The Girl in the Red Coat

7

DAY 1

We took the train that day. I wanted it to be special for Carmel and taking a train rather than the usual bus was a treat.

She had crazes for things then, like any kid. Passions that flared up and then fizzled and died as quickly as they came but her love for the colour red seemed to be enduring. I’d bought her a red duffel coat and that’s what she was wearing. She’d asked if she could have red shoes the next time she needed shoes and we’d seen a pair in the window of Clarks. We looked at them every time we went into town to check they were still there. My wages didn’t go far, but I figured I might be able to buy them before she returned to school after Easter and prayed they wouldn’t be sold before then. So far, miraculously, every time we went into town there they were — on a little green felt-covered stand, like two big fat ladybirds waiting on the grass — even though the rest of the stock changed around them. As she put on her coat that morning I made a decision.

‘Tomorrow, we’ll go into town and if those shoes are still there, we’ll buy them.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Really.’

To hell with everything, I’d put them on my credit card and worry about it later. That morning with the spring wind blowing through the back door anything seemed possible. Perhaps I could even ask Paul to pay for them, now he’d made a reappearance. I’d felt he wanted the connection back with his daughter, even if he didn’t want anything to do with me. Perhaps it was time to accept the contribution he’d offered that I’d recklessly turned down, insisting that we’d manage without him.

That day on the train, for a while at least, the past got swept away by the spring, the sucking hot air from the trains as they speeded through the station and the excitement of a day out, just the two of us. I thought: I’ve been in such a state, such a terrible stupid anxious state this past year since Paul left. It’s time to stop it now. Time to start afresh.

Carmel sat opposite me bundled up in her duffel coat. The train was crowded. A tall young man with a dirty denim jacket and the tattoo of a spider’s web creeping up his neck from his open shirt got on and took the seat next to Carmel. He fiddled with his mobile phone for a while and then the guard looked at our tickets. I could see from the start the man in the denim jacket was desperate to begin a conversation. Words began to form in his mouth that he kept swallowing at the last minute, but after the ticket collecting he couldn’t hold back.

‘Good little girl you have.’ He was speaking to me.

‘Yes. Thank you.’ I smiled at him. It was peaceful and comfortable on the rocking train with Carmel right opposite me.

‘Day out, just the two of you?’

I nodded, then was it my imagination or did his sharp darting eyes glance at my ring finger? Though ridiculous that anyone should note such things these days — especially at his age.

‘Left the old fella at home?’

‘That’s right.’

Maybe it was just me conscious of my finger, as naked as a root, where less than a year ago a thick gold ring with a circle of silver flowers had gleamed. Either way I was relieved when he got off.

‘I’m glad he’s gone,’ I said.

‘Who?’ asked Carmel, her mind clearly on other things.

‘Mr Spiderman, of course.’

She didn’t laugh at my silly name-calling, just patted my hand — once, lightly.

‘You nutter,’ she smiled, dreamily.

Then it was just the two of us again, sitting opposite each other. The train went through an avenue of trees. Carmel’s hair splayed out with static across the nylon headrest of the seat as she looked out of the window. As we passed through the trees they made a pattern so her face was one moment in bright sunlight and the next in darkness. This is the image I remember most from the day. Carmel’s face being stripped with light and dark, flickering on and off, like at the end of a spool of film when it’s about to run out.