MOVING ON

by Richard Banks             
                                                                                             

For Ronnie Harper, Christmas Day was a pleasure confined to its anticipation. He enjoyed the warm glow of Christmas lights on bleak winter evenings, the contagious excitement of his children, the office parties, the evening get-to-gethers with friends, but Christmas Day was never more than a tantalising glimpse of a greater happiness unfulfilled by the event itself. He wished it was different, sensed it could be, but something within him would never let it happen.

     The solution, although unappealing, was well within his reach. He could have stayed home on Christmas Eve, spent time with Laura and the kids, but the necessity of taking a day’s holiday when he would only be required to work until midday persuaded him that work was the better option. 

      In truth, he needed little persuading. Of all his working days Christmas Eve was the one he liked most. It was special; it started with the train journey into London. People who never talked to each other not only talked they laughed, told jokes, discovered that the familiar faces sharing their carriage were just like themselves, 'real people' with personalities never warmer than on the 7.34 to Liverpool Street. If on the completion of the journey he had stayed on the train and let it take him back to Rayleigh, Christmas Day would have been safe, but the idea of doing so was absurd and the lure of pleasures yet to come irresistible. 

      On arrival at the office he would switch-on his terminal and sift through his in-tray prioritising what needed to be done that morning and what could be left until after the holiday. His colleagues were doing likewise and for a while the familiar routine of the office was little different from any other morning. 

      At 10.30 Sharon was dispatched to the café for sandwiches. On her return, workstations were abandoned and an unhurried queue formed at the coffee machine. An hour later the girls disappeared into the toilets reappearing in high heels and party dresses. Terminals were being switched off and everyone was looking towards the floor manager who appeared unaware that his charges were ready to vacate the office for the public house on the ground floor. At 12.30 he would glance at his watch and, with a smile seldom seen on other days, wish them a merry Christmas. Having observed their rapid departure he too deserted his post for a gathering of senior management in the boardroom. 

      Such was the unchanging ritual of office life on Christmas Eve. It was a ritual too good to miss and at 1pm on yet another Christmas Eve Ronnie was not surprised to find himself in the saloon bar of the City Exchange buying a round of drinks for the dozen or so people who worked directly for him. He had, however, decided that this year one thing would be different, that at 4pm he would buy another round and then leave. At 3pm this was still his intention, even at 3.45, but at five minutes to four it happened, the moment when he realised that life had never been better, could never be better, and that this moment might continue, if only he stayed. 

      Had this moment occurred in the same way as before he would have had warning, would have known what to do when to leave, but the interactions that constructed the moment could never be predicted. While Ronnie was only too aware that alcohol would be a factor, other things were also needed and at five minutes to four they duly arrived. He was reaching for his wallet, about to buy the round of drinks that would precede his departure when Darren placed a restraining hand on his arm. It was, he said, his shout, he hadn’t brought a round yet and no one was going to say that he was a mean bastard who didn’t pay his way. After five pints, Darren was not a man to argue with, anyway who wanted to get into a row on Christmas Eve. Best to let him have his way, drink-up quickly and then leave.

      Ronnie checked the timetable he always carried and saw that there was a train at 4.45. Providing he was away by 4.30 he would still be home in time to put the kids to bed. Then Darren returned from the bar and the 4.45 train became an irrelevant number on an irrelevant piece of paper. Instead of another pint Darren had brought him a whisky, an Ardmore malt. He put the glass to his lips, breathed in the scents of liquorice and aniseed, and allowed a few drops of the precious liquid to fall down onto his tongue. The moment expanded and engaged his other senses. His favourite song was on the jukebox, a joke was being told, people were laughing anticipating the punch line, and Julie was smiling, making eye contact in a way that seemed to be saying that she fancied him almost as much as he fancied her. In that moment, in that long sweet moment, he knew that 'now' was a pleasure he could not bear to end.            

                                            **********      

At seven o’clock, only the die hards were left, mainly single guys living close by in rented flats. They decided to end the evening with a curry in a Bethnal Green tandoori where Ronnie was sick in the toilets. He tried to read the time on his watch but could make no sense of it. A sudden fear gripped him that he had missed the last train home. He returned to the table where the guys had been sitting, to find that only Darren and Urzil were left. The bill had been paid, they said, it was time to go, the restaurant was closing. They left him in Bishopsgate in sight of Liverpool Street station and watched him totter towards it until an icy wind persuaded them to begin their own journeys home. 

