However, once she reached the forecourt, there was an air of general mayhem – no one giving instructions, no one taking charge. Half-a-dozen police cars were, in fact, parked along the slip-road, together with an ambulance, but the police themselves were sitting tight, offering no assistance. The station looked a one-horse sort of place, with very few amenities: no waiting-room, no café, not so much as a bench outside – although even a whole string of benches would have been woefully inadequate for such a spate of people. Some were arguing and shouting; others more resigned, fanning themselves with newspapers, or simply staring into space.
She stood fidgeting and fretting in the middle of the scrum, aware that her eye-make-up was already beginning to run, and rivulets of perspiration were trickling down her back, ruining her best silk shirt. It must be close on ninety degrees, and the only shade available (provided by two skinny trees) had long since been appropriated. She glanced at the people standing round about – an elderly couple, looking close to tears; a family group with three small boys, bickering amongst themselves; a cluster of teenage girls in skimpy shorts and tops, and several harassed businessmen, one using his black umbrella as a parasol. All these different types and ages connected by a tragedy, yet isolated, separate, cut off from one another.
‘Bottle of water, ma’am?’
‘Gosh, thanks!’ She took it gratefully. A railway official was distributing several crates of bottles, perhaps fearing some of the passengers would faint. ‘Hey, wait!’ she called, as he moved on to the next group, ‘Could you tell me, please, when the replacement bus is due?’
‘Couldn’t say. You’ll need to ask someone else.’
Who? she wondered, as her gaze returned to the sea of anxious faces, all stranded and adrift. ‘Surely,’ she said irritably, ‘you must have some idea?’
‘Well, I’d give it a good hour – I mean, by the time they’ve contacted the bus company and—’
An hour, she thought, aghast. If only she could get hold of Jacob, put him in the picture. It was her own stupid fault for not memorizing his number. ‘Well, how about the trains, then?’ she persisted, tagging after the fellow as he continued on his mercy-round. ‘Will any be running from another line – somewhere I could get to?’
‘Your best bet is Stevenage. It’s only four miles up the road, and there’ll be services from there unaffected by the crisis – trains from King’s Lynn or Peterborough that take a different route. But, of course, if you haven’t time to wait for the bus, you’ll have to go by cab.’
Could she afford a cab? The fare was bound to mount up pretty fast on crowded rush-hour roads. Yet how could she let Jacob down on his all-important fortieth? A landmark birthday, he’d called it, when they’d last met two weeks ago. Besides, she had his present with her – a small sculpted eagle’s head, which she had chosen on account of its attributes. The eagle was the king of birds, magnificent and powerful, belonging in a higher world than puny sparrows, timid wrens.
‘Excuse me,’ said a voice behind her. ‘Forgive me butting in, but if you’re planning to go to Stevenage by cab, I wondered if I could join you and pay my whack of the fare? And if we roped in a couple of others, it would cut the cost for all of us.’
She turned to see a small, plump man, with a balding head and a reassuring smile. ‘Great idea!’ she said. ‘I’m a bit pushed for cash, so that would suit me fine.’
‘Count me in,’ said another man, standing just beside them, perspiring in his formal pinstriped suit. ‘I’m in a devil of a hurry, so even a few minutes saved would help.’
The three of them squeezed their way through the crush and took their place in the long, winding taxi queue. At least the cabs were arriving thick and fast, presumably coming from all corners to help out in the crisis. Scores of ordinary cars were also pulling into the forecourt, to rescue those lucky enough to have mobiles and kind relatives. Though no one offered a stranger a lift, Tessa noticed with dismay, despite the fact that many people were visibly wilting in the heat. The police seemed equally oblivious, still doing nothing, as far as she could see, but lounge in their patrol cars and observe the hapless mob.
The plump man raised his voice. ‘Anyone going to Stevenage, who’d like to share a taxi?’
At least a dozen voices piped up, ‘Yes.’
‘I’m afraid we’ve only room for one more.’ He gestured to a small, slight lad, dressed in jeans and a garish orange vest. ‘And that’s you, sir, since you were next in the queue.’
