pubalidickens

[pubalidickens]

Ears Everywhere

The train pulled into King's Cross station and right on cue, there were small, almost imperceptible adjustments from the crowd. Some moved a few inches forward, others craned their necks, a few others elbowed their neighbours in anticipation of the scuffle to get on. The old lady adjusted her glasses – the frame was a bright scarlet to match her lips, and from either stem hung a string of pearls. So even if she dropped them, they wouldn't fall far from her ample bosom. She was a seasoned traveller, she knew what London trains were like. She was prepared for no one showing any consideration for her advanced years. But while she didn't expect anyone to offer her a seat, she wasn't afraid to demand one once she got on. She knew how to fight for her rights.

Mercifully the train wasn't too crowded, and she made it into one of the priority seats. A young woman was about to sit down, but a timely glare from the old lady stopped her in her tracks, and she offered her the seat, almost deferentially. The old lady was glad. Her shoes were pinching and she just couldn't bear the thought of standing all the way to the end of the line. She sat down and smoothed the creases on her linen dress. White with lovely yellow daisies. Reminded her of a few summers back when they went for that little summer holiday to Majorca, and walked down the promenade, eating ice lollies and basking in the lovely sun. Back then, Tom could still walk, though he was already getting slow. She could feel his grip on her arm tighten when they approached steps, or even when there was a slight slope on the path. And to think, he couldn't even get up to go to the toilet now. Her eyes filled with tears and she hastily blew her nose on her cotton hanky. That way, even if a few tears spilled out, she could disguise it as a cold. It wouldn't do to lose her composure in front of strangers. Oh no, it wouldn't do at all – that's not the way she'd been brought up.

She took a quick look around the carriage. A small teenage boy (or girl - one never knew these days) sat staring at his phone. Next to them, a very big woman sat doing exactly the same. Then, there were two swarthy looking men in very dirty workwear and big heavy boots, who were also doing exactly the same. What a shame. How much of actual life they missed, because they kept looking at those screens. She didn't own a phone. If anyone wanted to talk to her, they'd have to wait till she got home and heard her answerphone messages. Or – better still – they could come round for a cup of tea and a nice little chat. Maybe even some garibaldis. She always had some, in a round tin, with the queen’s photo on the top, that she brought out for special occasions.

Her eyes wandered to her side of the carriage. There was a middle-aged woman, looking pale and tired and nodding off in the corner, tightly clutching her laptop in case it fell off her lap. The old lady sympathised with her. Can't be easy having to go to work every day. Then a woman and her husband – they clearly had been to the shops, and their bags spilled over into the passageway, almost at the feet of the workers in the opposite seats. The old lady pursed her lips and told them off mentally. They needed to be more restrained. Why, if they had been a war baby like herself, they'd me more into 'Make do and Mend' instead of buying new things all the time. She even had a copy of that little book from the war, passed down by her Mam. She had always darned every sock within an inch of its life and there was a time when she turned old jumpers into tea-cosies. Though now she did buy some things from the local charity shop. She didn't have the time to make things anymore – caring for Tom was a full-time job.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the 'ping' of the doors as the train pulled into the next station. Almost half the carriage got off. The old lady heaved a sigh of relief. She didn't like crowds. They made her feel dizzy. Now that there were a few empty seats, the couple with loads of shopping put some of their bags up on the seats next to them. The old lady pursed her lips again. She was about to think some more uncharitable thoughts about them when she was interrupted again – this time by a very very different sort of couple. The woman was beautiful – like Lana Turner thought the old lady – and just as well dressed. A rich cashmere coat skirted her ankles and her feet were encased in beautiful emerald green high heels. The old lady saw the swish of green pleated silk underneath the cashmere as she sat down. A divine fragrance wafted from her – was it jasmine, patchouli, lavender? She didn't know, but it was the heady scent of beauty, charm and elegance – all those things the old lady admired, but no longer had.

It's not often that the man in a couple is as beautiful as the woman, but in this case it really was. The old lady tried not to stare, but regrettably, she did. Luckily, he was busy settling himself down into the seat and didn't notice. His features were sharp, chiselled and angular. You could cut paper with those cheekbones. The old lady felt a bit flustered and chided with herself. Most unbecoming, what was the matter with her? But she did have to open the top button of her cardigan to cool down a bit.

The man might have been beautiful, but he was also angry. As soon as he sat down, he turned to face the woman. "I did say it was OK we experimented in the bedroom and tried other people..."

The old lady couldn't believe what she was hearing. Not only did they look like movie stars, it seemed they lived movie star lives too! The man continued: "But not with my best friend, for god's sake..."

This was now too much for the old lady and she dropped her newspaper on the floor and turned around to face them both. Unfortunately for her, the man was still facing the woman and so she was caught red-handed watching...and listening. There was an awkward moment, while the old lady went very pink and worked out a way to get herself out of the situation. Luckily for her, there was a poster advertising a beach holiday on the other side of the carriage and she glanced over at it intently as if memorising the website. She even got out her pen and wrote it down.

