Girl on the Landing Page 9

  When Elizabeth dropped me off at Perth station she said, ‘I hope I’m going to come home and find you are yourself again.’ It reminded me of my mother saying, ‘I hope I’m going to come back in a minute, and find you’ve eaten up all your porridge.’

  ‘You are yourself’ - what did that mean? Of course I was myself. Who else would I be? I might have said something sharp in rejoinder, but then I caught a look of worry in her eyes and held my tongue. She still cares for me a bit, I thought.

  Our other guests had gone and now I was heading south, summoned to an emergency meeting of the membership committee at Grouchers, to discuss the proposal that Mr Patel should become a member of the club. Things had obviously moved on while I had been away. There was an urgency to the summons, suggesting desperate hours were upon us, as if I had been enjoined to attend a meeting in a command centre in a bunker beneath Whitehall.

  It had been an unsatisfactory few days up at Beinn Caorrun. More and more these days I regretted it when I asked other people there. Their presence grated on me: even Peter, of whom I was quite fond. As for David Martin, I wouldn’t care if I never saw him again. Unfortunately, I would see him tomorrow at Grouchers, when he proposed to speak to the membership committee against Mr Patel’s nomination. I wasn’t looking forward to any of that. The peacefulness of Glen Gala was receding behind me, and ahead of me was nothing but headaches. Indeed, I had one now. I took the packet of Nurofen out of my pocket and popped a couple of capsules into my hand. Then I swallowed them, washing them down with a sip of water from the bottle I had bought. After a while I convinced myself that the headache was getting better.

  The Nurofen was a small price to pay for coming off the other stuff. Headaches I could live with, if I had to. In exchange, I felt as if I was seeing the world more as it was again. I felt energy flowing through me where before there had been only listlessness. As I looked out of the train window, everything now had a sharpness, a definition, to it that had not been there before: as if I had been gazing at the world through a dirty window for far too long, seeing only the blurred outline of things.

  At Newcastle a few people got on to the train. I felt I had been sitting down for a long time so I stood up and, as soon as everyone had got past, I walked along to the vestibule between two coaches, and stayed there, looking out as the train slowly slid across one of the bridges over the Tyne. I saw the other bridges - Victorian cast iron, and modern concrete - and the great, shimmering shape of the new concert hall backed by church spires. An almost imperceptible jolt shook the carriage, as if it had been hit by a strong gust of wind, and, sure enough, when I looked down towards the river, an arrow of ripples was forming on the surface of the water, as the wind rushed down the estuary towards the sea, the bright wings of seagulls dancing in its wake.

  I went back to my seat. The two aisle seats were booked from York, and remained empty. As it happened, the seat opposite me was one of the few that were unreserved, and someone was now sitting in it, which meant I would have to tuck my legs in.

  ‘Is this seat taken?’

  It was a woman; no, a girl.

  ‘Not as far as I know,’ I said.

  She sat upright, looking out of the window. I picked up my newspaper, but as I did so my glance swept across my neighbour, and was arrested for a moment.

  Although it was eleven o’clock in the morning, she was wearing a long dark green dress made of velvet or some similar stuff. You might have expected to see a dress like that worn at a formal dinner party, or in a BBC costume drama; but not at eleven in the morning on a train. She was dark haired, with a heart-shaped face, and large dark brown eyes, so dark as to be almost black. Two ruby earrings glinted under the dark helmet of her hair. What caught my eye, however, was her gaze. There was something familiar about her, a sense of ancient connection that was both unexpected and intense. With some difficulty, I turned my eyes away from her and looked out at the view. I was not in the mood for talking to a stranger, no matter how attractive. Then, involuntarily, I glanced at her again, and saw that she was looking straight at me. Why was she dressed in such old-fashioned clothes? I turned back to my Sudoku puzzle, but she was aware of my glance.

  ‘Why were you staring at me?’ she asked. She had a clear, silvery voice.

  I looked up in surprise and mumbled: ‘I thought we might have met before somewhere - but I’m afraid I have a terrible memory.’

  I blushed. It sounded as if I was trying to pick her up, which was the last thing on my mind.

  ‘You will remember me if we meet again, I’m sure.’

  I could think of no reply to this and did not want to be drawn into conversation. There was something about the girl’s tone of voice that hinted at instability. Her dress alone was deeply eccentric. There was a silence as the train rattled through the Durham countryside. On the skyline I could see a thicket of trees, where rooks wheeled in strange patterns in the sky, before settling into their branches. It evoked a memory, but of what I was not sure. The girl spoke again.

  ‘As a matter of fact, you have seen me before - but I’m not surprised that you can’t remember where.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  She gazed at me, her brown eyes looking directly into mine so that I found it hard to look away.

  ‘Can you not picture where you first caught sight of me? But perhaps you would not believe it if you could.’