‘Thanks,’ said the lad, flushing in embarrassment, perhaps at being singled out, or maybe at the ‘sir’.
Tessa introduced herself. If they were going to travel together, they might as well be friendly. Frankly, she was relieved to have a plan of action and a leader in the plump man. There were now four of them against the world
‘I’m Vincent,’ he responded, offering her a pudgy hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Tessa.’
‘Gary,’ the young lad mumbled, shifting from foot to foot.
The pinstriped man was less forthcoming, and contented himself with the briefest of nods, before returning to his mobile.
‘I suppose you’ve no idea how frequent the trains are from Stevenage?’ Tessa enquired of Vincent.
‘Well, usually it’s about every fifteen minutes – and more than that in the rush-hour – though, of course, after this emergency some may not be running. But they don’t all come through Hitchin, so we should be OK once we get there. It’s really just a matter of how soon we get a cab. I’m expected at my nephew’s twenty-first. But—’ He gave a philosophical shrug. ‘I don’t imagine the world will end if an old codger like myself doesn’t make it before the toasts. How about you?’
‘Oh, just a dinner date. But it’s my boyfriend’s birthday, so ….’ The term ‘boyfriend’ seemed too frivolous for someone as intense and distinguished as was Jacob – and, indeed, so old. The eighteen years between them wasn’t just an age-gap, but a gulf in intellect, experience, culture, expertise. However much she studied, or read the tomes he recommended, she would never ascend to his Olympian heights. She sometimes secretly wondered if he had ever been a boy, even in his childhood. And to envisage him as a baby required still more of an imaginative leap. He was surely too fastidious to have puked and pooped and burped; too restless to lie passive in his cot. Even as a new-born, he would have been wrestling with the problems of the origins of the universe, or discussing the relative merits of various poets or philosophers.
‘And you, Gary?’
‘I’m workin’,’ he said, ‘in Stevenage. So I need to get there double quick. I’m an hour late as it is, and my boss will go ballistic.’
‘What sort of work do you do?’ Tessa asked, in an attempt to draw him out. He still seemed extremely tense, standing with his fists clenched and nervously shuffling his feet.
‘Short-order cook at a burger bar.’
Only then did she realize how ravenous she was, having worked through the whole of her lunch-hour, in order to get away at five. The tantalizing smell of burgers seemed to waft beneath her nose as she bit into the soft, white, spongy bun, tasting juicy meat, sharp, eye-watering onion, slithery melting cheese. But wasn’t it rather crass to be indulging in food-fantasies, when a man had just taken his own life?
‘How do you stand the heat in a kitchen, when the weather’s this extreme?’ Vincent mopped his face with his handkerchief. ‘I’ve never known temperatures as high.’
‘We all sweat like fuckin’ pigs. But you get used to it in time.’
The pinstriped man had finally finished on his mobile, which he returned to his black briefcase, snapping the case shut with unnecessary force. ‘I think it’s absolutely disgraceful,’ he stormed, ‘keeping all these people sweltering in the sun. There could well be another fatality if someone had a heart attack. They promised to lay on alternative transport, yet there’s not a sign of a bus.’
‘These things take time, my friend,’ Vincent said in a soothing manner. ‘At least this
queue’s moving at quite a lick. Only three in front of us now. By the way, I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Neil,’ the man said curtly, as if he resented sharing it. ‘And the police are doing damn-all! Why the hell can’t they get moving and help direct the crowd?’
‘They’re probably waiting for the British Transport Police,’ Vincent explained in the same measured, peaceable tone. ‘As far as I recall, if an incident occurs on railway property, the ordinary police aren’t allowed to interfere.’
‘So why are they turning up in droves, then? Just for the ride, I suppose. Or to relieve the monotony of a boring Thursday afternoon.’
‘Now come on, old chap, you know that isn’t true.’
Neil was about to retort, when four cabs pulled up at once. Rushing to secure one, he put himself in charge, commandeering the passenger seat, without consulting the others, brusquely telling the driver to ‘step on it’, then ordering him to switch off ‘that damn racket’. Tessa fumed in silence. She had liked the sound of the music – a jaunty, folksy tune that might at least have relaxed them. There was no stopping Neil, however. Once settled in the cab, he launched into another barrage, turning round in his seat to address them with more vehemence.