The beautiful man narrowed his eyes, and looked away, refusing to be taken in by this somewhat clumsy ruse, and turned his gaze back to the woman. But this time, he spoke in French.

Opposite, one of the swarthy men looked up from his phone and clocked what the old lady was doing and winked at her. She pursed her lips and looked away, refusing to collude with him.

With slightly shaking hands, she picked up her paper again. She noticed that the couple had switched to French, and knowing full well that they did this because she was listening, she continued to feel acutely embarrassed. She almost got up and moved seats, but she she couldn't bear to walk away – her curiosity got the better of her. And so, a bit like the alcoholic who can’t let go of the bottle of beer in his hand, even after being caught red-handed by members of his AA group, she continued to sit there, listening. Luckily the couple got off before her station, otherwise she might have even been tempted to follow them.

As the train rolled towards her station, long after the couple and even the swarthy men opposite had gotten off, the old lady sat there, still with the Evening Standard in her lap. The sharp sting of embarrassment had calmed down to a dull unease. And now that all the players in the little drama – the beautiful man and woman and the two swarthy men opposite had left the carriage – even that disappeared. All that remained was the glow of of a new story that she was itching to tell someone. After all, this was so much better than the latest royal scandal, news of the latest epidemic, or any gossip from the local pub.

Finally, her station arrived and she stood up, picking up her handbag and letting the Evening Standard slide back onto the floor. If anyone asked her what was in that paper she wouldn't have known. On the other hand, if anyone asked her what the couple were talking about, she would have been able to tell them everything. Down to every little detail.

She walked out of the carriage, with a spring in her step. Upstairs, as she punched her card at the barrier, her phone started to ring.

"Thanks love" she said to the TFL attendant, then answered her phone. It was her daughter, ringing from Lyon.

"Oui Sophie, bonjour ma belle, comment ca vas...?" she said into her phone, switching from cockney to French.

The ticket attendant looked slightly startled - he didn't think that the old lady was French. And he was right, she wasn't, she was British. Almost totally English in fact, unless you counted French-by-marriage as a nationality. Not that Tom spoke the language fluently, he'd been in the UK since he was 6. But he had taught her enough.

Just about enough to understand the splendidly sordid story of the beautiful couple on the train.

[pubalidickens]

The Man Who Loved Dresses

Nick Watson was an unremarkable man. He was of medium height, middle aged and mild mannered. Some might say he was timid and diffident. His voice was soft - when he was agitated it got a bit high, but that didn’t happen too often.

Nick worked in the finance department of a company that ran party boats on the River Thames. His boss Mr Parker, was a charming but very disorganised man. This meant that every day Nick had to patiently and carefully straighten out all the mess and muddle that Mr Parker had created the day before. Anyone else might have been exasperated, but Nick was alright doing this. After 21 years of working with Mr Parker, he was able to detect a pattern in the muddles, so they were not all that difficult to sort out. Not for Nick anyway.

Every morning, he took the train in from Hitchin and changed at Kings Cross. He then took the tube to Bank and the DLR to South Quay. Nick had done this every day, for 21 years. Because he always looked down when he walked, he recognised every stone on the pavements, and every nick and scratch on the tiles along the platforms. Some would say that his existence was boring and mundane. Nick disagreed - he was comforted by the routine and the monotony. In fact, by now he could predict many things about his days - including what Mr Parker would say before he'd said it.

At home, things were similarly ordered and routine. Nick always ate the same cereal at round about the same time every morning. Lunch was always a sandwich and drink, bought in a meal deal at the Tesco Express near work. He went in everyday at 1.03 pm and had something quite akin to a panic attack if everything wasn’t exactly where it had been the week before. Supper was a few potatoes and a bit of meat, either chicken or beef with weak gravy. If he was feeling generous he'd add in mushy peas or beans. He'd always shop at the end of the day – from a local cornershop in Hitchin. He’d been going in there for 40 years. He remembered old Mr Patel from when he was a little boy, and then watched with some trepidation when he was replaced by the younger Ravi, or Ravs Patel as he liked to be called. All through the nineties Ravs sported a fierce mullet and huge shoulder pads on all his leather jackets. Luckily over the last two decades, he had toned himself down, and acquired a wife and a son. He had also begun to look more and more like his father. So much so, that now Nick went into the shop not just for his groceries, but also for a warm feeling brought on by a combination of familiarity and nostalgia.

Nick was so fastidious about everything, including the way he dressed – that few suspected that inside his head things were not equally neat and ordered. Because he was always in grey or black trousers, crisp white shirts and almost too inoffensively plain jumpers and pale mackintoshes, few guessed that underneath it all, Nick really wanted to wear women’s clothes. Not a soul knew about this fantasy, because it had not yet culminated in any action. Nick never actually wore women's clothes or went into any shops selling them. He never even once ventured into the women's floors of M&S, though he would be lying if he said he wasn't often tempted.

