We Passengers

Chapter 17

I'm feeling restless and, for a moment, I consider taking a leaf out of the strange girl's book to just go wandering from carriage to carriage but I know I won't;  I'm an adult and have to behave like one even though sometimes I don't feel like it. Now that the girl is gone, I put my book down on the seat beside me, no longer even pretending to be interested in Huw Morgan and his struggles. I suddenly have a thought and, picking up the book and flicking past the cover to the inside I see that it's overdue and I feel a kind of despair. I know that it's silly and I'm sure that Moira at the library will let me off the fine as we were such good friends once upon a time but it'll be the first time that I've brought a book back late. It makes me feel stupid and selfish; what if somebody - a lonely housewife or invalided soldier was waiting for that very same book and here I am, not even reading it? Although we've drifted apart like you do, I often think about Moira and the times we had at school. I know that she lives over on Roman Road with her sister and brother in law and their three kids and I suddenly decide that I might pop in to see her when all this is over with, maybe invite her out for tea or something. Thick as thieves we were, at one time, me and Moira; practically inseparable and people used to call us the chess set because of my dark straight hair and Moira's white-blond curls. Like all kids, we met at school and, although we were in different classes, our paths crossed in the playground one day when I spotted her sneaking toward the back of the building alone and I followed to see what she was up to, even though I knew that anything past the front of the school was off limits. As I got round the corner, it was like Moira knew that I was following as she immediately put a finger to her lips, beckoning me forward with the other hand and I had crept toward her, the thrill of breaking the rules surging through me as I finally got to where she was crouching. With a grin, she pointed upward and I suddenly realised that we were crouched directly beneath a window and, curious, I lifted myself slightly to peer inside, simultaneously realising two things as she pulled me back down again. The first thing was that the room beyond the window was the teacher's staff room and, during my quick glance, I had seen Miss Halton and Mr French chummily sharing a cuppa and a smoke. The second thing was that, through the window with its gaps and cracks, I could actually hear what was being said inside. Shocked but too curious to leave, I hunkered down next to Moira in the weeds that ran wild along the edges of the school to listen. At first, I could only make out the odd word; something about having to send Billy Nolan to the head yet again but then, as I settled in, it got much more interesting. Soon, we were there every break and lunchtime, Moira and me, listening in as the torrid affair between Miss Halton and the married Mr French blossomed and grew. Sometimes I felt bad; after all it was really none of our business and I could only imagine what sort of trouble we'd be in if we were caught but, mostly, it was like watching a film about a different world; a world of secret liaisons and occasionally, when they were alone in the staff room, stolen kisses. I wondered what it was that Miss Halton saw in Mr French - after all, he was no Clark Gable with his bald patch and poppy eyes - and I wondered why Miss Halton didn't want to go and find a husband of her own to have babies with, rather than sneaking around with somebody else's. Thinking back, I suppose she was probably hoping that Mr French would leave his wife and marry her instead but I don't think that happened; one day in early winter, me and Moira peered into the staff room to see Mr French sitting alone reading a newspaper and, when Miss Halton didn't return to the school the next day or the day after that, we just knew that something had happened - something to do with the two of them - and that she wouldn't be coming back at all. Shame really as she was nice and we missed our daily entertainment but, as tends to be the way, we found other ways to occupy our time and remained close until the adult world of jobs and responsibilities came calling and we no longer had the luxury of frittering away our time on childish activities. Yes, I think as the train lets out a sharp whistle - no doubt to scare away some rabbit or bird on the track - I shall definitely go to see Moira when I get back to London; not just to return my tardy book but to talk about old times and catch up on new times; she in the library and me on the buses. I realise that it's nice to think about that, to have something to look forward to, even if it's just a pot of tea and a natter. Maybe we'll make a pact that, when we get together, we’ll only talk about nice things; no war or death or bombs and, wouldn't that be nice? Suddenly everything's gone black and I worry that the dark is back again but, then, I realise that it's just a tunnel and force a laugh that doesn't want to come. I look at my watch which still isn't working and realise we've only got about twenty minutes to go and then the whistle goes again; louder this time and, suddenly, we're stopping.