Troublesome angels

This week's Writers Circle exercise was to write something inspired by a paragraph from 'Girl on a Train'.  As usual, all the stories were different - from childhood memories to attempted murder. Here's my contribution.

My head was slowly fogging as the muggy air in the carriage warmed up my cold face and hands. I was lucky, I’d got a seat today.  I sat at the end by the window, with the luggage rack at my back and, as was my preference, facing forwards down the carriage. Humanity before me.  I watched the Hertfordshire countryside fly by as we drew nearer to London; at each stop more bodies piled in. Long, smart black coats on shaven headed men; scarves wrapped around skinny necks to defy the heat loss that fashion was gifting them. They swayed like winter trees as the train took the huge curve by the golf course.  Dead eyes, the audible beat of music from headphones. They looked at phones, newspapers, laptops – anything but the other commuters.

Women in short skirts, thin tights and high heels. Woollen coats and cardigans, coloured scarves and bright pom pom hats. Severe suits and emulation. Cheeks as red as their lips from the cold winter air until they hit the ambient temperature of the heaving carriages, and then their faces burned with the warmth of too many, too close, and no space to shed a layer or two.

Here we come King’s Cross.  A red kite, a buzzard, and a football pitch teamed with pigeons and gulls. These drew my lazy eyes as I struggled to stay awake.  The rich green fields, the skeleton trees on grey horizon, replaced by the silhouettes of suburbia. My head nodded, and I snatched it up again with a startled jerk.

We had just pulled into Finsbury Park and the carriage suddenly hummed with life. People were moving, collecting, shifting, departing and joining. A rearrangement of humanity.  Two men dressed in long white robes boarded. I thought it odd. Angels, I mentally tagged them.  Both beautiful, but no wings.  A Christmas party in the offing, no doubt.  They moved towards a four square in front of me and, without a word, the incumbents vacated, finding other places to stand or sit, too close, too near to others.  The fancy dress duo took their places opposite each other and spread out in relative luxury in the jam-packed carriage.   I watched them carefully, they intrigued me.  I was sure my surveillance was obvious but the one who was facing me did not catch my eye.

King’s Cross. This train terminates here. Please take all your belongings with you.

I never hurry as the heaving mass surges to the doors even before we’ve hit the platform. My office is only five minutes’ walk away; plenty of time.  Dead eyes, deaf ears, cold legs and cold heads milled and spilled from the opened doors. With only stragglers remaining, I stood and stretched. The two angels were still there, deep in conversation.  I passed them on the way to the open door and muttered “better move or you’ll end up back where you came from.” A heinous crime, talking to a fellow passenger without invitation, but I didn’t care.  They looked up at me and back towards where I had been sitting, but I ambled on and out onto the platform. Hi vis and helmets constructing bicycles from confused concentrations of metal cluttered the platform briefly. Clattering suitcases dragged towards an unknown fate added to the cacophony of the station’s morning routine. A few slow movers – casual with age or indifference – were the last to join me as I hitched on the tail of the flood towards the exit gates.

Ticket in hand I was nearly at the gate, ready to swipe my season ticket, when I felt compelled to turn and see if the two idiots all in white had left the carriage. They had. They stood on the platform and were waving at someone.  It wasn’t a goodbye wave, but a come here, urgent flapping of perfect hands.  I’m not sure why but I felt they were waving at me. I pointed to my chest and mimed “Me?”  They indicated the affirmative.  I looked around – it had to be me. I stood for a second and then knew they wouldn’t come down the now almost deserted platform, so I trod my curious way back to them. Past the door – to the other side of the window where I had sat.  I looked in.

They gathered round me and put cool hands on my shoulders. Not a bad way to go, I thought, as I looked at my body, still at rest in the train as if sleeping.

Photos (C) Carolyn Sheppard

If you liked this, try:

A London picnic

From racing cars to double agents

Famous last lines

                                                                                                                                                                 

A London picnic

A few months back on a trip to London, my friend and I stopped in Charing Cross station to eat our picnic. An odd picnic site perhaps, but it made sense as it was tipping with rain outside and we were due to visit a nearby theatre shortly.