      On reaching the station, Ronnie discovered not only that the trains were still running but that the next one to Southend was about to depart from platform eleven. He scrambled on board and sat down beside a young woman who immediately changed seats. Further down the carriage two youths and a girl were singing ‘White Christmas’. It was snowing in Chelmsford they said, by morning the whole country would be covered. The train started and slowly pulled out of the station. In forty minutes he would be in Rayleigh. Whatever else happened he must not fall asleep. He had done that once before and ended up in Southend. On that occasion, he had got a cab home but tonight was different, it was Christmas Eve. Would there still be taxis at the station? 

      He watched a snowflake hit the window and slowly dissolve. Another followed, then three more, then too many to count. The train gathered speed, passing over the dark shapes of streets and buildings that seemed bleak and unfamiliar. He fixed his attention on a long line of street lights until the condensation misting the window transformed them into a single orange streak. He wiped the window with the palm of his hand and the image of his face and shoulders appeared. He stared back at himself through eyes half shut.                                                      

                                         **********

      He had, he thought, only closed his eyes for a few moments when he felt a rough shaking of his shoulder. He looked up to find a burly man in a peak cap towering over him. For a few seconds he didn’t understand what was happening, then the words ‘power off’ jolted him back to consciousness. He asked where he was and was told Wickford and, that the train was stopped, terminated. An emergency bus service was about to leave. If Ronnie wanted to be on it he would have to hurry.  

      He stumbled onto the platform just in time to see another straggler pass through an open gate towards the taxi rank where the bus was waiting. He wanted to hurry, tried hard to hurry, but the snow on the platform and the unwillingness of his legs to respond to the signalling of his brain reduced his progress to a haltering jog.

      Outside the station the bus was being readied to depart, engine revving, doors opening and shutting, an impatient voice wanting to be off, more revving of the engine, then another voice giving the command to go. The driver beeped his horn and the bus was off. Its departure from the car park coincided with Ronnie’s arrival at the gate. He shouted and waved his arms but to no avail; the bus continued on until only its rear lights were visible. His scrambled brain struggled to take in what had happened, what he should do next, then he remembered the 25 bus – that went to Rayleigh; he would catch that. He hurried down to the High Street, to the bus stop outside Costas. The street was ankle-deep in snow, silent, deserted, sharp gusts of wind chasing down even more snow.

      His certainty that the 25 would still be running was shattered by the realisation that it was a quarter to twelve. Of course, there were no buses, the last one had long gone. He decided to phone for a taxi but the pocket in which he kept his mobile was empty; he searched through his other pockets without finding it. Had he left it in the tandoori? He wasn't sure. His only certainty was that to get home he would have to walk. He knew the road; it was long and straight. It went up the hill towards the church, then on to the Shotgate, and beyond that to the Carpenters Arms. From there Rayleigh was just down the road. He remembered making the journey by car two years before. If he walked hard he would be home in an hour, ninety minutes at most. There might still be a car or two about. If he saw one he would flag it down and hitch a lift.

       He started off in determined fashion. He told himself that as long as he kept moving he would be okay, it was just a matter of time, time and effort, that’s all that was needed. The worst part of the journey would be the first, that was uphill, the rest was mainly on the flat. It would be a doddle, he had gloves, a thick overcoat, this was no more than a tiresome delay at the end of an overlong day. 

      Halfway up the hill, he could see the silhouette of the church spire against the dark sky. First base he thought. He leaned forward, elbows bent, arms swinging back and forth like the long distance walkers he had seen in the Olympics. Five minutes later he was past the church and at the top of the hill. It had been an effort, but he had made it. He pressed on buoyed by the thought that he would soon be at the Shotgate. From there he would be able to see Rayleigh on the high ground to the east. 

      Ronnie paused at a bus shelter to recover his breath and without thinking sat down on the bench within. He peered back along the road hoping but not expecting to see the headlights of a car. Instead, he saw a single disc of light that was the church clock. He checked its time against that on his watch. It was Christmas Day. 

