We Passengers

Chapter 8

"Don't make a scene Ginny!” Ever since I can remember, even when I was not much older than baby Abigail, I remember Mum saying those words. “Don't make a show of yourself,” “Don't make a show of me!” and Don't make a scene,” are all favourites of Mum's, always hissed from the corner of her mouth as she attempts to dampen her own fury in order to not make a scene herself. I remember a trip to Selfridge's one Christmas when I was seven or eight; we'd gone all the way to Oxford Street on the bus and Mum was wearing her Sunday best like she always did on the rare occasions we went into town. Mum had wanted to buy some perfume for Aunty Doris for Christmas and she'd promised that I could visit Santa while we were there, something I was so excited about that I barely slept for the two nights beforehand. On the day itself, I was practically breathless with anticipation as I waited impatiently for Mum to buy the scent so that we could get on with the real business of the day. Finally, with the fancy bottle safely wrapped and tucked into her handbag, we made our way to Santa's grotto to find no trace of him apart from a couple of elves busily packing away his stuff.

'Sorry love,’ one of the elves shrugged, ‘He's gone off back to Lapland, lots to do you know.’

‘But I want to see him,’ I explained and then, when he shook his head, in a louder voice, ‘I want to see Father Christmas!’

'Ginny,’ Mum warned but, by this time I was too far gone and I marched right up to that elf with his silly hat and stripy socks and yelled, ‘ I WANT TO SEE HIM!’ Well, that was it. Mum's face went red and her lips went white as she grabbed my arm and dragged me toward the exit, hissing the immortal words, ‘Stop making a scene,’ so forcefully that bullets of spit hit my face. This is the first thing I think about when I hear the screaming woman and I bolt upright, as does Abigail's mother whose eyes fly open as she's woken so suddenly that she accidentally squeezes the baby who immediately begins to wail. As though joined by a piece of string, we all stand and look toward the next carriage and the sound of the screaming and, as we do, the door opens giving us a straight view into the other carriage. At first, I don't understand what it is that I'm seeing as it's so strange and disturbing that it takes a while to make sense. Then, as we all stand there gawking, the scene flickers into focus and I can see a woman on the floor of the train on all fours, her dark hair hanging around her face as she howls into the silence.

'What the…..’ The young soldier cries and I put out an arm to stop him as I see that he means to go to the woman; something that I intuitively know would be a bad idea. As we watch, the woman grabs a lock of her own hair and pulls it almost hard enough to yank it out and, this time, as another wail rips through the train, I can make out the words.

'Let me go to him!’ she screams as the conductor, a portly man whose uniform is stretched tight across his midsection, attempts to calm her. ‘You take me to him now, he shouldn't be on his own!’ the woman yells and the conductor shakes his head sadly, his sympathy for the woman making him awkward and hesitant.

'You know I can't do that, love,’ he says in a gentle voice which belies his girth, ‘that carriage is locked until we get to our destination. You'll see him then.’

'But he shouldn't be there!’ the woman cries out, a little calmer but not much, ‘he doesn't belong in there, not my Lance.’ Suddenly aware and ashamed of the fact that we're all standing there staring at the poor hysterical woman, we all shuffle back to our seats but not before noting the look of disgust from the conductor as he reaches out and slams shut the door between the carriages. It suddenly seems like there's not enough air in our carriage and I take deep breaths, my heart thudding, as the reality of what we've just seen sinks in. I feel itchy and miserable as though I have a fever and I know that my face is hot with shame. Grief should be private; something that the bereaved ought to be able to cope with behind closed doors, with dignity, not on a train full of strangers and I want to go to her, to try to comfort her but I know that I won't. Instead I go back to gazing out of the window; in the back of my mind there's a thought trying to come through; something I need to remember, something important I think and I nearly have it then, all of a sudden, it's gone and I let it go, somehow knowing that it's not a happy thought. I can still hear the woman in the other carriage but she's quieter now and I wonder if one of the men has given her a nip from the flasks that all the blokes seem to have with them these days. Mum wouldn't approve but I didn't blame her; I wouldn't have minded a nip myself after all that excitement.

'Her husband was Neil Logan,’ Trevor says, or maybe I just remembered him saying it, ‘A good bloke, died in Ypres.’ I ignore him; I don't want to think about dead husbands or anything other than the hazy sunshine and the sound of the train wheels on the track. Through the window, I can see that there's a tunnel up ahead and I feel like I have to brace myself for the darkness I know is about to come and then I chide myself for being so silly; after all, after that day not long ago, I know I can handle a minute or so in the dark.