E-Book, Englisch, 192 Seiten
Sawbridge / Downs / Bausor Stations
1. Auflage 2012
ISBN: 978-1-909208-06-3
Verlag: Arachne Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection
Short Stories Inspired by the Overground Line
E-Book, Englisch, 192 Seiten
ISBN: 978-1-909208-06-3
Verlag: Arachne Press
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 0 - No protection
From tigers in a South London suburb to retired Victorian police inspectors investigating train based thefts, from collectors of poets at Shadwell to life-changing decisions in Canonbury, by way of an art installation that defies the boundaries of a gallery, Stations takes a sideways look through the windows of the Overground train, at life as it is, or might be, lived beside the rails: quirky, humorous and sometimes horrifying.
Joan Taylor-Rowan is a former teacher of Art and Textiles, and world traveller. She is the author of The Birdskin Shoes, a tale of circuses and earthquakes in Mexico. She has had several stories read on Radio 4 and performed at Short Fuse, Storytales, Liars' League and Tales of the Decongested. She has also written the book and lyrics for a musical based on her own short story, Kandy Kottage. Joan now rund a writing group in Hastings.
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HIGHBURY & ISLINGTON
Morning, Sunshine Louise Swingler ‘Mornin’ darlin’!’ he says, ‘Ah, you’re an angel. You bring me a little bit of sunshine, you do.’ He takes the polystyrene cup from me, and places it carefully on the pavement. He’s sitting with his bottom half still tucked into his dirty red sleeping bag, and I can see the gloss of the earlier rain on the shiny fabric. I drop a pound in the old margarine carton on the grubby green blanket in front of him. The blanket flaps at the edges in the chilly March breeze. ‘Thanks darlin’ – you’re too good to me, you are.’ ‘Ah, no,’ I say, feeling as I always do that his sweetness deserves more than the small round coin I give him whenever he’s here. But it adds up to about twenty-five pounds a month, what I spend on him. Money’s tight, with our impossible mortgage, but at least we’ve got the house that goes with an impossible mortgage, so I shut my ears to the cash-till in my brain. I don’t always feel like a sandwich at lunch anyway. I’m a bit early for work, so I light a fag, and offer him one. ‘I don’t mind if I do,’ he says, flashing a gappy but still charming smile from under his brown, unwashed fringe. He can only be about thirty, possibly younger. He has small sores on his pale skin, around his mouth and one on his neck; I can see it above the washed-out collar of the faded black rugby shirt he often wears. The sleeping bag isn’t one of those plump ones that taper towards your feet; this looks more like it cost a fiver at Argos – thin and flat, with a zip that’s buckled and broken halfway down. It must leave his flank exposed to the wind. ‘D’you like my display?’ he says, squinting up at me. Today he’s drawn some pictures, which are laid out across the blanket. One is a thousand smudges of green, blue and brown – a river coursing through green mountains. I wonder where he got the crayons; they look like quite good quality. On the blanket there’s also one of those red and yellow plastic windmills on a stick – you see them at the seaside in the top of sandcastles – but this one’s stuck in an old beer bottle, and now he picks it up to blow it. He has to blow hard, because one of the sails is a bit bent. He looks like a kid, his lips pursed up, a little spittle going with his breath into the windmill. I laugh, and he pauses, looking up with a half-smile. ‘It’s lovely,’ I say. ‘Ah, you’ve got to put on a display,’ he says, winking and pushing the fag I gave him behind his ear, ‘I like to make gorgeous ladies like you smile.’ And he does cheer me up; every day. More than anyone, actually. His morning, darlin’; or morning, sunshine, depending on how grey the day is, makes a difference. Every morning, when I dash out of Highbury & Islington Station, I queue for a coffee from the silver trailer outside the station. Then, as I wait to cross Holloway Road at the pedestrian lights, I peep through the fast-flowing traffic to see if the giant scarlet caterpillar is lying alongside the wall of the bank opposite. If I can’t see it, I feel a little pang of disappointment as I hurry across the road. If he’s there, I give the coffee to him. If he’s not, I drink it when I get to the office. I wave goodbye to him as I set off along the path across Highbury Fields, to the large mansion house where I work. Heights-Mitchell Developments, half way up on the opposite side, looking out in self-satisfied splendour over the fields. ‘Hey, I’m making another surprise for you,’ he calls, ‘make sure you come back later.’ About half-past five, we parade past him at speed on our way down to Cheriton’s. Peterson has booked their conference room for the monthly board meeting, and afterwards there’ll be wine and canapés in a sectioned-off part of the restaurant. Peterson strides along with Nigel, our Finance Director, and Fiona and I struggle to keep up, carrying plastic bags packed with agendas and papers. I can only grimace at sleeping-bagman, and I try to point at my watch to show I’ll be back later. He sends me a little salute, and rests back against the brick wall. As we dash down Upper Street, I think of my girls waiting at Auntie Gee’s for Stu to collect them; it’s the second time this week he’s had to do it, and he was pissed off. Your job’s too much, he says. But it’s me that’s too much. The part of me that enjoys the way it grips me like a vice. I need, some figures for a meeting tomorrow, Jen. But it’s five-thirty already, Mr Peterson. I know, Jen; is there any way you could stay a bit late? Oh, okay, then, just this once. That’s how it goes, and I feel a little thrill when he leans on my desk, looking harassed and stressed out, and another when I give my agreement and he smiles with relief. It’s all a game; we both know I’d never refuse, but it’s a good game. He really rates my work; makes me know that I’m essential. Stu makes me feel crap at everything; a shit mother who’s never there; a wife who can’t keep house. I make a mental note to swipe some of the posh finger food to take home for the girls. It’s an important meeting tonight. There are two representatives from the Residents Association in the area where the next Heights-Mitchell project is to be built. Peterson’s strategy is to make the deputation feel listened to, and to impress them with our corporate responsibility projects over a few glasses of free wine. But I’ve seen this pair at a consultation meeting, and although they look a bit grey and rubbed out at the edges, you can tell they’ve been lobbying for one thing or another ever since the 1960s. Nothing gets past them; they’re like crows at lambing time, picking your eyes out if you don’t keep moving. But that’s not completely fair; they do seem to act from a bedrock of integrity. Tested against Vietnam. Honed at Greenham. It’s Class A activism, not nimbyism, and I think Peterson’s too young to really get that. He’s only about twenty-eight, although he looks older since his promotion. He’s lost weight and the skin around his eye sockets has gone a bit pouchy, but his black hair is still glossy and thick. They’re already there when we arrive. Grantly Witherthwaite and Pet Nanceworth. Grantly looks as mild and inoffensive as his name. He’s wearing a charcoal-coloured anorak which has one of those fastenings that demurely hides the buttons from view. He wears crisp old-man jeans, and has a well-clipped, speckled beard. Pet is tall and terribly thin, her face lined and tanned by a thousand fags, her tight, shoulder-length curls dyed a tinny red colour. She’s wearing black leggings and a purple tunic with a slash-neck which shows up her deeply-ridged clavicle bones and her scraggy throat. God, she looks tense; as if she could explode like a light bulb into silvery egg-shell fragments. I see Pet’s thin lips compress even more tightly as her gaze settles on Tanya Selton. When Tanya came back from the last negotiation meeting with the Residents Association, she was swearing blue murder about these two. Peterson doesn’t usually allow representatives at Board Meetings, but he thinks they’ll be mollified if they’re allowed closer to the ‘seat of power’ as he calls it. Honestly! Even I have to admit he can sound a bit up himself sometimes. We’re a building development company, not the White House. But it’s just his way of talking himself up enough for the battle; he needs this to go well. It’s the first big project with him at the helm and he’s determined it’s going to be cutting edge, which, of course, is half the problem. Too modern for the residents. Grantly sits up straight and coughs drily before setting out his points to the tableful of well-dressed board members. They’re all displaying the sort of concerned, thoughtful look that I’m sure must be taught on Day One of whatever training courses politicians attend. Grantly’s tone is slightly judicial and didactic. It reminds me of last night, when Stu and I had one of our meandering ‘discussions,’ where he tries to cajole me into to going part-time and I resist. He thinks he’d get on more quickly if I did; he’s aiming to be Area Manager within a year. He says his pay-rise would compensate for losing half my wages, and he recites an endless list of additional benefits. How can I explain my refusal when the main reason I want to hold onto this job is in case I can’t stand it anymore and need to leave him? So I just keep letting him needle me, and it’s exhausting. Now Peterson turns and winks at me as he prepares to speak, and I feel a gush of pleasure. After Peterson has answered Grantly’s points, Pet takes over, her voice getting squeakier and her pomegranate-coloured curls shaking as she repeatedly stands up and is asked to sit again. She declares that Tanya has ignored, has concealed, evidence about the dangerous condition of the ground under the site. Tanya shakes her geometrically-bobbed head with a supercilious smile on her lips that is even annoying me; can’t she play the game and be pleasant? Peterson is rattled too, and he’s trying to get her eye, but Tanya just smiles down at her mauve nails. She manages to look so classy, despite the lacy black bra showing through her blouse, and those outrageous long talons. But then Pet leaps up again and strides towards Tanya, who momentarily cowers as she sees Pet’s wiry arm raised, the bony hand in a fist – God, No! Peterson is on his feet and...
