I'm on the train! (22 page)

Until today, the morality or otherwise of begging had rarely
occupied
her mind. She might toss a handful of change to some saddo, down on his luck, but then continue on her way; more concerned with a challenge at work or problem in the flat-share. But now she was beginning to realize that perhaps Sophie was far less heartless than she had judged her at the outset. If that woman’s rags were just part of her ‘performance’ and her child a borrowed ‘prop’, then the whole thing was a con. And she
did
look East European, which meant she could be controlled by a gangmaster, some brutish thug creaming off the profits. And maybe the bloke with the cigarette could earn
£
300 a day, on top of a good salary – cash he would use to keep himself in tobacco, or even splash out on an exotic foreign holiday.

Once she had withdrawn her cash, she stalked past the pair with no compunction, indeed, now sharing some of Sophie’s indignation. The rent on her flat-share was steep, mainly due to its fashionable location and, to pay that rent, she was forced to work long hours. So why should such a desirable area be spoiled by grungy bedding and empty cans and bottles, littered all over the place?

As soon as she got home, she poured herself a glass of Prosecco, kicked off her shoes and sank down on the sofa, glass in hand; relieved that Amanda was out. Her flatmate’s penchant for hard rock, preferably played full-volume, was a frequent bone of contention and, just at present, she wanted peace and quiet.

Only when she had finished her wine – and relished the rare silence – did she saunter into her bedroom, to try on her new clothes: first, the Chloe dress: short and tight and a subtle shade of bluish-grey. She studied herself in the mirror. Yes, it would go well with the vintage jacket she had bought last week in Portobello market,
and
with her new pashmina, so, all in all, it was worth its inflated price. Next, she tried the three tops. One was rather daringly low-cut, but the other two would be perfect for work. Finally, she struggled into the leopard-printed leggings; worried they might make her look too fat. Alex had told her repeatedly that he preferred women with some flesh on their bones to anorexic beanpoles who might as well be boys. He’d always tried to dissuade
her from slimming and used to hide her low-fat yogurts and cans of Diet-Coke, and stock up with highly fattening foods instead.

Alex is history now, she reminded herself; annoyed she should still care so much about what he said and did. Having stowed the new gear in the wardrobe and put on her old denim skirt and sweater, she rummaged for her iPod, hoping some upbeat music might help to lift her mood. Then she lay back on the bed, glancing round the room with a sense of almost proprietorship. Although the flat was only rented, and had come part-furnished with a cheapo wardrobe and decidedly shoddy bed, she had succeeded in putting her stamp on it, particularly here in the bedroom. The antique
coat-stand
and 1940s Vogue prints had also come from Portobello market, as had the two brass bedside lamps. She had disguised the bed itself with piles of stripy cushions, and tacked rows of fine-art postcards on the wardrobe, to cover its faded wood. And there were other decorative touches, added to divert the eye: her collection of perfume bottles on the dressing-table; strings of brightly coloured beads looped around the mirror. Maybe, next weekend, she would have another prowl around the market and snap up a few more trinkets. After all, she earned a decent salary and, sadly, there was no one else in her life, at present, to spend that money on.

Except the beggars, a voice inside her seemed to say.

She countered it immediately. According to Sophie, beggars were frauds and cheats, enslaved to drink and drugs. Yet was that
actually
true? The girl on the tube, for instance, had given the impression of being someone really genuine. Her unassuming manner and unassertive voice had done nothing to suggest she was an addict or a drunk. And the way she’d poured out her thanks had seemed utterly authentic. Indeed, whatever Sophie might say, she just couldn’t believe that so forlorn a female had a mortgage or a salary, or was touting for cash to supplement an already substantial income. She had looked completely poverty-stricken and, despite the warmth of the carriage, had been literally shivering – maybe a sign of some serious illness. Admittedly, she now had
£
20 in hand, but that wouldn’t stretch very far, especially if she was too sick to work and had to buy medicines, or pay for basic heating.