But he did spend enough time in the virtual shops. Every evening after supper he'd pore over sites selling women's clothes. And these were not the staid sort either. Unlike the clothes he wore everyday, these were flamboyant and sexy and loud and colourful. He looked at Vivienne Westwood and Cavalli. At Mcqueen, Missoni and Gucci and Pucci. He looked at Sophia Webster and Alice & Olivia. He imagined patterns, colours, textures – the caress of silk, the softness of satin, the sheen of leather. He trawled through Net-a-porter and Etsy, through Outnet and ASOS…discovering new designers, and following them on Instagram and Facebook (always under a different name). But he never bought anything. It seemed like a travesty to have them delivered to his parents’ home. His mum and dad weren’t alive but their memory loomed large, and their presence still invaded every room. In fact, so intimidated was he by his parents’ memory, that Nick still slept in the small bedroom, even though their room had been sitting empty for the last 11 years. He hardly ever went in there. He’d also left everything exactly where it always was. Once every week he hoovered and carefully wiped the film of dust that invariably collected over his mum’s knick-knacks. And when he trawled through the fashion sites every evening, he was tempted to hide his laptop under his duvet. Just like he hid the comic books he read when he was a boy, shining a torch on the colourful pages long after the lights went out.

Nick couldn’t remember when it was that he first started to think about dresses and skirts, about lace and leather, and silk and stockings. All he knew was that it had been long enough. But he liked his desires to stay exactly where they were – deep within the crevices of his mind. On first sight there was nothing remotely feminine about Nick. In hindsight some people might have said that he often crossed his legs at the knee, holding one foot poised and arched, like a ballerina. Or that his hands were exceptionally soft and manicured. But these were only telltale signs if anyone knew. And the reality was that no one knew, and no one even suspected. Nick was determined to take his secret to the grave.

Sometimes though, Nick let his guard down. Just a tiny bit. He couldn’t help it. Like that morning when he got into the train at Kings Cross. Nick was sitting there, minding his own business and looking down at the floor - when there appeared in his field of vision the most delectable purple shoe. It was of royal hue and made of sumptous velvet, adorned with the most extraordinary ruffles. He had seen those shoes on Net-a-porter just the day before. He remembered that they were by a new designer with a suitable exotic name – Marco de Vincenzo. A sharp sense of thrill ran up along Nick's spine, like an electric shock. Almost despite himself his eyes travelled up, caressing the shoes with their gaze, then past them to the splendid, splendid dress. Dark silk, with vibrant hand painted pink flowers, perfectly pleated skirt and delicately enameled buttons. This was not a garment, it was a work of art. Nick stared, transfixed by its beauty. The more he looked, the more he discovered new details to admire. The complexity of the stitching on the cuff. The way the collar was delicately curved like the neck of a swan. The way the pink belt curved around the waist - rich leather, vivid pink like flamingoes.

Nick’s eyes shone with excitement and he had to clench his fists to stop his hands from wandering. Not sinisterly of course – Nick had no interest in women other than as props for all the gorgeous creations he wanted to wear. How he wanted to reach out and touch this exquisite masterpiece that he’d normally only see on a computer screen. But even in the absolute throes of his ecstasy Nick knew better and kept his hands where they were, clenched and hidden under the newspaper on his lap. Though try as he might, he couldn’t quite stop his eyes from wandering back to the shoes and the dress – and eventually – to the owner.

And how disappointed he was. For she was not a flamboyant fashionista with movie star – or even attractive – looks. She was at best mousy and trying to make an effort and at worst a middle aged woman who had picked the wrong dress for herself. The garment overwhelmed and engulfed her – making her seem as insignificant as some dull wallpaper behind a Chippendale chair. Most people wouldn’t notice her – if not for the dress. And even then, there was an awkwardness about her, like she was a crow in peacock’s feathers. Nick couldn’t help thinking that she'd borrowed the dress from a glamorous sister or daughter for a wedding or some other important event. But as he continued to stare, his eyes unfortunately locked with her's, and stayed locked for a bit longer than he would have liked. And that’s when, much to his consternation - and before he could look away - she smiled, presumably at him.

Rather hurriedly, Nick opened up his newspaper, trying to deflect this unexpected - and very unwelcome - attention. Unfortunately for him, he dropped it on the floor and the woman, standing as she was right next to him, bent down to pick it up. As she did so she also looked up at him – with what was for him an almost repulsive coyness – and said ever so softly but distinctly - “Hello”.

By now Nick had had enough. Forgetting his manners he stood up and brusquely brushed past her to get to the door. Fortunately for him, it was rush hour and within seconds the crowd had parted and closed around him. He didn’t dare look back but he knew that he was safe – there were at least four people between him and her now. Luckily the train pulled into the station just then – and he knew it was a matter of seconds before he would be able to get out and increase the distance between him and her.

