I left Vauxhall tube station, headed up the stairs to the street. The lights changed and I moved with the crowd, avoiding the stragglers, dodging and cursing the e-bikes that didn’t slow at the crossing.
It was a normal day. I had left home as usual, got the mainline train then the tube, and was heading to my office opposite the houses of Parliament. I often joke they are near enough to see, but not close enough to throw something at - the Thames lies between me in my accountant’s office and those in power.
The morning was bright with a cool wind, and the commuter
morning seemed like any other. But as I crossed the road intending to head
along the Embankment and cross by the pub – I didn’t. Once over the road by
Bridgefoot, I turned left into the first entrance.
“Morning Bob” I said to the security guard. “Morning Miss
Carter” Bob said. But – I didn’t know Bob - I’d
never walked into this building before in my life! I felt like someone
else had taken control of my brain and body. I went into the building, to the
lift and opened my handbag. Usually packed with things like lipstick, escapee
sweets in sticky wrappers, dog treats and multiple pens, today my bag was neat inside –
nothing more than a very expensive lipstick (not my usual brand), a designer purse and a swipe
key. I used the key to enter the lift and went to the third floor and marched
straight to … my desk.
My brain was racing whilst my body operated on some kind of
hostage automation. I didn’t know Bob, and I haven’t been Miss Carter for years! I have a husband, a house in Cheshunt, a garden, a dog…
I sat at the desk and opened up the laptop sat there, pressed my forefinger to a pad, keyed in the password and started to work. Miss Carter was taking over… she knew what to do, and she was brisk and efficient. I felt trapped behind the wall of this new person, but I still knew who I was, and that I should be somewhere else, looking at figures, not contact mapping across continents.
I carried on working, as if it was the most normal thing in
the world. At lunchtime I headed out of the building – Bob wasn’t on duty, but I didn’t
have to wave my ID card – the men with their stab vests and discreet guns
seemed to know who Miss Carter was. I fleetingly wished that I did.
I had intended to head back up the Embankment to my office,
to tell my boss that I’d had the strangest morning and apologise for missing
half the day. But instead I crossed the road to the café and got a latte and a
sandwich. I’ve not drunk coffee for years! It tasted familiar, comforting. I
walked across the bridge, looking at the Thames, the coffee in my hand and the
sandwich in my bag. I couldn’t fathom what was happening – I knew who I was, I
was Mrs Walters, I’d married Michael twelve years ago in Spring, in my hometown
of Bath. It had rained. My father and mother were there. I suddenly felt grief. My mother – who I’d seen at the weekend and had gone dog walking with –
I knew she was dead. But she had died two years ago, so how could this be new
grief?
Watching the barges full of the city’s waste create a turgid
wash that tugged at the exposed sandy banks of the Thames, I felt heady, like
someone with a glorious hangover that has just taken another drink. I took myself
to a bench and ate, watching myriad folks go to and fro across the river, and I felt my sense of self evolve, conflict, challenge memory, and then resolve.
I put my sandwich wrapper in a bin and marched smartly back
to the office. Bob was back, and I smiled and flicked him a short wave. “Busy
day ma’am?” He asked.
“Not too bad Bob,” I replied, “not a late one today
thankfully.” Inside I knew what I meant, but I also wondered what the ‘late
ones’ were. I had a sense that tickled like a remembered flavour, of dark
rooms, bright screens and the bustling of many people in a hushed, urgent
silence.
At the end of the day I waved goodbye to colleagues at
nearby desks who were definitely staying late. I headed for the tube station. A
little part of me wondered about heading to King’s Cross and back to Cheshunt,
but Miss Carter - me - knew that my flat in the Angel was waiting, with a bottle of Sancerre
in the fridge, and a box set on the TV.
Into the hot train, squeezed between indifferent bodies, I wondered briefly about Michael, if
he existed, if my house, dog, garden – even my mother – existed still. Well,
they didn’t now, not for me – Miss Sarah Carter. No time for men, no time for
gardens or pets. Just time for my next assignment.
At the flat I shucked off my high heeled shoes (I thought I’d
come out in brogues this morning) and looked around. The flat was neat, tidy;
Marcella had been in to clean. Having poured myself a glass and vaguely looked into
the fridge for something other than yesterday’s cold pasta, a brief glimpse
into yesterday's life peeked back at me from a tin of cold beans. I took them
out, threw them in the bin.
Tomorrow was another day, another challenge, and someone
called Mrs Walters drifted into memory as if she were a story recounted, not a
life that simply vanished one morning on the way to work.
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