We Passengers

Chapter 7

'Where are we?’ Trevor asks, pulling me back from my memories and I begin to answer him and then realise, belatedly, that it wasn't Trevor's voice but that of the soldier who had been asleep behind me and I turn to look at him. Now that he's sitting up and not curled up on the seat, I can see that he's taller than I thought, his young body seeming all arms and legs as he yawns and stretches.

'Im not sure,' I say with a smile, ‘but I know that we're outside of London.’ He glances out of the window and blinks at the passing countryside before turning back to look at me. He's young, I think to myself, younger than Trevor, younger even than me and, for a moment, it seems impossible that he's in uniform; that some official thought it was alright to send this boy away to war. He looks pale and lost and I automatically do a quick inventory of the food that I've brought with me. I've made sandwiches for two but, now that we were on our way, I'm not that hungry so, with only a moment's pause, I unwrap one of the sandwiches and hold it out to him.

'It's only jam, I'm afraid, but it's home-made.’ Unravelling all of those arms and legs, he shuffles forward to take the sandwich from me before scuttling back to his seat, taking a huge bite before remembering his manners and nodding his thank you. It's the least I can do really; after all, he's been out there defending our country hasn't he? I want to ask him about where he's been and where he's going but Trevor says I shouldn't. Trevor says that some of these boys have seen so many horrible things that it's a wonder that they can speak at all and that they won't thank me for asking them to relive any of it so I stay quiet other than to tell him that he's welcome. From his uniform, I note that he's ranked below Trevor and I worry that Trevor will take exception to the fact that the younger man didn't address him directly so, as a distraction, I point toward the window where, in a passing field, a young boy is flying a bright red kite, his face so full of the immediate joy of the moment that, for a second or two, it's hard to believe that war exists at all, let alone going on all around us.

'Look at‘im go!’ The soldier exclaims and as well as a grin in his voice, I detect an accent; something up North I think, Manchester or Bolton or somewhere like that and I wonder again what he's doing on a train travelling from London to Surrey. All too quickly, the field is behind us but the sight of that red kite stays with me; a bright moment in a dark and dreary day. As if conjured up by my thoughts, a great black cloud glides in front of the sun and it's like a light has been turned off both outside and inside of the train and it's like we're all holding our breath as strange shadows flicker and bounce along the carriage. Trevor says that the sun in France is nothing like the sun in England; that in France it's hot, bright and constant whereas in England, even in summer, it's weak and watery, like it's somehow been diluted as it crosses the channel. I'll go there one day, I think, to France. Not to Normandy or any of those awful war places but to Paris where I'll stroll up and down the Champs Elysees and go and look at the tower that everybody goes on about. One day. For a minute or two I pretend that that's where I'm headed; not to Surrey but to mingle with the gay Parisians and, at the thought of seeing Paris my mood lifts and, as though sensing this, the sun peeks out from behind the cloud and the light is turned back on.

I turn my thoughts back to the here and now - Mum always says I have my head in the clouds too much although I don't see what's wrong with the odd daydream. “No point in it,” Mum always says, “You're only disappointed when you come back to the real world.” I tell her that the real world can be as good as a daydream and she laughs, but like you laugh when it's not really funny, and says, “For some maybe, not for the likes of us.” Well, I think defiantly, I'm going to be different. I've got a good job and a good husband and, one day, I'll have bonny babies and that's enough of a real life daydream for me. I glance over at Abigail and her mother who are both asleep again, mother snoring softly and baby making little snuffling sounds, and I wonder what their daydreams are. Although we haven't spoken, I feel like the woman is sad and I can't help thinking that her dreams haven't come true and, even though I don't know her, I hope that they do. We're a funny little crew in this carriage, I think to myself, strangers but somehow intimate as we share the same journey. It's an odd but somehow comforting thought and I settle back into my seat to examine it more closely and I'm feeling warm and relaxed and, for the moment, at peace; which is when the screaming woman shatters the quiet.