We Passengers

Chapter 3

The baby - Abigail, her name is, I heard her mother say it - is crying again, harsh throat wrenching sobs that sound like they hurt. I glance over to the other side of the train and I see that the mother has dozed off and is slumped awkwardly with her head jammed into the space between the window and the back of the seat, one arm still gripping the baby even as exhaustion overcame her.

Is that what motherhood is? I wonder, holding tight even when you don't even know you're doing so? I briefly consider taking the baby from her to let her sleep peacefully for a while but then I don't. I don't like the look of her colour; a slight grey tinge to the skin and a delicate crust around the mouth makes me think of the cholera and I don't want to risk it, not with Mum like she is. The cholera got Franny from over the road last month and there were rumours of it spreading through one of the primary schools in Tower Hamlets, landing several of the kids in hospital.

'Too many bodies,’ Trevor says, ‘that's what causes it; thousands of bodies piled together in makeshift morgues and cemeteries, too close to the city and it's water supply to be hygienic.’ There's something truly awful about that thought; as though the dead are feeling cheated and are trying to take the living with them and I shiver and move closer to the window and further away from the baby who is still making a fuss. It’s only a matter of time before the crying wakes her mother up and, when it does, she looks lost and confused for a moment and I feel guilty for not taking care of her baby for her for a few minutes. Painful but quick they say, the cholera - lots of unpleasant purging and then a swift and, no doubt, merciful, death. With the cholera, the typhoid and the measles surging around London, it's a wonder any of us survive at all, I think as the train rounds a curve and, for a moment, I can see the driver's cabin and the front few carriages as they move round the bend ahead of us and then they're gone again as our carriage catches up. As I watch from the corner of my eye, the woman spits into a handkerchief and then uses it to wipe the crud from around Abigail’s mouth, all the while singing some nonsense to her which seems to do the trick as she quiets again, curling into the crook of her mother's arm like a comma.

'This is no world to bring a child into,’ Mum sometimes says when she's had a sherry and then she gives me a smile and, maybe she's right. Maybe Trevor and I haven't been gifted a child because bringing a baby into a world of bombs, disease and hardship is foolhardy, wrong even. Although it's not a comfort, the thought of at least some kind of explanation brings with it some semblance of peace and, for a moment, I pity the young woman opposite whose job it is to protect her child from the world around it, with a Dad who was no doubt overseas and wouldn't be back for some time, if ever. A small sound catches my attention and, turning round, I notice for the first time, a young man in a soldier's uniform sleeping across two seats a few rows behind us. He's using his kit bag as a pillow and, even from where I'm sitting, I can see that there are dark shadows beneath his eyes and one arm is trussed up in a sling and bandage which looks tight and uncomfortable. I wonder if he's dreaming of some sweetheart or if his slumber has taken him back to the trenches or battlefield that caused his injuries. I notice the young mother watching me and I turn away from the young soldier, not wanting her to think I'm being improper or rude, staring at a man who risked his life to serve his country. From the window, I think I can see a sliver of green up ahead and I wonder if we're finally about to enter the countryside. Although I'm looking forward to seeing some greenery and, maybe even a couple of spring lambs, I can't help taking one more look at the sleeping soldier behind me and it clouds my mood as I remember the day that Trevor received his papers.