      Ronnie recalled the last time it had snowed at Christmas. He and Laura were on holiday in Switzerland on the ski slopes near Lausanne. They had been happy then, free spirits, doing what they wanted, when they wanted. They lived in London, a twenty-minute commute to the office where they both worked. It was after they married that they moved out into Essex. Laura stopped working and they started a family just like they planned. For a while family life seemed okay, a natural almost inevitable progression in his life, but was it better than what he had before? Somehow it was not enough, a step too far, too soon. For Laura, there was no choice. She had two children to bring up, one at school, one not yet out of nappies. Jason was playing football, Tanya nearly walking. He knew this because Laura told him. When she did there was a harshness in her voice that sounded like a reproach. She had adapted to the changes in her life, accepted them, and was moving on. With or without him she was moving on. The thought chilled him, seemed colder than the snow.

       

      It was time to get walking again. His legs were stiff and unresponsive, but he forced them back into action. On either side of him the houses were in darkness. He imagined the occupants in their beds, warm, sheltered, ready for the day ahead. For the first time in a long time, he yearned to be home. The journey to the Shotgate was taking longer than he had anticipated. Either it was further than he thought or he was slowing down; he wasn’t sure which. He passed another bus stop and realised that the next one would be at the Shotgate itself. Ten minutes later he was there.  

      For the next half mile, there were no houses just fields and a recently constructed dual carriageway. In the last remaining house, he saw a light. A voice in his head urged him to seek shelter there. Who would refuse him on Christmas Day? The light flickered off and he continued on, down the road that had no footpath, where pedestrians seldom ventured. But who needed a footpath when there was no traffic? For now, only the weather was of concern. 

      The road before him slanted gently downwards towards a long stilted bridge under which it passed. Two years earlier he had driven down it in a red Lamborghini, taking advantage of a clear road to press down hard on the accelerator. It had taken him only a few seconds to reach the end of the slope and a few more to rise up to level ground. The exhilaration of the experience had deceived him into thinking that the road was shorter than it was. Through the snow he could see the bridge and calculated that it was three hundred yards away. From there it would be a mile, maybe less, to the Carpenters Arms. When he reached the pub he would bang on the door and demand to be let in. He had often drunk there, played darts in the local league. The landlord would not turn away a regular customer.

      He walked in the centre of the road where the snow was less deep, counting each step, knowing that nothing less than six hundred would be needed to get him to the bridge. He was halfway there when he slipped and fell. For a few moments, he lay on his back waiting for his body to tell him if he could continue. His fall had been a heavy one but cushioned by the thick covering of snow. He felt no pain and although this might be due to the numbness of his limbs and body he reasoned that in all probability he was uninjured. Slowly he rolled over onto his chest and pushed his body up onto his knees. Still no pain. His legs and arms were working, doing what his brain was telling them to do. He was okay, normal, nothing changed.

 

      Back on his feet, he continued walking towards the bridge grimly aware that if he fell again and was unable to continue his cries for help would probably go unheard. The wind was stronger now, gusting, unimpeded by the line of houses that had previously protected him from its full force.  He was walking more slowly than before, carefully planting each foot flat into the snow so that the soles of his shoes were making maximum contact with the ground. For the first time, he felt the odds were against him. Could he make it to the pub? Even to the bridge could he make it?

 

     Another gust of wind caused him to stop, stagger back and throw out his arms in a desperate attempt to steady himself. Then he was down, tumbled over three, four times until he was at the side of the road, within touching distance of an embankment that in Spring would be covered in daffodils. His hands and arms were uninjured and he was again able to sit up. A sensation that on another day would have been pain told him that this time there was no getting up. Through a gash, in his trouser leg, he could see the jagged end of a bone. He needed help. Even now there was hope. He called out but the cold air in his chest and throat reduced his voice to little more than a whisper. He tried again and saw a thin stream of vapour melt silently in the wind.

 

      In the distance, he could see Rayleigh, the ridge on which it stood, dark shapes of buildings, the floodlit church and the windmill. He thought of his wife whom he had loved but not loved enough, of his children, of Christmas Days when he was too tired and hung-over to play with them. At daybreak they would be up opening their stockings, Jason climbing onto the windowsill, sweeping aside the curtains, and on seeing the snow, shrieking with excitement. He imagined Laura waking, finding herself alone in their bed, her going downstairs half expecting to see him on the settee beneath his overcoat. 

      By then, long before then, he would be invisible, a small white mound in a far greater whiteness. He wanted to say a prayer but knew none. His last thoughts were of Laura.  

                                                        The End.                                                                    

 

Copyright Richard Banks