We sat on a bench in the station and watched the people come and go - all sorts, some in a hurry and some not so. We enjoyed watching different scenarios play out in front of us as people met, rushed for a train, flirted or rushed by with the cares of the world on their brow.

It only takes a smile

At one point a lady walked by us as we sat and ate and she turned to look at us sitting there, eating our picnic. I smiled, she looked a nice person. She smiled back and came over to talk to us. 'Because you smiled' she said.

She turned out to be an amazing character, larger than life. After some joking and a quick resumé of her way to make millions ('I have this idea that Apple, that's what we call Steve, would have loved), we continued the conversation. She asked why we were in London (to see Lion King) and then told us why she was here.

The reason she was in London was to appeal to court to take custody of an abused child she and her partner  had looked after when the mother abandoned the girl.

A simple smile rewarded my friend and I with fifteen minutes of insight into someone else's life - someone we would never meet again, or know what happened to them and the people they cared about.  They had been through a difficult day in court, and wouldn't know the outcome for some time - three lives could change so dramatically according to what the court might decide.

Claudine (she told us her name, and her age, and that they came from Leicester) was so happy to have had a smile, she said. They were an unusual couple - different ethnicities, and a 20 year age gap. But they both loved this child. We listened to her and gave her time, which was a gift she needed that day. My enduring memory of her is an aura of joy that she wore as comfortably as her big, warm coat.

So next time you are sitting in a station, or walking through, maybe a simple smile will make someone's day. You may not get the chance to talk with that person as we did with Claudine, but your smile could just be the difference they need.

Photo by me of my hot chocolate.

The right stranger

I've been doing a lot of train travelling recently and as I sat on the train last night I thought how nice it would be to talk to someone. But instead, opposite me was a huge man who ate noisily and largely (each movement of his mouth, every gesture towards his crisps or drink, was large) and who left crumbs down his shirt and tie and all his rubbish on the seat. Next to me was a woman who was engrossed in telephone calls. The other seat of the four was occupied by Mr Large's detritus.

I would have liked to chat to someone, as I often do. Sometimes talking to a stranger can be the right thing when you have something on your mind. As I sat and pondered these things, wishing I could snooze but unable as one window of the train was faulty and a howling chill breeze kept everyone wiggling in their seats, I remembered an encounter from many years ago.

Pregnant and awaiting the arrival of my daughter, I was in the park with my son, who was only two. It was a brisk, chilly day, but bright and the playground that Alex was enjoying was fairly empty. There was one other woman there, and I can't remember if she had a child with her or not. We got chatting, as women do.

After a very brief time she told me of an extremely distressing personal experience relating to childbirth, and the trauma and difficulties she'd had dealing with it. She also told me that she'd never told anyone this before. So why me? I don't know -sometimes it really is easy to tell the hardest things to a complete stranger. I never saw her again, but I hope that a listening ear was helpful. I hope I was the right stranger.

Photo credits: yatesplaygrounds.co.uk, Ajax46 (Flickr).

From racing cars to double agents

Once again my train travels bring me something new. Today, as I sat at the station waiting for my Kings Cross train, a man asked me where to get food (the coffee booth was closed). I directed him to the little shop and he returned, roll in hand, and asked if I minded if he sat down next (but one) to me. No problem.

He then talked. Quite a lot. He was from Thailand, visiting his country of origin to renew his passport, sort out his visa. We chatted generically about Thailand - about how he loved the people there and the temperate climate. Under 33 degrees and he'd be shivering. So, on a cold, wet, Decemberish May afternoon, he was a little out of sorts.

He told me he'd come to our town to meet an ex-Formula One driver, now a thriving (and determined) businessman. My fellow traveller's past had included mental training for racing drivers, amongst, it was hinted, many other things.