And what about the foreign woman, squatting on the pavement with her kid? She, too, had been pale and haggard, and had gazed up at the people walking past with a truly desperate expression. There was no proof her baby was ‘borrowed’ or her tattered clothes just a ploy. And, even if she did belong to a gang, that could make things still worse for her. Gangmasters were bound to be callous, and certainly wouldn’t give a toss whether a woman had milk for her baby or clothes to keep it warm.

‘Laura, you’re way too soft – I keep telling you.’

Sophie’s voice was now added to the first one, confusing her still further. Wasn’t it better to be soft than hard as nails? Yet, if she swallowed every sob-story without knowing the true facts, she could be taken for a ride. On the other hand, such ‘facts’ were constantly changing, according to which paper you read, or
so-called
authority you recognized.

She sprang up from the bed, impatient with her own
uncertainties
. She didn’t even know what she thought about the war in Afghanistan, or the situation in Palestine. Almost everyone at work had set-in-stone political convictions, while she dithered on the side-lines; swinging from one view to another, without ever reaching conclusions.

Mooching out to the kitchen, she realized she was hungry, having eaten nothing since their small snack-lunch, at noon. She peered into the fridge, guiltily aware that most bona-fide beggars would envy her its contents: a full bottle of Prosecco, as well as the one she’d opened; a large pack of smoked salmon; a whole Camembert, still wrapped in its waxed paper; a punnet of strawberries, and any number of smoothies and yogurts. And there were further supplies in the freezer and the cupboard – all for just two people, yet enough to sustain a beggar for a month.

Having cut herself a wedge of cheese, she fetched some cranberry relish and the bread, and sat at the tiny table, giving a sigh of deep regret. Alex might never have expressed an opinion as to whether she was soft or tough, but he
had
criticized what he saw as her addiction to shopping. Neither was he keen on her profession, which, in his opinion, sold unnecessary products to gullible people
unable to afford them.
He
worked for a charity, so he was bound to take the high line, and she did actually admire him for his altruism and dedication. The trouble was she couldn’t give up shopping. It
was
a sort of addiction, although one shared by most of her friends. And, as for resigning from her job, with its high pay and many perks, that was out of the question. Mahler-Knox-McKay was a wildly stylish agency (with its own Martini bar, roof-terrace and even a visiting masseuse), and everyone who worked there was ultra-super-confident – well, everyone but her. In truth, she sometimes felt she didn’t quite belong; lacking the others’ sophistication and witty cynicism, their ability to quip and joke about even the grimmest subjects.

Which was precisely why Alex had appealed to her, as a sort of counterbalance; a man of true integrity and burning seriousness. So, once again, she was caught between two different ways of being, and had no idea which one was right. Sophie, of course, was completely and utterly certain that Mr Do-Good Alex was a fanatic and a smart-arse, and it had actually been a stroke of luck that he’d decided to break things off.

‘Completely and utterly certain’ was something
she
had never felt, about anything whatever; least of all about Alex. For Sophie, it was simple. If she would only stop pining for the freak, she could set her sights on one of the Mahler-Knox executives, move in with him and enjoy a cushy life. It was true she could never share Alex’s principles and high ideals – didn’t even want to, if it meant starving in a garret – and yet….

And yet … And yet … And yet … She’d been ‘and-yetting’ since her teens; forever wavering, irresolute; forever in two minds.

Suddenly, impulsively, she slammed her knife down on the plate; grabbed her bag and coat from where she’d left them in a heap, and marched out of the flat.

Sprinting to the end of her road, she continued dashing along Ladbroke Grove; not slackening her pace until she was back at the main street. The queue outside the cash-point had now dispersed, thank God – the last thing she wanted was anybody watching. The young beggar who’d been smoking had also disappeared, but the
woman with the baby was still there, looking even more dispirited and tired. Dusk was falling and the wind as sharp as ever – no weather for an infant to be out. Indeed, the child was crying
frantically
– a hopeless sort of sound that seemed to fill the whole of Notting Hill, as it wailed on and on and on.

She stood half-hidden in the shadows, wondering if the kid was sick, or maybe just half-starved. She knew nothing about babies and all she could see of this one was its red, indignant face, screwed up and distorted as it bawled its futile protest.