‘Suicide’s an act of utter selfishness. Some fool decides to jump, and hundreds of ordinary people are totally fucked up – the train driver’s traumatized, everyone’s travel plans are up the creek, and the poor, unlucky relatives are faced with a quite ghastly death.’
Tessa took a sharp intake of breath. Didn’t this guy have a grain of compassion? ‘Maybe he had no relatives,’ she pointed out. ‘And that was his actual problem – he was all alone in the world.’
Neil’s voice deepened in annoyance. ‘Suicide’s a power thing, not a cry for help – a way of turning one’s aggression onto other innocent folk.’
‘But he might have been deeply depressed. Or in terrible debt. Or even terminally ill. You know nothing at all about him, so what right have you to judge?’ It was Neil who was hung up on power – the insolent way he’d taken command and ensconced himself in the front, while she and the two other men were uncomfortably squashed at the back. She was pig in the middle, of course, her legs pressing on the one side against Vincent’s fleshy thighs, and on the other into Gary’s bony knees. And it was so stifling hot in the small claustrophobic cab that her whole body seemed to be melting away in a flush and slosh of sweat. She would look a total wreck by the time she reached the restaurant – if she ever did. They seemed to be continually stopping and starting, stuck in constant jams and blocked at every roundabout. With such heavy, fouled-up traffic, God knows how long the drive would take, or how much it would cost.
‘Look,’ she said, returning to the attack, ‘depression’s an illness, just as much as cancer.’ She should know. Jacob suffered from frequent depressive moods, and she always did her best to understand and sympathize. The very fact it was she who made the journey to see him every fortnight was proof of her concern. It saved him the stress of travelling, allowed him more free time.
‘I agree with you, mate,’ Gary said to Neil, unexpectedly joining in the argument, whereas up to now he’d been sitting all hunched up, alternately chewing his nails and fiddling with his hair. ‘There’s this guy I know at work and his brother topped himself. The whole family cracked up. The mother went to pieces, so eventually the Dad pissed off, because he couldn’t stand the strain. And the sister had a breakdown and dropped out of her course. And the guy himself – Rick, he’s called – is still in quite a state – has nightmares all the time, and keeps comin’ out in hives. And all that bloody aggro because one selfish git is feelin’ a bit down.’
‘It’s not a matter of being down,’ Tessa said, infuriated. ‘It’s a chemical imbalance in the brain.’ Jacob had been given antidepressants, which unfortunately had only made him worse. According to his psychiatrist, the make-up of the brain was so incredibly complex, it wasn’t always easy to find a drug that worked. ‘And anyway, in some cultures, suicide’s considered quite OK. I mean, think of hara-kiri in Japan, or Indian widows who throw themselves on funeral pyres. Or what about those Eskimos who deliberately choose to stand outside the tent and freeze to death, because they’re so old or sick or feeble they don’t want to be a burden to the rest?’
‘I don’t like to contradict you,’ Vincent said, with a placatory smile, ‘but as a practising Catholic, I feel I must point out that suicide is gravely wrong, in any circumstances. Only God has a right over life, so if someone assumes that right for himself, most religions would condemn him out of hand – not just Christianity, but Judaism and Islam and even—’
‘Let’s keep religion out of it.’ Neil rapped his fingers testily on the seat. ‘I’ve never been in sympathy with all that medieval bunkum about burying suicides in unconsecrated ground. And the Law was just as bad, making it a criminal offence. You may not realize, any of you, that the last person convicted for a suicide attempt was actually already in prison for some other crime he’d committed. And because he tried to hang himself in his cell, he was sentenced to a further two years. And that was as late as 1960, would you believe?’
Tessa opened her mouth to respond to Vincent’s point, but Neil pre-empted her, as usual.