  She was talking to me in that light, chatty voice that people on trains use, a tone that allows a more personal conversation to develop if things go one way, and instant disengagement if they go the other way. Yet she was talking complete nonsense. I wondered again whether she was mentally deranged and decided to change my seat. Perhaps I could say I was going to get a cup of coffee, and then find a place in another carriage. I hated personal revelations from complete strangers; I didn’t much appreciate them from anyone, come to that. Just to keep the conversation going while I decided what to do next, I replied, ‘I do have a feeling I’ve seen you somewhere before. But, as I said, I have a terrible memory. You will have to help me remember.’

  ‘I don’t help people,’ said the girl, smiling. ‘That’s not what I do.’

  ‘That seems a bit extreme.’

  ‘I am extreme,’ she said. ‘You have no idea how extreme I am.’

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to this, and decided I would go and sit somewhere else. But she anticipated me and said, ‘Don’t go, we’ve only just begun to talk.’

  ‘I wasn’t going anywhere,’ I lied, relaxing back into my seat. I was stuck with this madwoman now. How excruciating!

  ‘Don’t you like talking to strangers?’ asked the girl. ‘You should, you know. You can say anything you want. Mostly you’ll never see them again, so it simply doesn’t matter. That’s the whole point of journeys: the strangers you meet, the lies you tell them.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said. ‘It’s an interesting point of view.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? Now it’s your turn. You have to ask me a question about myself. That’s how conversation works.’

  When she said this she sounded rather like Elizabeth, who used to hiss at me, at parties, ‘Can’t you make more of an effort with ...’ (whoever the girl next to me was). Then I would make an effort, and it would be obvious I was trying, and things would go from bad to worse.

  Now all I could come up with was, ‘Are you visiting friends or family at the moment?’

  ‘I have no family,’ she said.

  ‘I’m an orphan too,’ I said.

  ‘What happened to your parents?’ asked the girl. ‘Or is it too sad to talk about?’

  ‘No.’ I paused. ‘At least, it is sad, of course, but it was many years ago, and I have long since come to terms with what happened.’

  There was a silence. She did not ask me again to tell her about the circumstances, but looked directly at me, with a half-smile on her face, and her silence invited me, almost compelled me, to continue. However odd our conversation was, I was s
uddenly finding it quite easy, talking to this stranger. I realised I wanted to tell her things I had kept to myself for a long time. As I began to speak she propped her chin on her hand, resting her elbow on the table, like a child listening to a fairy story. Her expression became rapt as I spoke; there was no irony or false courtesy in it.

  ‘My mother died when I was sixteen,’ I began. ‘We lived in Scotland. In fact I still do.’ I wondered why I had said ‘I’, and not ‘we’. ‘Anyway, she loved fishing for brown trout in the hill lochs above where we lived. I used to row for her while she fished from the boat. One day, she got her line in a tangle, and stood up to sort it out. I think she was in a bit of a temper too ... The truth is that my mother used to drink just a tiny bit more than was good for her. She had drunk several glasses of wine with lunch, even though it was only meant to be a picnic beside the loch. At any rate, she lost her balance, and at the same moment a squall suddenly drove across the lake. It came from nowhere: a violent gust of wind and sheets of blinding rain. My mother fell overboard, but she must have hit her head on the side of the boat. I couldn’t find her.’

  The girl opposite me said, ‘You rowed round and round in circles shouting for help, but she didn’t come back to the surface?’

  ‘That’s exactly it,’ I said. I stopped in confusion, for I thought I saw a hint of a smile on her face. I didn’t want to talk about what happened after that, how Dr Grant had appeared, and how the police had come and divers had gone down into the loch and eventually found the body of my poor mother. I didn’t want to recall how Dr Grant had sat for hours in the drawing room with my father, talking to him, while I was made to go off and walk about outside.

  ‘That is such a sad story.’ The girl sighed. ‘Your life was changed for ever, by one random event.’

  I hesitated. There was something liberating about talking to this girl, telling her things I had bottled up inside me for so long.

  ‘You can tell me anything you like,’ she said, as if she had read my thoughts. ‘After all, what harm can it do?’

  There was something so beguiling in her sad half-smile that I was tempted to tell her more. But that was a ridiculous idea: she was a complete stranger.

  The train was charging past the great escarpment that leads up to the North York moors. Looking out of the window I saw the white horse that dances eternally on the slope of Sutton Bank, and when I turned back I saw that the girl had put out her hand to me. I took it, and shook it. Her hand felt cold and strong.

  ‘I am Lamia,’ she said.

  ‘Michael,’ I replied. ‘I’m sorry to bore you with my personal history. I don’t know why I told you all that. You must be a very good listener.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Lamia, ‘I can listen for ever. You have so much to tell me; perhaps things you don’t even know about yourself.’