A gaggle of young football fans came swinging down the street, all laughing and joking and with beer-cans in their hands. Immediately, the beggar-woman tried to attract their attention, calling out in some foreign tongue and pointing to the notice pinned on the baby’s shawl. Without a knowledge of English, she obviously couldn’t resort to the usual ‘Spare some change’ – although the baby’s shrieks would have drowned it anyway. Yet, despite the noise, none of the group even glanced in her direction – too busy having fun. The minute they’d moved off however, Laura unzipped her purse and extracted the notes she had withdrawn from the
cashpoint
earlier: four twenties and two tens.
£
100 was a pretty substantial sum, but she had spent triple that in the shops today, and was forever buying herself treats, be it fancy food and wine, expensive face-creams and manicures, or yet another pair of shoes she didn’t actually need. Alex was right – she
did
adore possessions; just couldn’t have enough of them, and, in that respect, she knew she would never change.

With a furtive look to left and right, she approached the huddled figure, who seemed unable to calm her baby, or – presumably – to feed it, and looked totally defeated. Stooping down, she pushed the sheaf of notes into her hand, then strode off down the street, not wanting to be thanked. The baby’s howls seemed to follow her; sounding even louder now, as if the child itself was reproaching her for giving such a large sum to its mother – a sum that might be handed to a gangmaster or splurged on crack-cocaine.

Pausing in a doorway, she was surprised to feel so downbeat. Alex often used the phrase ‘the joy of giving’, so she’d expected to
be suffused by some sort of virtuous glow, but there wasn’t so much as a trace of joy, or even the mildest sense of gratification. Perhaps she had only been generous in an attempt to win Alex back. Had she imagined he’d been watching from his little dive in Shoreditch and roaring his approval?

‘Get real!’ she muttered, irritably. The relationship was over, doomed, and the sooner she accepted that, the better. He might even have found a new girlfriend by now; some worthy type who worked for Shelter and regarded shopping as a vice.

As she trudged round the corner, in the direction of her flat, she suddenly stopped dead. An amazing thing had just happened, yet it had totally failed to register until this very instant: she actually knew beyond all doubt – and knew for the first and only time in her whole life – that what she’d just done had been completely and utterly right. In giving that money, she had deliberately taken a risk; been willing to trust that the child
would
be fed and clothed, and the woman begin to feel less desolate. Just one act of charity could give a person hope, make them less convinced that life was
remorselessly
harsh – and that in itself was enough to justify her action. Of course, she hadn’t the faintest notion whether the beggar was a fraud, or someone genuinely in need, and had even less idea whether the
£
100 would be used for evil purposes or good. But that only made it more incredible that she had acted so decisively, because, despite it being such a gamble – despite what Sophie might say, or the police, or the tabloid press, or the world-weary types at
Mahler-Knox
-McKay – she was still completely and utterly certain that the right place for her money was in that woman’s hand, rather than in the till of yet another King’s Road boutique.

She gave a whoop of triumph. Certainty felt brilliant – so completely and utterly brilliant, she just had to celebrate. Veering round the other way, she skittered back to the Japanese restaurant, singing to herself, as she took a short-cut through the side-streets, and not bothered who might hear. She raced upstairs to the Butterfly Bar; found a seat on a stylish purple couch, surrounded by kaleidoscopic butterflies, and ordered the same cocktail she’d had a month ago, with Alex. Then, lolling back against the flamboyant
purple cushions, she breathed in the buzzy atmosphere; that sense of being high, high up – level with the top branches of the trees. The nightlights on the tables cast a dramatic damson glow, and their gleam and flicker seemed to throb right through her bloodstream, together with the pounding, pulsing music.

‘Your drink, madam. Enjoy!’

The frisky pink of the cocktail reflected her mood exactly and she took an appreciative gulp, relishing the zing of crème-de-cassis, the sparkly bubbles fizzing in the glass; the subtle tastes of passion-fruit and peach. This time, she didn’t need Alex’s kisses to give it a heady tang. It was perfect as it was.

