The Forgotten Coat
Friday at last. Ms Oaken hadn’t slept much this week, wondering if her boss, Mr. Hamilton would give her the sack. But then, Ms Oaken generally didn’t sleep much. Her small bird-like body was always racked with pains and her mind besieged by endless worries. Like the birds, she usually awoke at the crack of dawn, but then tossed and turned and tried to sleep until it was time to get up. She had what she often described as a ‘miserable’ existence. Now she was fifty four, she’d long given up anything close to hope. Hope for a better job, hope for a better flat, hope for more holidays…she had none of these. Ms Oaken only wanted to be quickly and painlessly released from the monotony of her life. She knew it was sinful to want to die, but she only wanted to go through the onerous drudgery of her everyday tasks till she ran out of steam or battery or whatever it was that was keeping her going. One day, very soon, she hoped to drop down dead like a wound up toy whose spring had finally broken from over exertion. Or a hair dryer whose fuse had blown.
Ms Oaken let a small tear of self-pity squeeze out of her eye. She looked around to see if anyone had noticed – of course they hadn’t. Opposite her, the young woman laughed into her phone with uncontrolled hilarity. Ms Oaken raised timid eyes in her direction and was at once taken in by her beauty and vibrancy. How she wished she could be like that – clearly successful, glamorous, definitely popular, chatty, confident. But Ms Oaken had never been like that and she certainly was not now. She looked down at her hands. Unlike the young woman’s, they were not scarlet tipped, but grey with brown veins and short, stubby fingernails – Ms Oaken still bit her fingernails (in private). More raucous laughter from the young lady as she yelled into the phone: “Oh you’re hilarious darling”. Then suddenly, as the train jerked to a halt, “Oh fuckity fuck, this is where I’m supposed to be getting off…” A big rustle of what seemed like at least ten posh shopping bags and a waft of expensive perfume later, she was gone, leaving Ms Oaken and the other passengers with the aura of her presence, which lingered long after she was gone.
It was only after about 6 stops that Ms Oaken looked down and noticed a crumpled coat on the floor. She picked it up – it was beautiful. Was it cashmere? Ms Oaken couldn’t help running her fingers over it – so incredible soft, unlike anything that she’d ever owned. Her fingers touched the silk lining and she felt a small electric shock of pleasure run through her. Cheeks flushed, she looked around the carriage to see if anyone had noticed, but they were all engrossed in their Evening Standards. Dare she? Would it be like stealing? Was it stealing? She held it close to her face and breathed in. The young woman’s beautiful perfume wafted up her nose and she felt like it would engulf her, making her dizzy and delirious with joy. Suddenly she felt different. She didn’t know what it was, suddenly she felt like smiling. She hadn’t felt anything close to this in years. This was how she felt when her Dad used to come back from home and pick her up, holding her high above his head. Ms Oaken felt overwhelmed. She would cry in a minute. But she also felt like she would laugh and not care who heard. Suddenly, Mr Hamilton, her landlord, the fire alarm, the burnt toast, the typing mistakes - they all faded away. All that remained was her and the coat.
Two stops later, Ms Oaken got up and gathered her bags and stepped out of the carriage. Outside on the platform, she changed her well-worn coat for the one she’d picked up. She loved the way the cashmere and silk felt against her skin. As she climbed the stairs up to barriers, she noticed that she walked differently – taller and straighter with her shoulders squared. As she arrived at the barriers she couldn’t find her Oyster card – and fumbled a bit, first checking her purse then her coat. The ticket attendant coughed impatiently, indicating that she was holding others up. Normally this would have been enough to reduce Ms Oaken to a nervous, shaking mess, but this time she looked up the attendant with an almost charming smile and said: “Looks like I can’t find my Oyster…ohhhh…fuckity fuck….just remembered it’s in the pocket of my other coat which I left downstairs! Won’t be a mo…” And off she went, nimble footed and happy, back down the stairs.