‘And what good did the conviction do but waste more taxpayers’ money? No – as far as I’m concerned, people have a perfect right to do away with themselves, so long as they’re not harming anyone else. Hurling yourself onto a railway track is exceptionally unsociable. Couldn’t the bloody idiot have taken an overdose, or sat quietly in his car and poisoned himself with carbon monoxide fumes?’
‘He probably didn’t have a car,’ Tessa said indignantly. ‘Or enough pills to kill himself. Besides, a lot of people who take overdoses are rushed to hospital. Maybe he felt so desperate, he couldn’t bear the thought of being stomach-pumped and saved. Or perhaps he didn’t think at all, but simply jumped on impulse, because things had got so terrible.’
‘But, that’s just my point – he should have thought, then—’
‘Look, if we can’t agree, why don’t we change the subject?’ Vincent suggested diplomatically, burrowing in his briefcase for a bag of sweets. ‘Anyone for butterscotch?’
Both she and Gary took one. Neil declined, too busy holding forth again.
‘Whatever their mental state, people have a duty to consider the consequences of their actions. For instance, the driver of that train may never be able to return to work. He might feel he “murdered” the victim, and suffer guilt the rest of his life. And some passengers may develop phobias about travelling on a train again, which could also affect them long-term. And someone might have had a stroke, standing around in the heat, or been taken dangerously ill. And think of all the knock-on effects – people missing important events and letting others down. I’m due myself at a meeting tonight, where I’m making the keynote speech. If I’m not there in time – and there’s not a hope in hell, if we creep along at this rate – that will seriously inconvenience everybody else.’
Tessa crunched her sweet into fragments. ‘People can’t always think straight – not when they’re struggling with depression.’ Jacob, for all his gifts and talents, could be almost brutal sometimes, in ignoring her own personal needs. But that didn’t mean she blamed him. He was a poet and an artist, and had to be judged by different standards.
Neil gave a mocking laugh. ‘Depression’s become a sort of buzzword in our namby-pamby society – almost flavour of the month. Everyone’s depressed these days – children, teachers, doctors – even cats and dogs, according to some ludicrous piece I read in the Express. But it’s often just indulgence, or an excuse for bad behaviour. My grandparents’ generation had a war to contend with, but they didn’t mope about the place, saying they couldn’t cope. They faced up to major challenges like bombing raids and blackout and severe shortages of food.’
Resignedly, Tessa leaned back against the seat. This guy was just too crass to understand. Jac
ob had once pointed out that it was sensitive, artistic people who were often the most vulnerable; those who felt things deeply, or lived on a higher plane: Virginia Woolf filling her pockets with heavy stones before walking into the river; Sylvia Plath leaving her children bread and milk, then turning on the gas.
‘Shit!’ wailed Gary, gazing out at the stream of traffic, now completely blocked. ‘Another bloody hold-up. I might as well cut my losses and catch the bus back home from here. Any cash I earn tonight will be less than the bloody cab fare.’
‘Don’t worry, lad,’ Vincent reassured him. ‘I’ll help you out.’
Well, at least one of the men had a heart, Tessa reflected, trying to shift her leg away from his hot and heavy one. She, too, was deeply concerned about the fare. Her financial state was precarious enough, what with the constant journeys from Cambridge, not to mention Jacob’s sculpture. It had set her back a cool £200, but then she didn’t want to skimp. You couldn’t give a man like Jacob a Marks and Spencer tie.
She scowled at the brat in the battered car in front, who kept turning round and putting out his tongue at them. Her own tongue felt dry and parched. She hadn’t had a drink in hours, and the tiny cube of butterscotch had done nothing to dull her hunger pangs – although she was actually feeling sick now from the constant jerky motion of the cab. She loathed the sense of being hemmed in on all sides, and the haze of heat and anger steaming from the road, as cantankerous drivers honked their horns and flashed their lights, while the sun beat down implacably.
‘I’m sorry about the delay,’ the driver said, with an apologetic shrug. ‘But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.’
Tessa glanced at the back of his head: neatly cut black hair, crisply collared white shirt. This was the first time he had spoken, but she wondered what was going through his mind – that the crisis was a boon for him, perhaps, since it would bring him extra work and higher fares. She shivered, despite the heat
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 19