re jumpy.”

  I looked out of the window. We were standing in the kitchen, where I had just put a cafetière on the hot plate. She was standing behind me. I noticed that she was standing next to the knife block—one of those large blocks of wood with slits for the kitchen knives to be stored. My flatmate prided himself on his cooking knives, which were endorsed by some famous German chef. I glanced at the knives, and then out of the window again.

  “Is Colin away for the whole weekend?” she asked.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but something told me not to tell the truth. “Not this time,” I said. “He might be back later this evening. I’m not sure what his plans are for tomorrow. I think there’s a wedding out at Kew. Something like that.” The wedding in question was due to take place the following Saturday, but I was frightened now and did not want her to think we would be on our own.

  “You could have come out to my place,” she said. “There’s racing at Cheltenham. We could have gone.”

  I made some non-committal comment. I could not put the confrontation off any longer. I glanced at the knife block. Her hand was resting on it now. It would take just a flick of the wrist to get one of the knives out, and she was between me and the door …

  “Could we talk?” I said. “Not in here. In the living room.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “I’d just like to tell you what’s worrying me.”

  She hesitated. My eye went to her hand on the knife block—it moved, but not towards the knives—away from them.

  “Yes,” she said. “I think we should.”

  She went into the living room before I did. I waited until the coffee was ready and then I poured us each a cup, topped it up with frothed milk, and then followed her.

  “All right,” she said, as she took the mug of coffee from me. “We can talk now. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “About what?”

  “About me. About us.”

  I saw my opening. “I’m afraid I am.”

  She was silent for a moment. She was gazing at me, not in any hostile way, but almost sadly. “I thought you were. You can always tell. You can tell when somebody falls out of love. It’s like switching off a light. Click. Or maybe it’s more like turning down a light that’s on one of those dimmer switches—you know the sort—they make the light go down slowly until eventually it fades away altogether.”

  “A rheostat,” I said.

  “A what?”

  “A rheostat gradually reduces the amount of power going to the bulb.”

  “Yes, like one of those.”

  I wondered if I could leave it like that. It would certainly be easier, but then it occurred to me that whatever my suspicions of Jenny might have been, I owed her an explanation.

  “I found a passport in your room,” I said. “It belonged to somebody called Mary Broughton.”

  She watched me.

  “I looked at the back,” I continued, “and I saw a couple of names—in your handwriting. One was Johnny Bates—the other one was … I forget who it was. But you had written it. And then when we were in Paris, Johnny said that you weren’t called Jenny after all and that you were really somebody e
lse altogether.”

  I paused. “Is that all?” she asked. “Is that what’s been getting at you?”

  “There’s something more,” I said. “Johnny Bates has gone missing. I spoke to somebody he shares a flat with, and he said that Johnny had disappeared.”

  She started to smile. I frowned. “I don’t think this is at all funny,” I said.

  “Don’t you? Well, I do. Do you want me to tell you why?”

  I nodded.

  “Mary Broughton is my cousin. She stayed with me for five weeks in the early spring. She left that passport in the house—she had a new one sent to her while she was with me and the Passport Office always returns the old one with the top clipped when you renew.”

  “And your handwriting?”

  “I filled that in for her the previous year. We went to Spain together. I was filling in my person-to-be-informed details when we were at the airport and she handed me her passport and asked me to fill hers in for her. She didn’t have a pen and she was in the middle of eating a burger—she had grease on her fingers.”

  I pondered this for a moment. There was an obvious flaw in her story.

  “But why would she choose Johnny Bates as the person to be informed if she got into difficulty abroad?”

  She hesitated for a moment. I noticed the hesitation; I was not imagining it. “Because she shared a flat with him and three others at the time. In Bristol.”

  “She shared with Johnny?”

  “Yes. That’s how I met him in the first place.”

  All I could say was “I see.”

  “So that explains all that,” she said. “You should have asked me.”

  “And what about Johnny’s disappearance?”

  She shrugged. “He’s done this before. Johnny goes walkabout. He comes back. But it’s because he pushes off from time to time that he can’t hold down a job. He’s unstable. He’s sweet underneath, but he’s unstable.”

  “Are you worried about him?”

  “No, not really. He’ll come back and he’ll forget about me eventually. As I said, it’s the sort of thing he does.”

  I looked up at the ceiling. I suppose the predominant emotion I felt was embarrassment, but I also felt a sense of relief at having been proved wrong. It was just as well, I thought, that I had not gone to the police.

  “Hugh?”

  I had been thinking. “Sorry. Yes?”

  “I said: Is that all that’s worrying you? Is that why you’ve cooled towards me?”

  I shrugged. “I suppose so. I feel a bit foolish. I thought …”

  She rose from her chair and came over to envelop me in a hug. “Oh, my poor darling, you shouldn’t have kept it to yourself. You should have talked to me. If something’s bugging you, talk. You should always talk.”

  I felt like a child forgiven. “I will,” I said.

  “So let’s go out to dinner—somewhere special. My treat.”

  “No. Mine.”

  She planted a kiss on my brow. “If you insist.”

  LATE THAT NIGHT, OR THE FOLLOWING MORNING—it might have been at two or three—I woke up. There was a full moon outside and the inadequate curtains in my room could not keep the room dark. I was lying on my back. I moved my arm gently under the sheet, expecting to feel Jenny lying beside me. I felt nothing.

  I opened my eyes, very slowly, and saw that she was standing beside the bed on my side. She was looking down at me, although I could not make out her face, which was in shadow.

