Personal Demons

STILL LIFE

Outside, the bell clanging, the rain falling. Inside, the cat, gingerly picking its path through the clusters of chair and table legs. Black as the coal in the dented copper scuttle standing in the corner. Its tiny tongue rasping the parquet floor, collecting the few crumbs of rock cake that remained.

'Beryl, take a broom under table four. We'll be having mice in here next.'

'Yes, Mrs Bagot.'

The woman behind the counter cracked upright, tall and pale and dry as a stick, cardigan pulled tight about her flat bust, colourless hair scraped high. 'For the life of me I really don't know why people can't use their napkins properly.' A bony forefinger ran around the rim of the cake dish on the corner of the counter. The edge of an apron was applied.

'I said to Mr Sanders, you ought to put down linoleum what with people traipsing in and out of here in all weathers. I might as well have saved my breath.'

A coal popped in the grate. Beyond the tearoom, drizzly twilight faded into darkness. A brisk stamping of boots on the platform outside and Mr Godby entered, his station-issue raincoat buffeted by the wind. With him came cascades of rain and the chill of the October evening. Faced with the imminent attack of Beryl and the broom, the cat fled from beneath a table out into the night.

'Are them Bamburys fresh? If so you could do worse than let me 'ave a couple with a nice cup of tea.'

'Most certainly they're fresh.' Myrtle's height grew with indignation. 'And you can take just one. I've got my customers to think of.'

'Customers?' asked Mr Godby with a wink to Beryl, 'I don't see any customers. Wouldn't be surprised meself if your rock cakes hadn't driven them out into the rain.'

Beryl turned her giggle into a cough and concentrated hard on the floor.

'I'll thank you not to be so cheeky, Mr Godby. We had newlyweds in this afternoon, off on their 'oneymoon. Pretty as a picture, she was. No complaints from them, I noticed. Haven't you got the boat train to let through?'

'It's not due for another ten minutes, so it's a cup of tea or a kiss, which?'

'I'm sure I don't know to what you are referrin'.' Myrtle turned over a cup and stood it beneath the urn. 'You can have a cup of tea and welcome if you keep your sauce to yourself. Beryl, put some more coal on. That wood's too damp to pick up.'

All along the platform, the light shades clanged rhythmically against the girders of the station roof. Rain cascaded down the tobacco-coloured sloping glass. Laura stepped through the swinging pools of light toward the butter-glow of the refreshment room windows, coat knotted tightly around her, Boots library book tucked high under one arm.

Inside, she waited for a break in the conversation to order. The reedy, tittle-tattle voice of the woman behind the counter faltered as she acknowledged her customer. This is how I want to remember it, thought Laura, the pop and crunch of the fire in the grate, the rain outside. I shan't be coming here again.

'A cup of tea, please.'

'Certainly.' Myrtle turned a cup. 'Cake or pastry?'

'Perhaps a Bath bun. Are they fresh?'

Mr Godby shot a knowing look at Beryl.

'Made this morning.' Myrtle removed the glass dome and tonged a bun on to a thick white plate. 'That'll be fourpence.'

Laura dug into her purse, the volume of Keats sliding from beneath her arm toward the floor. Mr Godby stopped it, placing it on the counter.

'Thank you so much.' Laura awkwardly removed her purse, tea and cake to a nearby table, returning for the book.

The tea grew cold in her hand as she idly turned the pages. How many times so far this week? Six or seven at least. Soon, perhaps, it would only be once or twice. Perhaps his earnest face would only come to mind on rainy Thursday afternoons, describing a routine day at the hospital until the whistle for the boat train gave him pause. Sometimes she played a game, staring hard at the book until she was convinced that he would be standing there when she looked up. She played it now, closing the cover and wiping it dry with the back of her glove. Now she would look up and see -

'Laura! Goodness, we do seem to be running into each other a lot these days! My dear, you look frazzled. I'm not a bit surprised, this ghastly weather is enough to tire anyone out.'

Dolly Messiter, bustling with chat, garlanded with packages, dropped into the chair opposite. Laura forced a smile of recognition, if not welcome. Dolly failed to notice. She scraped her chair around and addressed the counter.