The train stopped at Bank and after what seemed like an agonising wait, the doors slid open. With an urgency that made him slightly unpopular with the passengers ahead of him, Nick moved towards the door. As he wrenched himself free of the knot of people, his feet hit the platform with a violence that made his ankle ache. But Nick didn’t stop to examine the damage. Instead, he ran. Down the platform and up the stairs he went, not once stopping to look back. It was only once he’d swiped his Oyster that he paused. With trembling hands he reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out the checkered handkerchief he'd bought only the day before at M&S, and wiped his sweaty brow. What a narrow escape!

It was then that he felt a slight tug on his elbow. He turned around and saw her. And this time he saw her - not the dress and not the shoes. She was speaking and holding out something for him. Nick couldn’t hear what she said - his ears were ringing and his heart was beating with an intensity that was altogether unpleasant. It felt like the monotonous beats of that shit band he’d gone to see in 1993. He even remembered what they were called - 2Unlimited. Though why this useless bit of information should float into his head at this particular moment, he didn’t know.

She was looking at him with a vacant and more than slightly doting expression - like the way some teenage girls look at pictures of Harry Styles. He felt nauseous. His eyes traveled past her face to what she was holding out. It was a wallet. He knew it was his - how he had dropped it he didn't know. He realised that he should be grateful to get it back. But all he could feel was the ever increasing pain in his chest - and an intense and overwhelming rage.

[pubalidickens]

Mind The Gap

London at last! How glad she was that she’d decided to take the dreaded Megabus down from Liverpool. The price of the ticket – 5 quid – made it almost worthwhile, somehow making up for the persistent smell of sick and wee inside the coach. And now Victoria. Julie’s heart soared at the sight of the magnificent columns, heralding the glory of the British Empire, now more than slightly diluted by the modern and uninspiring concrete parking bay.

She hopped off the coach, dragging her almost too brightly coloured wheelie case across the tarmac, heading straight for the station. Marvelling at how they were charging 50p for the loo and mentally running the "It’s not like this up north", rhetoric in her head, she still paid up and went in. She carefully applied a violent shade of purple to her lips. A good scrub of her Doc Martens with the toilet paper, a bit of adjustment to the cleavage, a bit of blusher and she was ready to take on London. This was her second trip to the capital. Her first was about three years back, when she’d come with her older brother and his two friends. That trip had been a blur, and the pub crawl had become quite literal by 2am – she still remembered walking on her hands and knees down Camden High Street. Not because she’d wanted to, but because the amount of prosecco, beer and cheap red wine she’d consumed made any other sort of movement impossible. This time, she promised herself she’d be different. More grown up. Classy while still being sassy.

She got out of the loo and into the crowd - people in their hoards, like worker ants, rushing, walking and running, all barely looking up. The drone made her pulse quicken. She headed for the barriers enunciating a shrill "Ta very much!" to the ticket attendant when he helped her with the bag. She thought he looked at her funny, but who cared? She was in London! She was meeting her friends at the pub later. Shame they were all so busy and couldn’t take the day off. In fact, it seemed like they were always busy, all the time. “Not like up north”, Julie muttered to herself again, shaking her head.

At the bottom of the escalators an elderly John Lennon tribute artist was belting out an off-key version of Imagine. Julie warmed to him. She liked his wispy grey hair - reminded her of her dad. She gave him a quid, knowing that she might regret it later when she fell short of cash just when she needed a pint at the pub. But his earnestness deserved her money.

She got into the first train that pulled in, wondering what she should do next. Three hours to kill. Go window shopping? Dangerous. She might buy something - and she knew she couldn’t afford that. Sit in a park with a beer? It was raining. Go to the museums? Free, but not quite her thing. She got out her phone and began to fiddle with it. At the same time she popped a gum into her mouth. She loved blowing bubbles – it helped her concentrate. The man sitting opposite raised big bushy eyebrows at her. Julie smirked. What a toff. She began making loud, smacking noises with the gum, deliberately trying to annoy him. With an audible sigh he gathered up his expensive coat and made his way to another seat at the other end of the carriage. Julie smiled. Victory.

She continued looking at her phone, to see if anyone on Facebook had any ideas. She’d already posted three photos of herself (all with her trademark pout), so everyone already knew that she was in London. She began scrolling through her friend lists, carelessly flicking through the photos. Her fingers moved with easy dexterity, opening up chat windows, looking at friend’s profiles, commenting on photos, replying to comments on hers. She started looking at Ellie’s photos from the party last night, the one she’d missed. Who was that? Ooooh he looked fit. Was he the boy who’d moved in near her gaff? Was he exchange student who was boarding at Ellie’s Nan’s? Or was he Ellie’s cousin from Newport? She was getting into a bit of a tizzy now. “Who was he?” She clicked manically on the photos to see the tag, feeling slightly thwarted by the slow internet connection.