As perfect as conviction.

‘G
ood luck!’ the driver called, giving her a cheery wave as she alighted from the bus.

Jet-lagged and exhausted, she could do with some good luck – or at least with a more exact idea as to where she actually was. If she had only visited her father before it was too late, she would have got to know the area and not felt so disoriented in this unfamiliar county.

Having crossed the deserted road, she checked her watch, relieved to see that, far from being late, she had two whole hours in hand. In fact, much to her surprise, the entire journey had been hassle-free. The flight from New York had arrived precisely on time; both trains had been punctual and, having seen no sign of a taxi and expected to wait ages for an infrequent country bus, she had found one just about to leave, right outside the station. So, all in all, fate had been benign.

Except ‘benign’ seemed much too callous a word, with her father so recently dead. Rather than counting her blessings, she should be rending her garments, although, in truth, her emotions were so complex and unsettling, she had, as yet, hardly dared confront them.

As she walked along the narrow lane, she marvelled at the silence – all the more striking after the cacophony of Manhattan. No planes, no traffic; not even any people-noise or birdsong. Perhaps the birds were dozing, since everything else seemed somnolent, swathed in the oppressive August heat. Indeed, she, too, had been lulled into a state of semi-trance as the bus rumbled along the short
distance from the station and she’d gazed out at the majestic sweep of hills and fields beneath a cloudless sky. Majestic maybe, but undoubtedly benighted. As a Londoner born and bred, her forays to the countryside were rare in the extreme and she still couldn’t wholly understand why her father should have insisted on moving to the wilds of Devon, when he had lived in Wandsworth for his eighty-eight years to date.

Probably just to be cussed, she suspected. The more she had suggested sheltered housing, or at least somewhere closer to her Camden flat, the more he had reiterated his need for solitude and seclusion. And, when she had pointed out that a man approaching ninety might need easy access to help and social services, rather than withdrawal to the back of beyond, he’d retorted peevishly that the last thing he required was interfering busybodies poking their noses into his intimate affairs. Of course, he might have intended the move partly as a test of her devotion: would his wayward daughter deign to make so long a journey to visit her elderly Dad? A test she had failed, although not through any neglect or lack of duty.

With a sigh of mingled frustration and regret, she turned off the road and slipped through the elaborate wrought-iron gates of the crematorium. She found herself in well-kept, spacious gardens, with close-cropped lawns and immaculately neat flowerbeds – a marked contrast to the wilder landscape beyond. Despite the heat, no shrub was wilting, or flower-head drooping, and the grass itself was lushly green, rather than parched and brown, as usual in a heatwave. Yet no gardener was in evidence; no sign of any funeral in progress, nor any casual visitors. In fact, she had the uncanny feeling that she had travelled to the limits of the populated world and would never see another living person. The plane had been jam-packed and the fast train also crowded when she’d boarded it at Paddington, but, having changed to the second, slower train, her carriage had been empty, save for a couple of old ladies. As for the bus, she’d been the one and only passenger, so, the further she travelled, the more isolated she seemed to become, with no fellow human beings left in existence. Even the friendly bus-driver would now be swallowed up in tree-cloistered country lanes.

Impulsively, she rummaged for her phone. As yet, she hadn’t spoken to a soul; too ashamed to admit that her father had died alone and – almost as reprehensible – that she hadn’t flown straight back the minute she heard the news. But, of all her circle, Kate was the most likely to sympathize, being a singleton, like her, with no strong family ties, and similarly single-minded when it came to her career.

‘Kate? Hi! How are you?… No, I’m not in New York…. Yes, the meetings went well, considering, and my job appears to be safe, thank God! But, listen, the very day I arrived, I received the most awful shock – my father had dropped down dead from a heart attack and I wasn’t even
there
.’

She registered her friend’s gasp of surprise. Although Kate had never met him, she was nonetheless aware that, despite his age, Robert was in robust health and even took a daily constitutional, trekking a mile or more over challenging terrain.