He talked about how life in Thailand was good, if you had money. I said not much call for my profession out there - a fundraiser. I talked a bit about my job and he told me about a friend he'd known who had died of Alzheimer's. A man called Eddie Chapman. Zigzag.

He told me a bit about Mr Chapman, and the sad state he eventually saw his friend in during his last days. Dementia is no respecter of the past, or of the person. My travelling companion (we got on the same train) described Eddie as a war hero. He mentioned an old film with Yul Brynner (and yes, you can find the film on the internet - 'Triple Cross'), and how Tom Hanks has bought the film rights.  What he didn't mention is that Eddie was originally a criminal - part of a gang that blew safes.

I didn't talk a lot about myself, for whatever reason this man wanted to talk, and didn't seem to want anything from me except that I listen. We talked a bit about mental capacity and the conversation ended up with him telling me about his son. His ten year old son had been kidnapped by his mother - taken to the other end of the island - and the first thing that my traveller friend had to do when he got home was to hire two policemen to help him retrieve his son. He has legal custody, he said.

It seemed a bit odd - what was he going to do with his son whilst he was in England? I didn't ask, but I wondered. A slight hole in the plot there. The wife had taken the son back to live with her and her two further children by an Australian partner, and had unregistered him from his home school and registered him with her school. So, not just a temporary care situation then.

But the man seemed quite chilled about it. He described a phone conversation with his son, and had a very relaxed attitude to what, one would think, is likely to be a tricky situation.  He said he'd always been self-employed. Somtimes he was rich, sometimes he was poor. Financially he was poor, but he was the richest man in the world in having his son.

It could, of course, have been a complete fantasy - from racing driver, via WWII double agent, to kidnapped son. But what would be the point? I don't know, but one thing he said was 'don't worry about the big things, sort out the little things and the big stuff will follow'. I hope it works for him.

Car photo credit: http://www.racebyrace.com/drivers2000/18blundell.htm

La Traviata

My good friends at the University of Essex gave me a fabulous farewell present - two tickets to La Traviata at the London Opera House.  Though I left Essex back in July, my tickets were not until October - last Saturday to be precise. And well worth waiting for!

La Traviata means 'the tramp'. Well, ok it translates as 'the fallen woman' but tramp kind of says it all. But in fact she is just a good time girl who is having a ball, makes the fatal mistake of falling in love and discovers she has consumption (tuberculosis). All set for a fun-filled evening?!

Yes! The singing was amazing, the set and costumes sumptuous as expected. And I managed to spot Philip - one of the chorus. Now why was I interested in spotting a member of the chorus? Because by mad chance, I had played bass for a celidh band for his 50th birthday the previous week in Lewisham. Small world, eh? Don't go to the opera for years, then bump into several of the cast of the next opera I am going to see within seven days.

I asked my friend to come with me so that we could have a good old 'girls night' on the town. She was due to arrive for lunch but the vagaries of a closed M11 delayed her arrival. Instead of duck and wild rice for lunch we had a couple of hasty but tasty duck sandwiches.

Anyway, back to the opera. We travelled on the train to Kings Cross, then to Covent Garden. Oh boy, I don't like those lifts at that station! We wandered round the market for a bit and had some supper (take away jacket potatoes) and a drink. Then to the opera house for our dose of culture!

But I'm getting ahead of myself, because on the train journey we met an interesting chap. Sitting in seats parallel to us were two young men, early 30s probably, with accompanying tins of cider  and shiny bomber jackets (and a Protestant tie). The one nearest me leaned over and, in a very broad Scots accent, asked if we minded him asking where we were going? Of course not, I replied, the opera.  What ensued may not be what you would typically expect. We then had a conversation about modern art, in particular Picasso. This young man and his colleague were on their way to Corby to an art exhibition. Don't go by appearances. The two lads departed at Stevenage and wished us well for our evening. We responded likewise, hoping they remained sober enough to reach their art exhibition.