  I held my breath. My stomach was a knot of fear; every muscle taut, and it was like that for something like twenty or thirty seconds. My instinct was to leap out of bed on the other side, but it occurred to me that if she had a knife she would still have the opportunity to use it before I escaped. Should I launch myself directly at her, using surprise? I might have a better chance that way.

  But then Jenny suddenly moved away. She took a step back, turned and then walked round the end of the bed to her side. Then she slipped under the sheets, her back turned towards me. I heard her breathing; I heard her clear her throat quietly.

  I lay absolutely still, and did not return to sleep for the remaining hours of the night. At seven o’clock I got up, had a shower and dressed. Then I went to my flatmate’s desk in his room—I did not have my own desk—and took a sheet of his writing paper.

  This isn’t working, I wrote. I’m so sorry. Please let yourself out. I’m very sorry about this and I hope that I haven’t upset you too much. Hugh.

  I left the note on the kitchen table, where she would see it when she woke up. Then I left the flat, intending to come back at lunchtime, when I hoped the coast would be clear. There was no doubt in my mind that I had had a narrow escape.

  “IS THAT THE END?” ASKED KAY. “YOU CAN’T leave us there.”

  “Not quite,” said Hugh. “When I returned, I entered the flat tentatively, in case she was still there. But she had gone. There was a note for me on the table.”

  Dear Hugh, it read. I understand how you must feel. I can explain things, but I don’t think you’re prepared to listen, and if you don’t trust me then I see no point in our continuing our relationship. I’ve explained to you about Mary Broughton, and also about Johnny Bates. I suspect you don’t believe me, but if you want to check up on what I said you can call Mary herself and ask her. I’ve written her number at the bottom of this note. As for Johnny, call his flat in a few days’ time and see if he’s back. I bet he will be.

  A final thing: I don’t know if something happened last night. Maybe it did, and maybe that’s why you’ve done this. I have something called a parasomnia. It means that I can do things at night—like thrashing about or even walking in my sleep. I know that can make people nervous, but there’s not much I can do about it, I’m afraid. I went to a sleep clinic in Bristol, and they said that it’s more common than people imagine. But they also suggested that I should speak to any partners about it—and I should have spoken to you. The truth is that I’m a bit ashamed of it. All I do in the somnambulistic state is walk around the room. Sometimes I open cupboards and then close them. That’s what most somnambulists do—nothing meaningful. But you don’t trust me anyway, so there’s no need for us to go into that any further. I hope things work out well for you. Love, Jenny.

  “Oh my God!” said David. “What a tricky situation. What did you do?”

  “What do you think I should have done?”

  “Kept well away,” said Kay. “And I wouldn’t trust her, frankly. Somnambulism? I wonder …”

  Andrew shook his head. “She’s innocent,” he said.

  “I’m not sure I would have taken the risk,” said David. “But one thing interests me: Did Johnny Bates turn up again?”

  “Yes. He reappeared.”

  “What did he say?” asked Andrew.

  “I phoned him again. He was very uncommunicative.”

  “So she hadn’t disposed of him?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “And Mary Broughton?” asked David.

  “I met her. She existed. She confirmed that everything Jenny had said was true.”

  They looked at one another.

  “We have to trust people,” said Hugh. “And not every love affair is absolutely safe, is it?”

  They looked at one another again.

  “I’m seeing her again,” he continued. “We’re going back to Paris.”

  David cleared his throat, and the others looked at him expectantly. But he did not speak for a while. He just looked doubtful. Then he said, “I see.”

  “Should you?” ventured Kay.

  “Trust,” said Hugh. “As I said, we have to trust others.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better to … to meet somebody else?” This from David.

  “But perhaps not on a railway platform,” suggested Andrew.

  “Did you see Brief Encounter?” asked David. “Celia Johnson. It takes place in a railway station. It’s one of the great romantic films of all time. Black and white, of cour
se. I always find black and white more romantic.”

  “No,” said Hugh. “I never saw it.”

  “Perhaps you should.”

  David was thinking of black and white; of flickering images. “Nothing’s ever really black and white, is it?” he said.

  Andrew was frowning. “The photograph,” he said. “Why was the photograph removed from the passport?”

  At first Hugh said nothing. He looked out of the train window, over fields stretching out into deep England; there were quiet lanes leading into the green heart of flat country; there were distant cooling towers from which white clouds of steam arose. Would that come down as rain? Would it?

  Then Hugh cleared his throat. “Oh,” he said.

  “I WAS FIVE,” SAID KAY, “WHEN MY BROTHER WAS born. Like me, he was born in Adelaide. I went down with my mother about four weeks before he was due and there was one point on the train when we thought things might be starting. I was excited: it would have been wonderful, I thought, to have a baby brother born on a train, and they told me I was bitterly disappointed when it did not happen.”

  My father was overjoyed. His son was called Stewart, which had been the name of his own father back in Scotland. He was a bright-eyed little boy, with his father’s fair hair. I shared my father’s pride in him. I wrote stories for him and laughed at his antics. As he grew older, he looked up to me more and more, joining me in the games I played with imaginary friends—there were no other children for many miles and we made up by inventing them. I had a friend called Jessie, who was good at finding things and had a cat called Frankie. He conjured up a boy called Danny who was immensely strong and had a small red aeroplane. We believed in them and spent long hours in their company.

  My mother watched all this bemused. “What does Frankie like to eat?” she asked.

  “Sardines,” I answered. “Sardines and sometimes Vegemite sandwiches.”

  “And does Frankie catch mice?”

  “No, Frankie catches kangaroos. He’s the only cat in Australia who can catch a full-size kangaroo. He’s very strong.”