‘… No, a neighbour found him and rang the vicar – the Reverend Matthews, a marvellous man. He managed to reach me at my hotel and he’s been an absolute saint, Kate. Once he understood my predicament – you know, that I couldn’t just drop everything and catch the next plane home – he agreed to register the death for me, take care of the formalities and arrange the funeral. And he’s even going to officiate himself. So everything’s sorted out, without me having to do a thing except pay the various bills. I feel awful, really, leaving so much to him, but I didn’t have any choice.’

Of course she’d had a choice. But her whole career had been at stake and if she had returned to the UK before all the vital business was concluded, it would have given the worst possible impression. So she had made a deliberate decision to stay on in New York for the entire series of important meetings, and then rushed headlong from the boardroom to the airport. Was that irredeemably selfish, or simply prudent in the circumstances?

She stopped wrestling with her conscience to answer Kate’s next question. ‘Yes, I suppose we could have postponed it, but….’ Her voice tailed off. In fact, the vicar’s original suggestion had been to leave the body in the morgue until she herself could take charge of
the arrangements. But the thought of putting her father in cold storage for longer than was strictly necessary seemed not only grotesque but an affront to his lifelong hatred of delay and
procrastination
. Kate clearly considered it odd, though, allowing a stranger to carry out what was, frankly, a daughter’s duty. In fact, she was beginning to regret ever having phoned her friend; there were too many awkward questions.

‘No, I’m not staying at Dad’s cottage. The vicar said it was in no fit state for visitors, which, I have to say, made me worry, Kate. He was always incredibly neat and couldn’t abide living in a mess, so it means he must have gone downhill – and fast!’

She hoped Kate wouldn’t ask her next if she’d booked into a hotel, as she was loth to mention that she was actually going home tonight – however late she might get back and however tired she was of travelling – which she had been doing for the last thirteen hours. It seemed imperative to sleep in her own bed and be surrounded by her own familiar things. Besides, she needed a few days’ grace before she made this journey a second time, in order to ratchet up her energy for the series of grim tasks ahead: sorting out her father’s affairs; deciding what to do with his possessions; sprucing up his cottage and endeavouring to sell it, despite the vagaries of the housing market. And – a minor point, maybe – she hadn’t any overnight things, having deposited her case at Paddington Left Luggage.

‘… Oh, I’m sorry, Kate. I’m totally forgetting you’re at work … No, I’m all right, honestly – a bit whacked, of course, but coping…. OK, fine – I’ll ring you later.’

As she replaced her mobile in its pouch, she felt still more alone. She might have shared the news with Kate, but not her inner turmoil. Anyway, no friend could really understand that her predominant emotion wasn’t grief – or even guilt – but the deep sadness of knowing that it was now too late for her father ever to tell her he loved her. But then what had she expected? A sudden change of heart in his nineties; cosy little cuddles and avowals of affection from a father who had loved one person only, in the whole of his long life: his small, shy, retiring wife. Daughters didn’t count,
and he never bothered himself with friends; had long since cut all ties with relations and, even in his younger years, preferred to live as a recluse. In fact, she doubted if there would be anyone at the funeral except maybe a few fellow-villagers who felt duty-bound to attend.

Wandering on along the path, she kept looking out for some sign of human activity. Admittedly, the service wasn’t scheduled until four, but surely there would be funerals before it? Perhaps the crematorium closed for lunch, which would explain the absence of hearses or mourners, but it still seemed strange that not a single soul appeared to be around. In fact, these extensive gardens, devoid of people and with no sign of any buildings, seemed peculiarly unreal, like the insubstantial landscape of a dream. All the crematoria she had visited before had been decidedly more compact, with the chapel and the offices immediately apparent, and clusters of friends and relatives providing an air of normality.

Much better if the whole thing
were
a dream, then she would wake up in New York, with the prospect of the two days’ respite she had planned originally, to sightsee in Manhattan and recover from the shock and stress of the takeover. A hundred questions and
anxieties
were still swarming through her mind. Would their own far smaller firm be bullied by the American giant who’d swallowed it? And what were her future prospects, with a recession in both
countries
and an increasing number of managers facing the chop?