We arrived at Kings Cross to refill our oyster cards and hit the underground. My friend queued up at the ticket windown and the young man serving her said 'any railcards, like senior citizens?' Standing nearby I could not help but hoot with laughter! My friend is many years off her senior citizens railcard! The ticket seller looked up and, as much as a gent with such lovely dark skin could, went as red as possible with embarassment. I perhaps shouldn't have put this, but it was terribly funny.

We did eventually reach the opera and, though sat high, we still had a reasonably good view and the show was fabulous. We enjoyed a wine in the wonderfully refurbished bar at the interval, and left (shamefully) before the final curtain calls so we could join the throng at the underground station before it became too like a cattle market.

The journey back was speedy and pleasant, with us both tired and relaxed after a full evening's culture. And I don't just mean the opera.

Photograph of the opera from the Guardian review. All copyright remains with the original publisher.

People Day

It's a plane. Hung by it's tail from the ceiling. It's art. Is it? Tate Gallery confuses me. Turner and Constable I get, even Lucian Freud and Picasso, but a dead jet? Dead confusing! But that was only part of my day. Delight at the original Flatflord Mill, intrigue at the changing syltes of Tuner, and cold disinterest at a 10 ft canvas painted a single shade of blue. Art? Of course, just not for me.

I'm being a bit previous though... because my unplanned visit to the Tate was about the third along in the things I wanted to share with you.

First off I had two reasons for being in Lonond:an interview and an event, both for the latter half of the day. But time was on my side so I headed off at midday to take things at my leisure. Formally suited and booted, I made a big mistake. I wore my new boots. The mile walk from home to the station informed me rapidly of my misjudgement.

Slow train to Kings Cross, read my bit - exciting (if old) adventure novel. Goold old Colin Forbes! At Kings Cross I stood and waited for a Circle Line train. My boots reminded me to sit down. To my left was a young man, his short blond hair sculpted in the manner of a Longleat maze. He wore a bright white bomber jacket and a beard that Scooby Do may ahve mistaken for his master's.

He was noticeable. He came over to me and asked about trains to Tower Hill. Two give-aways that he wasn't local - one, his accent and two, he had spoken to a fellow passenger on the underground! I explained the workings of the Circle Line and prevented his boarding a train for Plaistow. I also admired his hair. "Only four quid! Took two hours." He was a bright, cheery young man. We continued to talk (whilst other passengers backed away, made insecure at this unusual behaviour - communication!). He was down from Hull (originally from Goole), visiting his mum as a birthday surprise. No luggage, he'd buy what he needed. He briefly mentioned football - but I dismissed any Northern stereotypes from my brain. He said he liked racing. Horses? I asked, no - dogs. Greyhounds? No - whippets. I didn't know they raced whippets (was unaware of this at the time: safe to click, honest). "I race them against the gyppos" he explained. "Won £600 off one dog, that's how come I'm here. Now I can buy mum a present." He also explained that he came by train as he was banned from driving. Here we are - Tower Hill! Your mum will be pleased. And your eight brothers and three sisters and numerous nephews and nieces.

Opposite me then, after my companion had disembarked, were two men. One was so neat and prim as to make Lionel Blair look scruffy. Perfectly manicured hands, sitting neat with legs together and pointed shoes level; perfectly coiffured grey curls and - yes - mascara. He was talking with his travelling companion, at rest his mouth a slightly pursed smile as if he had a secret.

His companion confused me. Perhaps 30, huge, long black dreadlocks, do-rag and a leather biker (but an expensive one) jacket. Very well turned out, smooth milk chocolate hands, fine skin - fingers didn't look rough. I could not fathom the pairing, but as St James's Park was nigh, I had to abandon my musings.

Too early for my interview, I hunted for somewhere to sit and prepare. I walked in the general direction of my destination and chanced upon a huge crowd of Firemen on their way to the Houses of Parliament. Outside, the firemen were gathered waiting for an audience with the Prime Minister, drums, whilstles and chants filling the slowly chilling air as the sun slipped behind the skyline.Opposite was an ancient medieval building called the Jewel House (left). I crept into the small coffee shop of this ancient building and inside were four firemen, sipping hot drinks and talking. "not outside, lads?" I enquired. They had got cold waiting for the PM. He would come out to them, rather than have all those people go inside the Houses of Parliament (and all the associated security). I ordered a hot chocolate. Here to see a Minister? they asked; no, for an interview I replied, not politics. Wishing me luck, they departed for their media circus to be drowned in the echoes of Big Ben and cameramen.

