A SUMMER WOOING
By
Richard Banks
The seven-fifteen from
platform two was leaving the station, slowly gathering speed as it turned the
bend in the track that pointed it towards Bransford. The last passenger to board
the train took her seat in the half empty carriage and observed the streets and
houses of the town give way to a field of barley. She recalled the winter
months when the field was nothing more than dark clods of mud and the trees
beyond it leafless skeletons. In a week or two the field would be harvested,
the first step back into winter. She repressed a shiver and consoled herself
that it was only August and that September days were sometimes the warmest of
the year.
What was it that Granny used to say when summer lingered on
into autumn? It was an old expression not much heard now; something about India. Yes,
that was it, an Indian Summer. When July or August were cool and wet, Granny
always held out the prospect of an Indian summer just like those she claimed to
remember from her youth: “September days so warm you could have fried an egg on
the pavement.” The woman smiled, but Granny sometimes got it right. September
when it came could be warm, a golden month made precious by the knowledge that
summer dresses must soon give way to warmer clothes.
The woman unfastened her handbag and extracted a compact
which opened to reveal a mirror. She anxiously studied her face counting the
lines that radiated from the corner of her eyes. There were three on either
side of her face, the same as yesterday, the same as four weeks ago when she
first noticed them. Was the middle one slightly longer? She wasn't sure. For
now the application of a little cream would render them invisible. But first
there was mascara to apply.
Gerry liked girls who took trouble with their appearance.
She knew this, he had a roving eye and a wagging tongue like other guys in the
office. From their conversations she learned that Gerry liked brunets with
shoulder length hair, slim girls with made-up faces and long legs, fashionable
girls in silk blouses and pleated skirts that terminated several inches above
their knees. Gerry seemed to have an obsession with pleated skirts which was
weird she thought because no one made them now except that Romanian firm on the
net which she had found after several long hours of searching.
Now that she had changed, morphed into Gerry's perfect girl
it was only a matter of time before he realised what she already knew, that
they were a perfect match. For now, the focus of his attention was Cloey but
this was ridiculous and could never be. Cloey was far too young and flighty for
Gerry. He needed an older woman in the summer of her life, not a spring chicken
with a voice to match. Why could Gerry not see this? The poor man was forever
attracting unsuitable women. First there was Janey who fell off the stepladder
while putting up the Christmas decorations. Didn't look so cute with her neck
in a brace; no wonder Gerry dumped her. By the time she was back from sick leave
Gerry had moved on to Deborah, that snotty girl in Personnel who didn't like
being called Debby. But Deborah was just using him, stringing him along and
when she sent that text to Janey detailing the deficiencies of Gerry's 'little
acorn', Janey inflicted her come-uppance by copying it to everyone in the
office.
Poor Gerry, how humiliating for him. Who could blame him for
complaining to his head of section and having them both sacked? That's when he
needed the affection of an older, more mature woman, one who truly loved him.
While the other girls were still sniggering she was his rock, at first his only
true friend and then, gradually, almost without him noticing, a closer
attachment began to form.
It was going so well, then Cloey arrived, Deborah's
replacement, and Gerry's wandering eyes began wandering all over her hour glass
figure. He should have realised his mistake when she fell over drunk in the
Kings Head that lunchtime and was unwell on the carpet. Instead he picked her
up, plied her with coffee and saw her onto her train at Charing
Cross. Since then their 'by chance' meetings about the office had
become too frequent to ignore. Even more worrying was the rumour that they had
been seen together in the Memphis Grill. Then she saw them for herself,
together on that park bench, snogging like it was an Olympic event. She turned
back on her heels and found a bench of her own where her tears might also have
set new records. It was over, she thought. No one could have tried harder, how
had she failed?
The negativity of her thoughts astounded her. She stopped
crying and dried her eyes. Emotion was giving way to rational thought. Failure
was not an option she told herself. She was a positive person who made things
happen, this was no more than a clearing shower. That's what Granny said when
dark clouds gathered and the rain set-in driving her and the other children
into Grannies scullery. No matter how black the clouds Granny was always
adamant that the rain was nothing more than a clearing shower, that within
minutes, an hour at most, the sun would be back out, a yellow blaze in a deep
blue sky. Not for the first time the memory of Granny's boundless optimism
brought a smile to her face; there would, she resolved, be no more rainy days
in her life.
The train pulled into Bransford. The woman returned her
mirror and lipstick to her handbag and observed the City bound commuters hurry
into the carriage and occupy the remaining seats. Her make-up completed, her
mind was fully focussed on what must be done at the next station. Up to now she
had been merely mischievous: the tilting of the ladder on which Janey was
standing, the sending of that text on Deborah's unattended mobile – what a
wheeze that had been – and finally the Mickey Finn in Cloey's drink. The
present situation, however, called for something more serious, anything less
would not be enough. Her plan was simple, high risk, but the stakes were high.
She told herself that desperate times required desperate measures, but that
once done, all would be well. She drank from a flask; the liquid reinforced her
resolve, gave her confidence, repressed those what if doubts. But what if she
did nothing and let things be? No, nothing could be worse than that.
Not a moment too soon the train arrived at Milstead
Junction. The woman alighted and made her way to the coffee bar on the London bound platform.
This was where Cloey stopped for a cappuccino and croissant on her way to the
office. The woman knew this because Cloey had told her so, “her life saver” she
called it, her reward for dragging herself out of bed at seven a.m. It was not
long before she made her entrance.
The woman attracted her attention and beckoned at the empty
seat beside her from which she had removed her handbag. Cloey looked surprised,
then nervous, but was reassured by the woman's friendly expression. It was not
difficult to switch the paper cups on the table in front of them, the same
unsampled coffees filled close to the brim. They talked like the friends they
were not, silly girlish stuff that the woman had outgrown but still remembered.
Cloey yawned, her eyes struggling to stay open; the pills in her cup were
taking effect. Timing now was everything. The woman put on her white sun hat
with the wide, floppy brim that might have dipped down over her eyes had it not
been for the large frames of her dark glasses. “It's time to go,” she said, “the
7.55 is due.” The woman guided her companion, from the café and stood her on
the edge of the platform as their fellow commuters formed irregular lines
either side and behind them.
Only a single, piston-like movement was needed, the firm
pressure of an open palm in the small of Cloey's back, too quick, too subtle
for TV imaging or human eye. It was said that she fell slowly, arms out wide,
her thin cotton dress billowing like a butterfly in an unexpected breeze. The
woman closed her eyes and from her darkness heard all: the braking of the
train, a juddering thud, the screams and shouts of those whose eyes were open.
These 'details' she would banish from her memory, lose in some unacknowledged
place along with all she did see: the dark splashes on the track, the ashen
face of the driver as he pushed open the door of his cab.
The woman withdrew unobtrusively from the platform and
completed her journey to work by bus.
Later that day or maybe the next, the news of Cloey's death would reach the
office. When it did she would express the same sentiments of grief and
disbelief as everyone else, but most of all she would be there for Gerry. More
than ever he would need that special friend who could be so much more. In time
he would realise this, how could he not, and when he did, nothing would ever
come between them again.
There he was at his work station opening his emails. Time to
take him his post, to perch herself on the edge of his desk and flirt, tell
jokes, laugh when he told his. The dark clouds were gathering but soon the sun
would shine.
Copyright Richard
Banks