But she was thinking of herself and not her father – a spur for yet more guilt – although, in fact, these well-groomed grounds brought to mind his obsessive need for neatness and regularity, in every aspect of existence. She imagined his satisfaction at the sight of the regimented flowerbeds, where the plants were arranged in
concentric
circles, each one perfectly gradated according to size and colour. He had always detested disorder; spent most of his life attempting to put things back in line and tame anything or anyone unruly – including her, of course. In point of fact, she had never been unruly, or wayward, or recalcitrant, or all the other things he used to called her. It was just that, in his eyes, all children, without exception, were undisciplined and messy creatures and, even when they grew to
adulthood, most – including her – failed to reach his exacting
standards
.

As she continued to walk on, she was aware how hungry she was, having eaten nothing since her sandwich on the train. If only she’d bought a second sandwich, then she could have picnicked here in the grounds, rather than risk a rumbling stomach at the funeral. Except sprawling on the grass would have messed up her smart suit – the same suit she’d worn to yesterday’s meeting, conveniently black.

Her father had always hated picnics: part of his general antipathy to slovenliness and disarray. He liked meals with proper tablecloths and cutlery, and thus it was penance on a heroic scale for him to eat with his fingers and ward off wasps and flies; risking indigestion, sunburn and grass-stains on his clothes – a penance endured solely for his wife’s sake. She remembered one disastrous time in Worthing, when she had dropped her cheese roll on the beach, retrieved it, wet and gritty with sand, then wolfed it down before anyone could stop her. He had stalked off in disgust and eaten his food on the promenade, alone, but mercifully removed from his clumsy, uncouth daughter. Seaside picnics were, for him, the most intolerable: defiant breezes dishevelling his hair; other people’s unruly kids throwing up more sand as they shrieked and skittered past, and the raucous noise of funfairs assaulting his fastidious ears.

In fact, they never went on holiday again. By the following September, her mother was a corpse.

Her gloomy introspection was cut short by the sight of a large, free-standing notice-board, indicating the direction of the chapel, car-park and Garden of Remembrance and, fifty yards beyond, a group of buildings. Although it was a relief to get her bearings, she felt annoyed with the authorities for not erecting a similar notice at the entrance to the site.

It was still only ten past two and, since she had no desire to turn up at the chapel almost two hours early, she wandered into the Garden of Remembrance. It, too, was extremely well-maintained, with not a weed or speck of litter in sight, and thus eminently
suitable
for her father’s final resting-place. She began reading the inscriptions on the various memorials:
Much loved and sorely 
missed … Always in our thoughts … Beloved husband and father….

In her own father’s case, she had better restrict the wording to ‘beloved husband’ only, since he had never wanted children in the first place. Having married a woman of forty-six, the last thing he’d expected was the arrival of a baby on the scene and, although he’d bowed to the inevitable, he’d always harboured a certain resentment that his blissful coupledom with Ella had become an awkward
threesome
. Hence Ella’s early death was not just tragic for him but highly inconvenient. Father and child had somehow stuck it out together, until she solved the problem for him by leaving home the same week that she left school. Ever afterwards, her visits had been sporadic, yet, in honour of her much-missed mother, she had never failed to ensure that he was in reasonable health and coping on his own.

Until this very week.

At peace
, said the adjoining plaque – a reproach to her patent lack of it. And, indeed, peace had been largely absent in her
childhood
, because of her father’s state of mind. He continually blamed himself for Ella’s death – when he wasn’t blaming
her
– or even blamed the perfectly competent oncologist for ‘dereliction of duty’. In fact, one of the phrases from the funeral –
in the midst of life we are in death
– had been all too true of him. He wore mourning clothes for the rest of his days, metaphorically, at least.

As she completed her tour of the garden, she wondered which type of memorial he’d prefer: a bench, a sundial, a plaque? Certainly not a tree, which would shed messy leaves all over him and harbour feckless birds. Nor anything that required a lot of maintenance, because she could hardly nurture a rosebush or a shrub, when she lived such miles away. It was her mother’s grave she tended, and with the utmost love and devotion; visiting once or twice each month and—