'I say, could I have a cup of tea, not too strong, and a bar of Nestles?' She turned to Laura. 'It's for Tony. I'm surprised he still has a tooth in his head.'

'Sixpenny or shilling?' Myrtle was displeased at having to call from the counter. Dolly showed no sign of rising to collect her tea.

'Oh, the sixpenny, plain if you have it.' She lowered her voice and turned back. 'Laura, you really do look rather peaky. Would you like a fresh cup, buck you up?''No, really, I'm fine thanks, just a little tired.'

'Iron pills. They're the answer. Margo swears by them, not that they've done her much good, poor soul.'

Beryl brought over the tea and the chocolate.

'Thank you, dear.' Dolly handed her eightpence and plopped in the cube of sugar from her saucer. 'Who would have thought that the shops would be so crowded on such a beastly day? My dear I'm all done in, and soaked thanks to the pavement outside McFisheries.'

Laura's gaze had returned to the back of the library book.

If you have enjoyed this book, why not try these other fine -

'These stockings were a present from Tony, and now of course they're quite ruined…'

In the distance, machinery rattled. Rails pinged with the weight of a locomotive. 'Could you tell me, is that the Ketchworth train?'

Mr Godby looked up from his Daily Sketch, propped against the cake stand.

'No, it's the express, the boat train.' He set down his cup of tea. 'Early too!' and hurried out of the door.

'Really, Laura, you ought to see a doctor. You looked exhausted the last time I saw you. But of course, you were with a doctor, weren't you? Doctor…'

She searched the air for a name, waiting for Laura to supply it.

'Doctor Harvey. Alec Harvey.'

'Harvey, that's right. What a charming man. There are so few about these days. Didn't he go to India?'

'Africa. He moved his practice there.'

'Africa, that's it. He should have prescribed you something. Have you heard from him?'

'No, nothing.' Laura drank the last of her cold tea. The express roared through, beating a tattoo on the sleepers, halting conversation.

She's going to ask how Fred is now. What can I tell her? Fred will be sitting at home listening to the wireless, doing the crossword. Fred is writing in the answer to a clue, checking his watch, waiting for his dinner. Fred is Fred. Not Alec.

'Well, much as I hate to brave the cold, I'd really better heave these parcels on to the platform or I'll never board the train in time. What time is it?'

'Twenty to six. It's due in three minutes. They don't bother to close the gates between the two trains. Here, let me give you a hand with those.'

Dolly thankfully handed her one of the smaller packages.

'You go ahead,' said Laura, 'I'll bring the rest.'

Dolly staggered out of the tearoom clutching her purchases while Laura rose and folded up the fur collar of her coat. As she pulled on her gloves she gazed around the refreshment room for the last time. The door had closed on Dolly. Myrtle was attending to her accounts, squinting over the top of her spectacles as she made ticks on a list. For a moment the only sound was the shifting of fireplace coals.

Laura tilted back her head and closed her eyes. Until now she had not felt it was truly over. They had parted without saying goodbye. How could they have, with Dolly and her confounded congregation of parcels plumping down between them at the last minute? But now, in the quiet of the tearoom it felt finally over. With the closing of its door the memory would be sealed inside forever.

Across the room, Beryl set the scuttle down with a bang.

Laura's eyes snapped open, wide and brown. She pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose in an annoyed fashion. Gathering the parcel and book, she opened the waiting room door and propped it with her foot. The bright empty room with its familiar window table now seemed like any other. In the distance the whistle of the five forty-three sounded, and Laura let the door swing shut.

Once Dolly's parcels were safely loaded on to the luggage rack, Laura smoothed the seat of her coat and took a window seat. Spread across the centre of the carriage, Dolly prattled. Tony had been ill, Derry and Toms were having a sale, she still hadn't found a replacement for Phyllis. Laura nodded amiably and sympathised without hearing a word.

With a push of steam and a lurch the train moved forward and began to pick up speed. Laura cleared a patch of glass. Beyond the window, green enamel signs rolled past, posters and benches flashing by. Milford Junction sped away.