Then, there it was. Steve. Steve Brown. Biting her lip, she began to scroll through his photos, feeling slightly delirious at the sight of his chiseled cheekbones and equally chiseled abs. He seemed to be spending a lot of his time with his top off, this boy - always at festivals and holidays. She scrolled through a few more of his photos, and looked at his profile. Was he in a relationship? No, single. She could continue to look at the photos without any trace of guilt, then. Her fingers moved rapidly, swiping left and right, up and down, when suddenly – “Oh no!”. She had liked one of his photos! “Quick…unlike!”

But she was too late. Already, at the corner of the screen, Steve Brown had popped up in Messenger. “Hi”, he said. Julie thought she’d faint with excitement. Not bothering to pause and wonder about the character and lifestyle of a man who seemed to be poised over his phone/laptop ready to respond to any female attention within the second, Julie replied: “Hi!!!” Damn. Too many exclamation marks. But again, it was too late.

And so, over the next 15 minutes Julie and Steve got to know a little more about each other. She was right, he was from Newport. He had seen pictures of her on Ellie’s Facebook. He’d love to hang out. Did she like beer? Did she go to pubs? He was going to be at the Prince Arthur in Shoreditch. Yes, he was in London too! Just for the day! Could she make it there before 6pm? “When?” she replied, trembling. “Today?” "Yes!" He was there now!

So just like that, all thanks to Facebook, Julie went from having nothing to do to possibly doing the hottest guy she’d seen in a while. She knew mustn’t think that far ahead, but she couldn’t help it. A bit of harmless fantasy. And it wasn’t the first time that she’d use a pub loo for something other than weeing. Quite forgetting herself now, she began to fidget. She looked up at the tube map. Where was she now? Where did she have to get off? Stockwell? That should do it. She began to look for a mirror in her backpack, making rustling noises and dropping bits of tissue and old receipts on the floor. The portly African lady sitting next to her tutted in exasperation. The thin, smartly dressed woman in designer wear on the other side was a bit more restrained in her disapproval, merely pursing her lips so tight that they disappeared into her face.

Julie was oblivious. She found the mirror – thank Christ. Normally she’d use her phone camera but Steve was messaging like his life depended on it. In an astonishing display of ambidexterity, she messaged him back and touched up everything, pouting at her reflection in the mirror. Lipstick. Three more stops to Stockwell. Blusher. Two more stops. Hair. One more stop. She’d just about finished shoving everything back into her backpack when the train pulled into Stockwell. She got up, forgetting she still had her phone on her lap and it went clattering across the floor and landed on the big toe of the lady with the pursed lips. Julie apologised profusely and got a withering look in return.

Clutching her wheelie case, backpack and phone, Julie got to the door just as the automated voice was saying “Mind the gap, mind the gap please”. She’d always thought this bit of instruction was extremely daft. Surely people could see a tiny two-inch gap between the train and the platform? And what would happen if anyone tripped? Surely they’d just be a bit bruised? Why was everyone so soft down south? They needed to go up north.

Shaking her head and dragging all her things, one eye still on the phone for Steve’s latest message Julie got off the train and got her foot stuck in the very same gap she had been dismissing just a few seconds earlier. Her wheelie case went flying down the platform taking on a life of its own and causing other passengers to scatter in its wake. Fortunately the backpack cushioned most of her fall, and all she suffered was a slight dent to her pride and a marginally bigger one to one of her Docs. But as she lay there on the platform floor, with a new respect for the man who said “Mind the gap”, she noticed that her phone - with what seemed like an unnecessary vindictiveness - made its very determined way straight into the gap. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop it.

She got up quickly, just as a lady came up to her to ask if she was OK. Julie started telling her about the phone. Steve! How would she meet him now? What was the name of the pub? Prince Albert? King Arthur? King James? Could she borrow the lady's phone and try logging in? But she'd long forgotten all her passwords. Besides, she had no sense of direction. Without Google maps she would spend hours, maybe even days, wandering lost. The train was still at the station, hesitating, as if it was checking to make sure she was OK. But now, it slid its doors shut. As it started to move away, Julie was sure she could hear the crunch and crackle of the wheels going over her new iPhone 6.

And sure enough, after the train left the station, Julie peered down at the tracks and saw her phone, shattered into tiny bits. Through the cracked screen she imagined she could read Steve’s latest message - but she knew deep down that she couldn’t really, she was just fooling herself. As she continued staring, another train pulled in and went over the phone again, this time definitely making sure that the gap between hope and reality remained insurmountable.

[pubalidickens]

The Boss

Monday morning. Always the hardest. Peter looked across at Sarah, still asleep with her mouth slightly slack and her eyes ringed with dark circles. He looked at the windows – he could see it was raining through a crack in the curtains. Damn. How was he going to sit on that park bench without getting wet? Maybe he’d have to go into a café. But that would mean spending an extra 15 quid.

