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 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 was slowly fading. 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.
#light reading#short story#commute#underground#tales from the tube