‘You don’t understand, Brianna. I loved your father so much, I couldn’t even contemplate starting again with someone else.’
Love was such an equivocal word, bandied about without a thought, and often meaning very different things: dependency and need, possessiveness, obsession ….
She put her flowers down for a moment, in order to pick a dandelion clock. They, too, were growing freely, mixed in with the flowers. She began puffing at the downy seed-head, reciting ‘He loves me, he loves me not’ with each and every puff. The final puff was ‘loves me not’, which was demonstrably untrue of her father. He had adored her from the moment of her birth: a squirming, red-faced infant, bawling at the universe. He had even chosen her name, over-ruling her mother’s preference for Melanie or Jean. OK, Brianna was a mouthful (and had resulted in sporadic teasing from silly girls at school), but as the feminine form of his own name, Brian, it had forged a bond between them from that first day of her life. Her mother had been jealous, of course; craved such love and closeness for herself. In fact, the dandelion clock was a rather fitting image for her mother: delicate and vulnerable, with the same thistledown grey hair. Yet what an irony that her lusty, vigorous father had been the one who actually died, while her weak and wispy mother soldiered on.
Shrugging, she strolled back along the platform, still holding her ‘bouquet’. Her hands were stained with the milky sap oozing from the snapped-off stalks, and had a bitter medicinal smell – the smell of pain, of death.
Suddenly, she was back there in the hospice, being led into the parlour by an ice-block of a nurse: white uniform, white voice. The room itself had died and looked all pale and stiff, with drawn blinds, plastic flowers, and stale and sickly air that made you want to throw up. The nurse spoke in a whisper, as if they were in church. ‘Your daddy’s passed away,’ she said – a rotten lie, since he was hideously dead. Barely able to breathe, she crept towards the couch-thing where they had arranged her darling father – what remained of him: stiff grey face, moulded out of candle-wax, mouth clamped shut, glassy eyes, fixed in a ghastly stare.
She didn’t cry. Not once. You cried about stupid things like losing your purse or failing an exam, not when you were paralysed inside. Her friends now lived in a different world, fussing over homework, buying clothes and make-up, giggling over boys. And her mother was enclosed in a rigid, black-edged blisterpack, cut off from everyone. Anyway, she didn’t want her mother. The only parent who had ever mattered had vanished overnight. Which meant everything else was pointless. Why bother going to sports days, if he wasn’t there to cheer her on, or auditioning for school plays when he wouldn’t be in the audience? Even toffees disappeared. They had always shared a bag between them on their way back from the paper shop, but if she ate one on her own now, it blocked her throat and choked her. And her nature books sat gathering dust on the shelf. The only reason for learning things like the Latin names for dandelions, or how to tell a kestrel from a sparrowhawk, was to make him proud of her.
Angrily, she gazed out at the fields beyond the station. The countryside was preening in its prime of June perfection, as it had the day he died; the grass long and lush and sappy, the trees a jubilant green, with no foretaste of decay. Everyone had lied – not just the nurse and priest, but the trees, the sun, the hayfields – pretending it was summer, pretending life went on.
She slumped against the station wall, turning her back on the railway line. She was no longer waiting for a train. There was none. The trains had stopped; the entire living world shuddered to a halt.
‘Welcome aboard this 19.57 South West train service from Horsley, calling at Effingham Junction, Cobham and Stoke D’Abernon, Oxshott, Claygate, Hinchley Wood …’
‘Damn!’ she mumbled, looking up from the notes she was making for tomorrow morning’s meeting. One of those wretched recorded announcements, disturbing the peace. It was hard enough trying to work in cold and clammy clothes. Her skirt was clinging to her legs, and drops of water from her hair kept falling on to her notebook, smudging her neat writing into tears. As for her summer sandals, they were so waterlogged they had started to disintegrate.
Having listed all the stations to Waterloo, the booming voice now embarked on a different tack. ‘Please familiarize yourself with the security notices posted in each carriage. If you see anything suspicious …’
Look, for heaven’s sake, she interjected silently, there’s nothing to see, and no one on this train but me, as far as I can tell. Can’t you just pipe down and let me get on with my work?
‘Please notify a member of staff immediately.’
A member of staff? Who were they kidding? The previous train had been cancelled on account of a lack of staff, and this one wasn’t exactly crawling with helpful, cheery employees.
‘Customers should note that next weekend, June 23 and 24, major engineering works will affect many services on this line. No trains will be running between Surbiton and Guildford in either direction. A replacement bus service will be in operation, departing at hourly intervals from …’
She groaned aloud. Whatever the impediments, she had to be there next Sunday for her mother’s sixtieth; flowers and gifts in hand. And she had promised to be earlier than usual. Fat chance! If she set off at midnight the day before, she might just arrive in time for lunch.
The announcement finally crackled to a stop, but she sat staring into space, battling with the ‘oughts’ and ‘shoulds’ once more. Perhaps she ought to stay the whole weekend, knowing how much her mother hated being on her own. Except that would mean missing Madeleine’s party – one of the best bashes of the year. She should put her mother first, though, especially on such an important birthday; forget her own petty social round.