He looked back at the clock. 7.15. He had to get up and leave on time, though it didn’t really matter anymore whether he was late or not. He stumbled around the bedroom, forgetting to be quiet. Sarah stirred and he quickly went over and gave her a goodbye kiss. It was better he left before she was fully awake. He didn’t want her to ask any uncomfortable questions about work. Downstairs the house was quiet, and he couldn’t hear the boys. He put on his waterproofs and slipped out before they come down. It was hard enough lying to your wife, but lying to your children was soul destroying.

Outside Surbiton hummed with the activity of commuters. He’d change at Victoria, getting the tube to Vauxhall. Sometimes he wondered why he bothered going into London at all. He could just sit in a café in Surbiton? But that was risky - what if Sarah or the neighbours saw? He looked back at the house, sitting almost smugly amongst the trees, bordered by flower beds – Sarah was proud of her gardening skills. How long before it was repossessed? Peter reckoned he had a few months before the savings ran out.

At Victoria he got into the carriage and headed to his usual spot near the doors. He leant against the ledge with the bit of blue patterned upholstery so thoughtfully positioned at buttock level - for most people anyway. The newspaper was so dull that he only pretended to read it, hiding behind its slightly damp pages. He held it high, shielding himself from the other passengers, always slightly apprehensive that he would run into someone from the office. What would he tell them? That he hadn’t found anything suitable? That he’d given up? That he was just waiting to hear back? Which of these was true? He didn’t know anymore.

At Vauxhall the platform was crammed tight full of people - like the supermarket queues at Christmas, only much worse. Halfway down the platform the queues dissolved into knots of people, which grew larger and larger till there was a huge crowd struggling to get up the stairs to the barriers. Peter knew he was lucky he didn’t have to go in to work. His (now ex) boss Simon Webb did not take tardiness lightly. In fact, he didn’t take anything lightly. When people referred to him as a ‘nightmare’ to work with they were being charitable. It was a sad testament to the times that people stayed on - Peter himself had been there for 8 years. He looked up at the stairs. What was holding things up? A fat man? A woman with a pram? He realized he was being unkind. It was probably just someone who had forgotten their Oyster.

His eyes wandered past the adverts and scanned the crowd lazily. He looked, but didn’t really see. His mind was full of thoughts – unpleasant, worrying, dreadful thoughts that he didn’t want to confront either. He wished the crowd would move, so he would be able to rush up the stairs, out of the barriers, out onto the street. The busyness of those movements might calm the havoc inside his head.

Then suddenly just a few steps ahead of him, he saw it. Simon’s head. Unmistakably his. Peter looked once, then looked again. Surely he was mistaken. It was 9:05 and Simon should have been at work, presiding over yet another early morning meeting, while everyone else hid their yawns behind their coffee cups. Simon always started his day at 7 a.m. And he expected everyone else to start by 8.30 a.m. at the latest. What was he doing at Vauxhall station at 9:05?

Peter knew he should stop staring. It was far too dangerous. Of all the people he wanted to see, Simon was the very last one. He'd always had an uneasy relationship with him, and the final nail in the coffin was the callousness with which he had handed him his redundancy letter. Yet, like a moth to the flame, his eyes kept wandering back to that head, with its flat top and closely cropped grey hair.

Luckily, the crowd suddenly started moving. Like Skittles pouring out from a bottle, people scattered through the barriers out onto the street, some scuttling, some rolling and some running. Peter staggered out, relieved to have lost Simon in the crowd, and wrestling with the wind for his umbrella. He turned round a corner, narrowly escaping being blown into the face of oncoming traffic. As he was adjusting the bent and broken brolly over his head, he suddenly saw Simon, sitting alone and almost forlorn on a bar stool in a café across the road. As Peter finally got the umbrella under control, his eyes met Simon’s straight on, like an unfortunate collision between two cars. As usual Simon’s gaze was angry and challenging – but there was also something much more unnerving, something like a complicity, like he was conniving with Peter. Like a reflex action, Peter’s umbrella came back down in front of his face, shielding him from Simon. His legs also began to move rapidly - and just as involuntarily.

It was only after he had run for about 5 minutes that Peter stopped. With trembling hands he reached inside his pocket and pulled out his phone. Gasping for breath, he dialed the office number. Esther, Simon’s secretary answered. “Mr. Webb is no longer with us. May I know who’s calling pl…”

But Peter had already hung up.

[pubalidickens]

The Forgotten Coat

Friday at last. Ms Oaken hadn’t slept much this week, wondering if her boss, Mr. Hamilton would give her the sack. But then, Ms Oaken generally didn’t sleep much. Her small bird-like body was always racked with pains and her mind besieged by endless worries. Like the birds, she usually awoke at the crack of dawn, but then tossed and turned and tried to sleep till it was time to get up. She had what she often described as a ‘miserable’ existence. Now she was fifty four, she’d long given up anything close to hope. Hope for a better job, hope for a better flat, hope for more holidays…she had none of these. Ms Oaken only wanted to be quickly and painlessly released from the monotony of her life. She knew it was sinful to want to die, but she only wanted to go through the onerous drudgery of her everyday tasks till she ran out of steam or battery or whatever it was that was keeping her going. One day, very soon, she hoped to drop down dead like a wound up toy whose spring had finally broken from over exertion. Or a hair dryer whose fuse had blown.