  I found myself hoping that no one would come and sit in the seats next to us, which had been booked from our next stop at York - it would inhibit the conversation if I thought other people could overhear us. The girl with the strange name - what had she said? Lamia? - had persuaded me to talk about my mother’s death in greater detail than I had with anyone, even Elizabeth. When I had told Elizabeth the story I had been terse, refusing to give any real details except the barest outline of the accident. After all, she had never met either of my parents.

  I wondered what Elizabeth would say if she saw me now. Would she object to me having such an intense conversation with a girl ten or fifteen years younger than she was; a girl, it had to be admitted, who was far more striking than Elizabeth now was? When I proposed to Elizabeth, she was an attractive example of a certain type: tall, fair hair, more angular than curvaceous, a somewhat severe face that looked classical in repose, occasionally softened by a warm smile. I felt guilty making these comparisons.

  ‘Lamia is an unusual name,’ I said. ‘Where does it come from?’

  ‘It’s a Greek word.’

  She seemed disinclined to say more, so I asked, ‘Do you have anywhere to stay in London?’

  Then I thought that Lamia would think I had some ulterior motive for asking the question; that I might even be about to propose some form of accommodation myself.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, as long as I am free to go where I want.’

  ‘You haven’t got anywhere to go, then?’

  Lamia gave no answer. She gazed at me with her dark eyes, but did not smile. For some reason that I could not explain, I reached into my jacket and pulled out my wallet. I extracted a card from it with my name and address printed on it. ‘Well, if you are stuck, call me on this number. I might be able to put you in touch with people who let out rented accommodation.’

  A member of Grouchers I knew had made a fortune from buy-to-let property investment, and owned more than one block of flats. The conversation with Lamia, which had been going so well, seemed to be faltering again. I looked at my watch and said, ‘I tell you what, what about something to eat; or a glass of something? Some wine, perhaps?’

  Her smile came back. ‘Wine is good. I like wine.’

  I smiled too and stood up. I found my way to the buffet car and managed, after a few minutes in a queue, to buy two small bottles of white wine. While I paid for these, the train started slowing down as we approached York station. By the time I got back to my carriage I was struggling against a tide of boarding passengers, but eventually I made it to my seat. To my disappointment the aisle seats were now occupied by two large men in suits, both fiddling with laptops and mobile phones as they settled down. Lamia had gone, I supposed to the loo. I struggled past one of the men, who made only a token movement of his legs to let me by, sat down and put the two bottles of wine on the table - one in front of me and one in front of where Lamia had been sitting. One of the men looked at me oddly, but said nothing.

  The train pulled out of York station and I waited for Lamia to return. She did not. We went through Ferrybridge and still she had not come back. I began to wonder where she was. As we approached Doncaster, I turned to my neighbour and asked, ‘Excuse me, but was there a girl sitting here when you got on the train?’

  ‘Afraid not, mate. Have you lost one?’ He wheezed slightly as he said this, in appreciation of his own wit.

  ‘A girl in a green dress?’

  ‘No, mate. Not one in a green dress, neither.’

  She must have got off at York, then. I could hardly blame her. All of a sudden I felt angry with myself: giving her my card, inviting her to call me, offering to ply her with wine - none of this looked good. Supposing she rang, and Elizabeth answered the phone? Supposing she came round to see me, asking for a night’s lodging, and Elizabeth answered the door of the flat? I must have been mad. Then I saw a little white square of cardboard on the opposite seat, and realised she had not taken my card with her. Well, that was something. I leaned over the table and picked it up.

  My neighbour nudged me in the ribs with his elbow.

  ‘Mate, if you’re looking for a home for that wine, just let me know.’

  His companion winked at me.

  ‘Only too happy, if you don’t want it.’

  I picked up the two bottles and plastic cups and put them down in front of the man who had spoken.

  ‘No, I don’t want them now, thanks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the man who had spoken first. He and his friend untwisted the screw tops and poured the wine into the plastic cups. One of them sniffed the cup before drinking and said, ‘Charming bouquet, charming.’

  He winked again and tipped most of the contents of the cup down his throat.

  The next morning I went to Grouchers for a meeting of the membership committee. The committee consisted of me, as membership secretary; Mr Verey-Jones; the club chairman, a position at present occupied by Major General Sir Andrew Farrell (retired); and two other club members who were elected by rotation. When I came into the room, I saw that one of them had wisely not turned up to what could turn out to be a very tricky meeting. The other member was Mark
Ansty, under thirty and already making a strong impression as a charming and amusing young man, though as yet his brain gave little evidence of being connected to his mouth.

  The chairman looked at his watch as I came in. I knew I was late. The truth was, I had slept very badly the night before and had struggled with the normally simple acts of getting shaved and dressed. I apologised for my lateness and sat down, extracting my papers for the meeting from my briefcase.