We Passengers

There’s something about getting on a train that always reminds me of childhood. Not that I went on many trains as a child, Mum and Dad simply didn’t have the money and holidays were a rarity, but there was the occasional trip to the seaside complete with sand in funny places and ants in our sandwiches and, once, we got the train all the way to Coventry to visit my aunt when she was poorly. No seaside today though; as I reach up to put my bag in the luggage compartment I can see that it’s started to rain again, big fat sploshy drops which cut through the dirt on the windows and I make a mental note to keep the sleeves of my good coat away from them; it’s not that posh and not even new but it’s my best one and I know what Mum would say if I come home with streaks all over it. ‘Look at the state of those windows!’ I say to Trevor as I sit down. At home, Mum and I clean the windows every single week using plenty of vinegar, newspaper and elbow grease; “We may not have much,” Mum always says, “But I’ll not have people thinking we don’t take pride in ourselves.” Very important to Mum that, taking pride in ourselves; until the TB came around, she worked in the J Lyons factory and she’d be up at the crack of dawn to make sure that her uniform was pristine and her hair and make-up immaculate. She’d wanted to come with us today but those great wracking coughs had her up half the night until she had no more strength than an infant and I doubt she’ll even make it out of bed today, let alone all the way to Waterloo. She always tells me not to worry and I always reply, “When has saying that ever stopped somebody worrying?” then she laughs and tells me less of the cheek, even though I’m nearly twenty four and a married woman. Now that I’ve sat down, I realise that the sandwiches are in my bag and I heave it back down from the luggage rack and take out my lunch and ticket before shoving it back up again. A squeak and a clank signals that the doors are starting to close and I see a woman hurrying along the platform, one hand waving frantically to the conductor and the other clutching a wailing baby. ‘God, I hope she’s not going to get into our carriage,’ I say to Trevor and then smile politely as the woman, red faced and sweating, stumbles into the carriage and takes a seat on the opposite side. She smiles back but I can see that she’s distracted as she tries to soothe the baby whose piercing cries have now been reduced to hiccupy sobs. Probably about my age I think - the woman, not the baby - and I wonder how old the child is; how many months this woman has been a mother. She may even have another, older child as well, some people our age do. I tear my gaze away, worried that she’ll catch me staring, and stare instead out of the window at the sheeting rain. ‘It’s not been that long,” Trevor always says. “Everything in its own time,” Mum always says. “Just enjoy being a newlywed,” My friends always say. I don’t really know why any of them think that any of that is helpful or comforting and I sometimes wonder if they just want to say something so that we can change the subject. The woman has just about managed to quiet the baby when the train whistle goes and off we go again - the train and the baby - and I sigh, wondering if a child can actually manage to cry for twenty three miles; I know I could. It’s a relief that we’re finally moving; the drab landscape of the train station slowly being replaced by the drab landscape of back streets, like the scenery being changed in the theatre. Some of the houses have their curtains open and, from the train, you can see right into the rooms. I catch a glimpse of an old woman ironing and a large and garish painting of a clown then the street is gone, to be replaced by another as the train gathers speed. One day, I think, one of the conductors will write a steamy novel about all of the things he or she has glimpsed through other people’s windows. The sound of the train clattering along the track is soothing and it blends with the sound of conversation; that special hushed kind of conversation that people have on trains and buses which always reminds me of the way people talk at funerals and, God knows we’ve seen enough of those recently to know. ‘I wonder if there’ll be a tea trolley,’ I say to Trevor - even though we’ve only just set off, I’m already dying for a cuppa and wish that I’d thought to bring us a flask. Still, tea trolley or not, I know we’ll be stopping in a little while and I can hang on until then if need be. I take my mind off it by looking out of the window and wondering when the dirty London streets will open out into fields and trees. It’ll be nice to see a bit of countryside, I think as yet another set of back yards and windows blurs past. The song calls England a green and pleasant land but, at the moment, the only green is the khaki of the men’s uniforms, some of them no more than boys, as they’re sent away in groups to fight the jerries. Looking out of this window, there’s not even the khaki, just grey brick, black soot and the muted colour of laundry which has been washed a million times by women told, over and over, to make do and mend. A quick flash of the river brightens the landscape briefly and then it’s gone as the whistle blows again as though saying goodbye to the city.