Ms Oaken let a small tear of self-pity squeeze out of her eye. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed – of course they hadn’t. Opposite her, the young woman laughed into her phone with uncontrolled hilarity. Ms Oaken raised timid eyes in her direction and was at once taken in by her beauty and vibrancy. How she wished she could be like that – clearly successful, glamorous, definitely popular, chatty, confident. But Ms Oaken had never been like that and she certainly was not now. She looked down at her hands. Unlike the young woman’s, they were not scarlet tipped, but grey with brown veins and short, stubby fingernails – Ms Oaken still bit her fingernails (in private). More raucous laughter from the young lady as she yelled into the phone: “Oh you’re hilarious darling”. Then suddenly, as the train jerked to a halt, “Oh fuckity fuck, this is where I’m supposed to be getting off…” A big rustle of what seemed like at least ten posh shopping bags and a waft of expensive perfume later, she was gone, leaving Ms Oaken and the other passengers with the aura of her presence, which stayed on for a considerably longer time.

It was only after about 6 stops that Ms Oaken looked down and noticed a crumpled coat on the floor. She picked it up – it was beautiful. Was it cashmere? Ms Oaken couldn’t help running her fingers over it – so incredible soft, unlike anything that she’d ever owned. Her fingers touched the silk lining and she felt a small electric shock of pleasure run through her. Cheeks flushed, she looked around the carriage to see if anyone had noticed, but they were all engrossed in their Evening Standards. Dare she? Would it be like stealing? Was it stealing? She held it close to her face and breathed in. The young woman’s beautiful perfume wafted up her nose and she felt like it would engulf her, making her dizzy and delirious with joy. Suddenly she felt different. She didn’t know what it was, suddenly she felt like smiling. She hadn’t felt anything close to this in years. This was how she felt when her Dad used to come back from home and pick her up, holding her high above his head. Ms Oaken felt overwhelmed. She would cry in a minute. But she also felt like she would laugh and not care who heard. Suddenly, Mr Hamilton, her landlord, the fire alarm, the burnt toast, the typing mistakes - they all faded away. All that remained was her and the coat.

Two stops later, Ms Oaken got up and gathered her bags and stepped out of the carriage. Outside on the platform, she changed her well-worn coat for the one she’d picked up. She loved the way the cashmere and silk felt against her skin. As she climbed the stairs up to barriers, she noticed that she walked differently – taller and straighter with her shoulders squared. As she arrived at the barriers she couldn’t find her Oyster card – and fumbled a bit, first checking her purse then her coat. The ticket attendant coughed impatiently, indicating that she was holding others up. Normally this would have been enough to reduce Ms Oaken to a nervous, shaking mess, but this time she looked up the attendant with an almost charming smile and said: “Looks like I can’t find my Oyster…ohhhh…fuckity fuck….just remembered it’s in the pocket of my other coat which I left downstairs! Won’t be a mo…” And off she went, nimble footed and happy, back down the stairs.

[pubalidickens]

End Of The Line

The air was stale with the rancid smell of beer and sweat and unwashed bodies. It was strange to think that all this smell emanated from only 2 people in the carriage. The strength of their combined odours made Gemma wonder how long they and their clothes had gone without a wash. Luckily for everyone, she was pretty drunk and cared less than she usually would.

Two more stops. Why was she living in Ealing again? Ah yes. Cheap rent. The rent generation - that's what they were calling people like her now. Luckily Nan had left her a bit of money so this wasn’t forever, but at the moment Papa was keeping a firm hold on the purse strings. Something about inheritance tax. Gemma yawned. She was probably just being punished for setting his precious stamp collection on fire when she was 8. It wasn’t deliberate at all, just a seance gone slightly awry, but try telling Papa that. She didn’t think he looked at her with anything but anger and bitterness since then - thinly veiled in paternal fussing. His hugs were almost always a bit too tight (and they hurt) and his kisses too quick. And now he was keeping all the money from her so she had to live in a mouldy flatshare with a manic depressive on-off heroin addict. And she had 2 pence left over every month after paying the rent and bills. Her culinary options ranged from baked beans for savoury and rice pudding for dessert – basically anything that was tinned and 99p or thereabouts. It was all character building stuff, so Papa said. All it was building up in her was a searing resentment.

