Hello
Here is Part 6 of this story (only a couple more to go!) – thanks for sticking with it.
To make sense of it all;
Part One is here
Part Two is here
Part Three is here
Part Four is here
Part Five is here
Part 6 – The Boarding
“Have a lovely time aunt.”
“Please Francis.”
“Don’t worry; Tibby will meet you at Pitlochry. She’s so looking forward to seeing you after all these years!” He brushed egg remnants from her overcoat, checked his watch, pecked her on the cheek and left the Carriage, double checking that the suitcases were securely stowed in the luggage rack. He had plenty of time to get home for Terry’s visit.
“Please Francis.” But he was gone. Within minutes the train pulled away from the platform. Eunice kneaded her hands as she wallowed in her predicament. She was alone. For the first time in living memory she was alone without the sclerotic cocoon of the Kensington house to act as a proxy friend. Fear turned to anger. Anger at being afraid. It was weak. As Father used to remind her, “Fear is weakness Eunice. Never be fearful of anything! We D’aubisson’s are exempted from this frailty!” But she was afraid and no amount of self loathing would remove this stigma as the train sped northward through the crowded suburbs of North London in the failing December light.
A young man sat opposite her, nodding his head to the tinny sounds emanating from his Walkman. Worse still he had stubble on his chin. Criminal underclass she concluded. He was probably the father of numerous offspring from numerous council estates. She had seen his sort on the television programmes Francis watched in the morning. She heard a voice;
“Is this seat free?”
The black woman smiled as she pointed to the empty chair next to Eunice. The old woman clasped her handbag close to her.
“Is this seat free?” the black woman repeated.
Eunice nodded hurriedly, afraid to look at her.
“Thanks.” She placed a small suitcase in the overhead shelf. She took off her overcoat and placed it next to the suitcase, sat down and said, “That was a close call!”
The woman was dressed in a two piece navy blue business suit with a plain white blouse beneath the jacket. Three buttons were undone on the blouse and a large silver necklace made up of rectangular squares plunged towards her cleavage. She had expensively manicured hands and on her right wrist numerous silver bracelets rattled an imperfect tune with each movement of her hand.
“Excuse me,” The woman said. She spoke with a crisp, clear-cut Home Counties accent.
“Take anything you want. Please don’t hurt me!” Eunice replied.
“I’m sorry?”
“You can have it all, please don’t hurt me.”
“I just wanted to know if you found his Walkman annoying.”
Eunice had last spoken to a Negro in 1962. This experience had proved equally as traumatic. He was a Postman and she was unhappy that the post was arriving after nine thirty in the morning. She had written the following day to the Chairman of the General Post Office the following day asking for the man’s removal on the grounds of his slovenly demeanour.
The woman turned to the man and asked him to turn the Walkman down. He did so with the minimum of fuss. He smiled at her inanely and continued to nod his head in a palsied fashion to the sounds coming from the Walkman.
“That’s better,” the woman said, “I do find these things so annoying, don’t you?”
Eunice made a mental note to write to the Chairman of British Rail about the availability of train tickets for black people.
She truly was on her own, journeying to Scotland sitting next to a Negro in second class with a member of the criminal underclass sitting opposite. The disease of poverty she had caught from the coughing toddler now seemed like blessed release and she faced death with equanimity.
Scotland seemed a lifetime away. On so many levels.
“Where was Bertie when she needed him?”