'Of course I was sorry to see her go, she was a treasure and heaven knows it's hard enough finding a replacement these days…'

They were pulling level with the underpass entrance at the end of the platform as someone – a lanky figure running awkwardly, fawn Dunn & Co raincoat flapping, trilby pulled down tight, missed the train. For a second, really just a second, the loping gait seemed so familiar, the bony hand raised to hold the hat, the long legs striding up the slope, something forlorn and lost – but the image was gone, replaced by the bare wet branches of the elms that lined the cutting.

Laura slumped back in her seat and closed her eyes. Dolly had ceased her chatter and was now pulling at a magazine wedged in her handbag.

The beat of wheels on metal, over wood, lulled Laura to sleep. There had been no-one running for the train. Beneath her body, the points switched. The train swayed, bearing her back to Ketchworth and home.

The door of the refreshment room flew open, spraying rain with it, as the figure strode across to the counter. 'I'm sorry, could you tell me, was that the Ketchworth train?'

Myrtle peered over the top of her glasses and set aside her fountain pen. Instead of setting down his trilby with a pinch of his hand, the enquirer pulled his hat tighter on to his head and refused to catch her eye.

'Indeed it was. You've only just missed it.'

The man tugged open his raincoat and pulled at a pocket. He moved oddly, as though he had been wounded. The war had done terrible things to the country's men.

'I'll have a tea please.'

'Cake or pastry?'

'Just a tea.' He still refused to catch her eye. Perhaps there was something wrong with his face. Myrtle slipped two cubes of sugar into the saucer. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Alec fumbled for money and placed two pennies on the counter. He felt the weight of the book dragging at him. After a brief moment of hesitation he withdrew it and took his tea to the window table, sitting in the opposite chair to where she had sat.

Myrtle glanced over once or twice and could tell he was writing something. There was a strange smell in the room, drawn from the damp wood in the fire.

When she next looked up, he was standing before her.

'I say, you didn't happen to see a lady in here earlier, small, brown hair, a coat with a fox-trim collar?'

'Why, yes. She just left. In here every Thursday, like as not. Catches the Ketchworth train.'

'The thing is, I have something of hers, and I wanted to give it to her. I can't – be here – again. I wonder if I could ask you a favour, seeing as she comes in each week…'

Myrtle studied the book on the counter and narrowed her eyes. 'I must say it's most irregular,' she began. 'This is not a lending library.'

'Could you give it to her? I really would be most grateful.'

'Well, all right. I'll keep it back here with my accounts. Just this once, mind.' She'd do him the favour. He didn't look well.

'It's awfully kind of you.'

He finished his tea back at the table, sipping slowly, like an invalid taking soup. When Myrtle next looked up, he had gone, splashing off through the underpass no doubt, and Beryl was clearing the crockery.

The book was a volume of Victorian poetry, awful sickly stuff, the pages bordered with faded roses. The letter was folded inside the flyleaf and addressed to Laura Jesson in scratchy, broken script, as though someone very ill had written it. Myrtle turned it over in her hands. A Billy Doo, and she was in charge of it! The urn steamed and bubbled. She looked over at Beryl.

'Get the broom, Beryl, and run it under table two. There's rice everywhere. Sweep it up.'

'Yes, Mrs Bagot.'

All very well for newlyweds, thought Myrtle, they don't have to worry about the mess, as she allowed the envelope to stray in front of the steam. It wasn't her fault that the flap popped open. Barely glued down, it had been. The letter virtually slid out by itself.

'And mind you don't miss any,' she said loudly, scanning the page.

Left Madeline behind – desperate to see you one more time – life meant nothing without you – wanted to die -

'Mrs Bagot-'

Knowing we could never be together – no other choice – wrong of me, I know – a dreadful sin to take one's own life – wanted to die thinking of you – prayed that would be the end of it – who could have known that love would prove stronger than death – now this awful pain will never end – only once we are reunited -

'Mrs Bagot-'

– love stronger than death

Beryl sounded frantic. 'Mrs Bagot, it's not rice.' She slammed her broom at the floor. 'It's maggots!'

Each swing of the train bore Laura further away from Milford Junction. Dolly Messiter tapped her on the shoulder and offered her a handkerchief. 'Are you all right?' she enquired. 'You looked as if you were having a bad dream.'

'No,' said Laura firmly. 'I just had a piece of grit in my eye, that's all.'