The man opposite her opened one blood shot eye and looked at her appealingly. He seemed to have trouble keeping his balance even though he was sitting down. Gemma was sure he’d keel over like a skittle any minute now. She got up and moved away to the other end of carriage, pretending to look at an ad for Eve mattresses, so as to not appear rude. The man shut his eyes again. Next to him, the elderly man with the suspiciously stained trousers grunted in his sleep. The train stopped and a draught swept through the carriage, bringing the putrid smell of the two men straight to Gemma’s nostrils. She gagged and considered moving to another carriage, when suddenly just in the nick of time, just before the doors slid shut, there burst into the carriage a beautiful, beautiful man. Gemma prided herself on having some depth and was usually not swayed by anyone’s good looks (alone), but she had to admit that this particular specimen of manhood made her knees feel a bit like jelly. Suddenly she could empathise with Bloodshot’s lack of balance.

He settled down opposite her. Was he a model? An actor? That looked like a Saville Row suit. What was he doing on the tube going to Ealing? He should be in a limo with Prince Harry or someone going to Knightsbridge. Gemma realized her mouth was open and quickly shut it. He flicked his hair back and met her eye. His beautiful grey eyes, speckled with gold, looked around the carriage taking in the two somnolent men at the other end: “Hello – you must be relieved – to finally travel with someone who’s alive…” Gemma giggled. He wasn’t even that funny. She wasn’t going to fall in love, was she? It was tiresome being in love. All the awful gut wrenching, heart aching drama, almost always culminating in a completely debilitating heartbreak.

Outside the train was coming to a halt, its wheels shrieking in a high-pitched cacophony, heralding the end of the journey. The usual voice came on: “The next station is Ealing Broadway where this train terminates. All change please. All change.” At the other end of the train, the two bodies stirred, and began to stand up. Gemma was afraid they’d start leaking from one orifice or the other as soon as they stood up, but they seemed to have enough control over their bodily functions to make it to the door and get out. Dapper got up too, and languidly stretched his limbs. Gemma rose, a bit unsteady in her high heeled Boohoo boots (new). He stepped aside to let her leave the carriage first. Gallant – but of course. He made to follow her but stopped suddenly, bending down to pick up something from under the seat where the old man had been sitting. It was a small carrier bag – black and flimsy, usually used to pick up dog poo. Inside, was a big, fat roll of fifties. Grimy, smelly, dirty and crumpled – but unmistakeably money.

Dapper looked at the bundle, holding it gingerly - but only for a minute, before dropping it smoothly into the pocket of his expensive suit. His eyes met Gemma’s and there was something in them that made her look away, pretending that she’d seen nothing. Outside, she saw the old man helping the other man, both slipping and sliding around in the rain making their way down the pavement. She passed them without saying a word and when she'd turned around, Dapper had disappeared.

[pubalidickens]

The Woman On The Train

Holly knew it was rude, but still couldn’t help peeking at her over her book. It was a remarkable face. Beautiful, almost hypnotic eyes. A long, thin nose, balanced delicately on the face - seeming fragile and almost translucent in the overhead lights. The woman had straight black hair with a fringe so severely straight, it could only have been cut by a hairdresser with OCD. How had they got it that straight? A ruler? A spirit level?

As Holly continued to ponder over this curious problem, she let her gaze – furtive, darting and shy at first, get longer and longer. Soon she was not just looking, she was staring. Her eyes moved from the fringe to the eyebrows, arched like a ballerina’s back. Then to the eyes, curious with their black irises pierced by startling blue dots in the middle. Offset by long, wavy lashes, they looked unreal, almost doll-like. Her gaze slid down the nose and came to rest on the mouth, arresting in its bright redness - the lips so thin that they looked like two thin slivers of tomato.

Where had she seen this face? Why did it appear so familiar? She was startled out of her reverie by a text from Nick. She loved Nick. Every time she heard from him, her skin felt all warm and tingly, like she’d been in the scorching heat and then been rained on by some big, warm, gentle drops that just about took the sting of the sun off. She read the text – and again let her gaze wander, first to the tube map above the woman’s head and then slowly but surely back to her face. She was irresistibly drawn to it, like a sugar addict inching towards the last bit of chocolate on the shelves.

Then suddenly, and quite inevitably it happened. The black eyes that had been safely engrossed in the Evening Standard suddenly shifted their gaze and before she had time to prepare, looked straight at hers. The thin mouth, parted and then smiled, the corners curling up and creasing the skin around it. Holly felt a hot and uncomfortable flush creep over her skin. Not only had she been staring at a stranger on the train, she had been caught doing it. Her hands, clammy and sweaty, shook as she gathered up her bags. She stood up quickly, startling the old man next to her. She stumbled towards the door, not even bothering to pick up the book that had fallen from her lap. This was not her stop, but she had to get out, and escape the painful humiliation of being that abhorrent person who had invaded someone’s else’s space, intruded on their privacy. How could she? What had come over her?

The doors opened and she stumbled out, almost into the gap, but steadied herself just in time. One second later and she might have heard the woman say “Holly? Holly? Is that you…? I’m your…” But she was up the stairs and out of the station, long before the familiar voice drowned out the rest of the woman’s sentence: “Mind the closing doors. Mind the closing doors. This train is now ready to depart.”