So, here I am at the station. I should go find my platform and get on the train. It’s a forty-minute ride. He’ll meet me on the other end. Parked outside the station in his Mini, ready to drive me the rest of the way.
I don’t feel that I’m going on a journey. Here I am, no heavy bags or comfortable shoes. I’m still dressed for work, I’m here straight from the office. The leather tips of my shoe-boots wink against sharp-pressed hems.
It would have been better to make this trip tomorrow morning.
But I’m here now. And I should at least move. I’m in the way, standing here. Jostled by the currents of rushing people, dawdling people, people arranged as families, clustered like ducklings. I’m right in the throughway. So come on now. Lift left foot and swing it ahead, spring forward. Don’t slow down, don’t stop. Don’t think. Just keep it moving.
Go get on the train.
But here I am,
still
stood, still
at the station.
I really should
21 : 04
LONDON PADDINGTON [PAD]
TO
NEWBURY [NBY]
When the drinks trolley stops, I buy another miniature bottle of non-specific red wine. The train hurtles on. On from London, from the office. Fields and trees, shrubs, parallax past the grubby window.
I’m unsure about this weekend. It seemed fine, even enjoyable, when proposed. Months away, abstract.
But here it is, now, and here I am, too. And this train – very real, very concrete and travelling fast – is tearing us together.
Close your eyes.
?
I remember hospitals as large, confusing, dirty places. Rows of sick beds, separated only by thin track curtains and a charade of privacy. A miserably small shared sink beneath a dim window that looked on to the ward corridor. Trios of bolted-together plastic chairs. Evening visiting hours; seeing her there, laying not-quite comfortably. Drips and buttons and tubes. A kitchen-towel-lined tub of grapes on the bedside cabinet. The smell of disinfectant couldn’t convince, didn’t erase.
But now, for me, it’s private rooms. Fresh-cut flowers and espresso.
?
Serious, the doctor labours the word. Tells me I need to take this seriously.
Her blouse is caramel. Her blouse is satin. Its satin swoops out, then in, to the waist of her slacks. My eye is drawn to the bumps and outlines of a lace trim beneath, a cursive M crowning her chest.
Are you listening? she says.
Syrupy light fills her small consultation room. Suspends us both like fossilized insects in amber. She extends a hand towards me, then stops. My own are arranged one over the other, on my lap.
I shake my head, attempt a smile.
Sorry, I say. I’m listening.
I am not sure why I do anything, sometimes. Why do I inhale? Why do I apologize? Or say I’m fine, thanks. And you? Why do I stand back from the platform edge?
These aren’t sophisticated or clever questions. But still, sometimes, I can’t answer. I can’t remember the right answer.
?
Waiting for the Central Line at Liverpool Street, I once saw a man’s Blackberry slip up out of his hands, then drop down, comically, on to the tracks. He stood for a moment. Blank. A toddler before the tantrum. Then the eruption – a hot stream of profanity. His face reddened. His satchel flap flopped about and his suit jacket billowed as he thrashed his arms around like a flightless bird. He peered over the platform edge. Leaning, looking, out on to the tracks. Contemplating climbing down? Fuck, he said again. Then ran both hands back through his hair and left the platform.
?
I feel. Of course I do.
I have emotions.
But I try to consider events as if they’re happening to someone else. Some other entity. There’s the thinking, rationalizing I （me）。 And the doing, the experiencing, her. I look at her kindly. From a distance. To protect myself, I detach.
?
Recorded delivery? Yes; seven pounds extra; please. Alright, the assistant said from across the Snappy Snaps counter. He grabbed a printed slip and pressed it between his lips as he dropped my passport into a little plastic envelope and sealed it. Then he looked down at the sealed envelope and swore. The forgotten paper parachuted from his mouth, drifting back-andforth, down to his feet. Buoyed by that small gust of irritation. He tore open the envelope with an exaggerated two-handed motion that stretched the thin, grey plastic to breaking. Out popped a flash of maroon; it met the table with a limp slap.
?
Love. It’s a sip of Coke, not that pleasant, sharp on the tongue, but fizzes delightfully from can to mouth to dampening throat. She was speaking, slightly chorused, from the periodically placed televisions around the office floor. Wearing a red suit overexposed to pussy pink, her red lips over-stated her place in women’s history. They played it again: The country I love. Her face crumpled like an empty can on love, stamped down. She turned away from the podium – so quick. I wanted to hear it again; but she was turning, heading back up to that black door; love, again! And the door opened, then closed up around her. Cut, back to the studio.