I read my CV again (the one I sent in application), read the job description again and prepared some questions and examples that I could use in the interview then went in search of the venue. Success! But more than an hour early. I wandered on and, serendipitously, found teh Tate Gallery just a few hundred yards on.

I don't get the planes. My eyes enjoyed the galleries, my feet didn't though. A sore-footed hour later I returned to the Pizza Express. Table for one please - but I am expecting someone. As the place was nearly empty, my words were heard. A man in the corner stood and called my name. I was early - he was early - and he was also about six foot six!

I think I interviewed well. I hope so. Did I know the consultant he mentioned? Oh goodness yes - and I was very tactful. I described the consultant as professional, knowledgeable and 'somewhat insular in some of his views'. Giles, my interviewer, agreed. I will hear after two weeks whether I have a second interview or not. We shall see.

My next rendezvous was with my friend Lin from Holland, over for the annual social event of the Romantic Novellists Association. I was delighted to be invited by her to accompany her, and I did. We met up (along with another of her UK friends, Kate) at her hotel and then headed for the Institute of Mechanical Engineers which was the event venue.

"Wine, madam?" Yes please! Strangely I didn't stay with Lin for long - I was soon chatting with Fiona and her friend Alan. "My mum used to make hats just like yours for the Beverly Sisters" I commented. (Note: she may have even made these hats"). Ah! Common ground. She knew them, and from our conversation, probably knew my mother and father. Show biz folks, you see.
Alan was very tall, her neighbour (not her husband) and he spoke with a soft, lilting Galway accent *sigh*. I talked to more people, drank more wine (though it was a cash bar, I didn't seem to buy any drinks). I met Charlotte and Sophie and one man (one out of perhaps the whole five men there) said "How lovely to see you!" gave me a big hug and kiss. To my sadness I didn't see him again that night. I had no clue who he was (but a little digging about on websites has revealed his identity to me - no, I have definitely never met him before!). After many nibbles and lots of interesting chats, polite clapping at meaningless (to me) speeches, I found myself once again with Lin plus Fiona and Alan. Lin had to leave but Fiona provided more drinks for myself and Lin's friend Kate.

Time came for us to go and Fiona asked where we were going. Kate was off in a different direction to me, and I was headed back to Kings Cross. "We can share a taxi" said Fiona and the four of us (Fiona, Kate, Alan and I) squeezed into a black cab and headed for Kings Cross. We had a real laugh in the taxi, chatting about I don't know what. I was in such a good mood. I was dropped off at about 10.30 in good time for trains home. As I walked towards the platform, our family friends were standing at the coffee bar. "Do you want a drink?" Nicole said. Yes please... hot chocolate.

They had been to see Bill Bailey as a birthday treat for Nicole and had a great evening. We chatted away on the train and I gave Guido his birthday present. His birthday had been weeks before, but I'd bought a lovely book for him at the Tate Gallery and the opportunity was too fortuitous to miss.

The best bit was that when we arrived home I got a lift back from the station. My feet, which had been trying desperately to get my attention all evening, were most relieved.

A people day - when everyone I spoke to from the lad on the train to the blind lady looking for the bus stop to the people at the social right up to my friends on the train home - had been in a positive mood. Or was it just me?

Photo credits: Jaguar picture from the Tate http://www.flightglobal.com/blogs/flight-international/2010/06/harrier-and-jaguar-at-londons.html

Jewel House - can't find, sorry!

Black cab: http://www.flickr.com/photos/8663355@N04/2354951901

Situational Awareness

On the train the other day I sat next to a man who had a huge iPad out, preparing slides for some talk he was giving. He was talking to his companion opposite and said 'I hope it won't be more than 40 slides'.