‘Welcome aboard this 20.05 South West train service from Effingham Junction, calling at …’
Lord! Again? For whose benefit, she’d like to know, since no one had got on, either here or at Horsley.
‘Our next station-stop is Cobham and Stoke D’Abernon. Security notices are posted in each carriage …’
She couldn’t see a security notice anywhere, only a series of random doodlings scratched into the window-glass, as if some bored delinquent had been busy with his knife-point.
‘If you see anything suspicious …’
She glanced around: smeary, rain-streaked windows, scuffed floor, blue plush seats. Hardly suspicious, any of it.
The minute the obdurate voice shut off, she made an effort to return to work, trying desperately to banish her mother, along with Madeleine. But the respite was short-lived.
‘In the interests of security, passengers are advised to keep all personal items with them.’
That was so much verbiage. Would people really part themselves from precious bags and briefcases?
‘We are now approaching Cobham and Stoke D’Abernon Please mind the gap between the train and the platform edge.’
More unnecessary advice. Next they’d be told to wash their hands after using the train toilet. (Except there wasn’t a toilet, as she knew from bitter experience.) It was all part of the nanny-culture that seemed to be spreading like a virus: weather girls exhorting you to slather on the sun-cream; outbreaks of hysteria were you fool enough to light a cigarette. If the trend developed further, recorded announcements would worm their way even into private homes: the fridge ordering you to stock up with fruit and vegetables; the electric kettle squealing, ‘Beware! Boiling water scalds.’
Instead of continuing with her notes, she began jotting down the needless repetitions Perhaps she’d write to the area manager, claiming a breach of human rights. There were probably genuine grounds, for goodness’ sake: noise pollution, intrusion on her private space, increased risk of a heart attack, due to sheer frustration. Or maybe she’d try to be creative and work the lines into a poem, a soothing ditty that might lull her off to sleep.
‘Our next station-stop is Oxshott.
We are now approaching Oxshott.
Our next station-
stop is Claygate.
We are now approaching Claygate.’
Hardly a great work of art. And, in any case, the rhythm was broken at Surbiton, where the announcement was far longer, running through the whole rigmarole again and even adding a few extras for good measure. ‘Change here for Thames Ditton and Hampton Court. Our estimated arrival time at London, Waterloo is 20.45.’ And the security notice was repeated, of course, although perhaps with slightly more reason, as half a dozen people had struggled into the carriage – mostly bedraggled, dripping figures. The improvement in the weather had proved inconsiderately transitory, and the rain was now pelting down once more, causing further distraction as it lashed against the windows.
‘We wish you a pleasant journey this evening, and we hope you enjoy travelling with South West trains.’
That was really stretching credibility. Could anyone enjoy lumbering along in a dirty, draughty carriage, while subjected to these constant interruptions? She tossed her notebook back into her bag, capped her pen, and sat tapping her fingers irritably against the edge of the seat. Work was out of the question and, as for poetry, forget it.
‘If you require any assistance, I’m located in the rear of this train.’
‘Good God!’ she exclaimed out loud. All this time, what she had assumed to be an automated recording was actually a living, breathing person – obviously one with delusions of grandeur who liked the sound of his own voice. Or perhaps a demoted pilot, since he was using aircraft-speak. All those ‘Welcome aboards’ and allusions to his ‘staff’. She half-expected to see a stewardess come tottering along with the drinks trolley, or to hear the bloke announce that they were cruising at an altitude of thirty thousand feet.
Instead, he piped up with the same old spiel, once they stopped at Wimbledon. By now, she knew it off by heart and mouthed it in tandem with him: ‘… calling at Clapham Junction, Vauxhall and our final destination, Waterloo.’
But there was an additional little coda, to keep her on her toes. ‘No – correction, ladies and gentlemen: we have an additional stop at Earlsfield today.’
‘Which means, I suppose,’ she snorted, ‘that you’ll have a field day there, as well.’
In actual fact, he restrained himself till Clapham, where the smug, chatty, totally maddening voice began reprising the whole saga.
‘Welcome aboard this …’
As the security notice was repeated yet again, she tried to rally her strength for the second part of the journey, by tube this time: Jubilee Line to Baker Street, then change to the Metropolitan. There were bound to be delays, not to mention Sunday evening drunks. It would be nice to snatch forty winks before coping with such hindrances, but no chance of peace with that garrulous guard on board. The wretched fellow was now reeling off the whole palaver about the engineering works, including the times of the replacement buses, where customers could board them and …
Suddenly, on impulse, she leapt to her feet, grabbed her things, dandelions and all, and marched down to the rear of the train, determined to find that self-important loudmouth and muzzle, if not strangle him. Didn’t he realize people were busy and had better things to do than listen to his one-man show? If he was so hungry for attention, couldn’t he retrain as an actor, or enter for a talent contest? Any minute, he’d be giving them his personal history: ‘I grew up in East Acton, over a hardware shop, with a brother, Jack, a sister, Peg, and Sooty, the black Labrador.’
As they stopped at Vauxhall with a sudden shudder, she banged her knee against a seat and yelped in sheer frustration. She’d deliberately sat at the front of the train, so she would be close to the barrier when they arrived at Waterloo, and could nip out double-quick. But, of course, for the purposes of finding the guard, she had to walk the whole way back, which wasn’t easy when she was carrying so much clutter and the train kept lurching about.