40 slides?!! OMG... death by PowerPoint! And, sad to say, as I sneaked a look out the corner of my eye, I could see all his slides filled with text.

You can picture it, I hope. A room full of people watching the screen, trying desperately to read blocks of text and totally missing whatever he was saying. And the best bit?

Oh the best bit was when I noticed the title of one slide... 'Situational awareness'.

If you have a chance, watch this YouTube, and you'll know exactly how to murder your audience with nothing more than a set of slides...

www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpvgfmEU2Ck

Cartoon borrowed from http://blogs.uct.ac.za/blog/call-me-cassandra/death-by-powerpoint With acknowledgment to Alex Gregory of The New Yorker.

Trains and stations

This morning I was reading a book on the train. I was on a chapter called 'attention' and I thought how the many things I'd noticed about the trains and my journey go unremarked except in my skull. There's no need to share my observations, but there's no harm in paying attention.

Today I was on the 'Buddah' train. This particular train, when idle, makes a soft bell-like noise similar to that of a wooden mallet being gently tapped against the side of a brass prayer bowl. It's quite a restful noise compared to the rest of the squeaks, groans and grinding noises it also makes.

I was on a singing train the other day. In London, the underground train made a squealing noise as it hurtled down the tracks that was light and musical as opposed to harsh and irritating. I christened it the 'singing train' in my mind. You don't talk to people on the underground (well, sometimes I do and I am always amused by the look of panic on their faces). But on this journey, I remember, I was talking to a family from Hungary who had enjoyed a tremendous day in London. They were glowing with fun and delight and the daughter, who was about 15, enjoyed translating for her happy parents and siblings. So, sometimes talking on the underground does work; but I still enjoy freaking out the regulars occasionally by offering a small mote of conversation.

Each morning when I get on the commuter train to Cambridge there is a woman I have known for 14 years. She steadfastly ignores me - has form the first friendly smile I gave her when I knew she was on the same commuter run as me. I don't know why. Perhaps I committed some grave offence, perhaps she'd just like her mornings quiet, and to herself please. Either way that's ok with me, I enjoy the opportunity to read in the bright morning sunshine, lulled by the rocking (and sometimes belling) of the train.

When we get to Cambridge there's a struggle to get past the bikes stacked at the doors, some folding some not. Then there's the sheep-like trail as we head from the platform to the exit, funnelling through the 'dip' (exit gates) dutifully and emerging into a crowded main hall. It's not a big hall, and not always crowded, but most mornings it's a throng of people headed into London or to Kings Lynn, or arriving at Cambridge.

Then I walk up Station Road towards my place of work. And the faces coming towards me are a mix of excitement (off for a day out?) and panic (my train leaves any moment...) and intense concentration (I am a commuter, don't bug me!). Sometimes I notice odd things about people.

For example, the impossibly muscular calves on that woman walking ahead of me - and her nice black skirt and... total lack of hips. Long blonde hair, feminine walk, but in a hurry. She stayed ahead of me. And the cyclists who think that riding on the narrow pavement is safer than the road. Well, it's not safer for the pedestrians. The confused tourists who don't understand the bus stops (actually, they change so often no one understands the bus stops any more). The tall, incredibly student looking guy who, when he turns around, is probably at least 40.

Cambridge is stuffed with youth and life. There are hordes of language students chattering away in various tongues, all 'cool' with eachother and their temporary displacement. There are business people in suits (and some really bad mixes of stripes!) and the wonderful eclectix mix that is Cambridge - from floppy hats to sandals, kaftans to kilts. You will, if you stand at Cambridge Station long enough, see just about every kind of person it is possible to imagine.

So my day starts out with a visual and auditory feast. Perhaps that's why I like to delve into my book. But more often than not I'll be distracted by the view as we trundle along - watching the fields turn from green to gold, from gold to brown, and eventually to white (when the winter comes). Being a commuter is not so bad.