‘If you see anything suspicious,’ the windbag was intoning again, for the benefit of the few passengers who had just got in at Vauxhall, ‘please report it to a member of staff, or to me. This is your guard speaking and you’ll find me in …’
‘I know where to find you,’ she hissed, striding into the last carriage and finally confronting the source of her fury as he turned away from the microphone. Her irate retort withered on her lips as she stared at him in shock. Her father! Returned from the dead. No – impossible. Her father was ashes in a plastic pot. Yet this man was so extraordinarily like him, in build, in height, in colouring, she remained gazing at his face, transfixed, as she took in all the details. The same curly crop of mid-brown hair, and open, smiling manner; the same small, white, even teeth; the same slightly bulbous eyes, in the same shade of slatey blue; the same strong, straight nose and jutting chin. She hadn’t seen her father since she was a gangly adolescent, yet he seemed totally unchanged – actually preserved at the age he’d died. But not the pallid wraith in the hospice, whose face felt marble-cold when she’d tried to kiss it back to life. This father had warmth and colour in his cheeks, brightness in his eyes, an alert, concerned expression.
‘Can I help you, madam?’
The voice was different, of course – nothing like her father’s sonorous burr – yet—
‘Madam, are you all right?’
She nodded, shook her head, so totally confused, she was unable to formulate a single word. She yearned to hug the man, run off with him, weep on his breast, sit on his lap, forbid him ever, ever to leave her, or allow anyone to burn him to a cinder and put him on a mantelpiece.
‘Is there anything I can do to assist?’
Yes, she pleaded silently. Hold me. Touch me. Keep telling me you love me and that you’re here to stay. For ever.
‘Madam, if you’re unwell, I suggest you—’
‘I’m not unwell,’ she blurted out. ‘I feel better than I’ve done in years.’ Tears were streaming down her face – the first tears in two long decades; dry, unproductive decades. ‘I know they’re dead,’ she sobbed, thrusting the bunch of wet and wilting dandelions into his outstretched hand, ‘but …but things can resurrect.’
Birth-Day
‘Happy birth-day, angel,’ Sandra whispered, bending over the cot.
The baby gazed up at her unblinkingly, with lustrous, china-blue eyes.
‘It’s such a special day, darling, we’re going to celebrate. But first it’s time for your feed.’ The milk was already prepared and waiting in the bottle-warmer, though actually she loathed the bottles and longed to be able to breastfeed. According to the books, babies deprived of mother’s milk could miss out on vital nutrients.
Settling the baby on her lap, she smiled down at her with mingled love and pride. No child could be less trouble. Penelope never refused to suckle, never developed colic, didn’t even scream when she was hungry. Ruth next door had a very different infant on her hands – a fussy, finicky bellower, who kept the entire family awake at night. But then boys were much more trouble – sometimes downright bolshie. She was lucky to have had girls; all pretty and petite and perfectly behaved. Even now, while she was busy feeding Penelope, there wasn’t a sound from Emily or Florence, who were playing quietly downstairs, and wouldn’t dream of interrupting her or arguing with each other.
‘Shall we take you to see your sisters?’ she murmured, once Penelope had finished feeding. ‘We could change you down there, by the fire, then Florence can help to dress you. You know how she loves to play “Mummy”.’
The baby seemed to understand; the intense blue stare focused on her face with an answering depth of devotion. Sandra carried her downstairs, being extremely careful not to trip. She dared not take the slightest risk with this precious little life.
Emily and Florence were sitting one each end of the sofa, as placidly as she’d predicted. Seating herself between them, she changed the baby’s nappy, allowing both girls to help. ‘Shall we put on your best dress, Penelope, my sweet? Then the three of us can have a little birth-day party. Yes, Emily, you can choose the— Damn!’ she said, interruptin
g herself. ‘Wasn’t that the doorbell?’
Neither girl replied, but at a second insistent peal, Sandra shot to her feet, bundled up all three dolls, thrust open the sideboard door and quickly stuffed them inside. Then, trying to calm her breathing, she went to answer the door.
‘Oh, Mavis – it’s you.’ Sandra shrunk at the sight of the woman: a busybody mother-of-four, who lived at number nine.
‘I hope I’m not intruding, but I haven’t seen you for such ages, I was beginning to get worried. I did phone several times, but no one ever answered, which made me even more concerned. Are you OK, my dear?’
‘Yes, fine.’
‘You don’t look well, I have to say.’
Sandra shrugged. ‘Just a bit tired, maybe. You know, after the … birth.’
‘Yes, of course. I was horrified to hear about it. Can I come in?’
No, Sandra ached to say. Mavis was not only a nosy parker but a pillar of the local church, and had probably come to invite her to join some ghastly prayer-group. ‘I’m … rather busy, actually.’
‘Busy? But Father Peter told me you were still convalescing.’
‘No, I’m … better now.’
‘Sandy, dear, you really shouldn’t push yourself. It was only a couple of months ago, and that’s nothing really, after such a tragedy.’
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 17