The Train, Sarah Bourne [dark books to read .txt] 📗

them set the tone for family life. He wondered now if he actually liked any of them. His sister was as emotionally cut off as their father. She and Ray hadn’t spoken much over the years, in spite of their childhood closeness. A closeness Ray suspected had more to do with offering each other a bit of warmth and comfort than because they actually had anything in common. After she’d come back from India having ‘found herself’ she’d decided to ditch the family. He hadn’t needed to go to India to know what he needed – he’d made it a goal to be as little like his parents as he could but he had maintained contact, however limited. He was perhaps more forgiving than his sister. He’d courted outgoing friends who dragged him out when he wanted to retreat into himself, who had demanded not only his presence but his conversation, his involvement, connection. It had at times been almost too much for him, but he was proud of himself, the life he had built, the community of friends he had surrounded himself with. And his relationship with Russell.

With his next breath he tried to inhale kind thoughts about his mother. She was doing her best. She had always done her best.

‘Are you staying for tea?’ she asked. ‘Only I haven’t been shopping. You should have told me you were coming. I’d’ve got something in.’

Would it look odd if he left now, having just arrived – if he went into the hall and put on his shoes, his jacket and slipped out the front door? Would it matter? He couldn’t imagine himself doing it. His mother’s disappointment would follow him down the road, sit with him on the train, add a heaviness to his steps as he walked home from the station and accompany him to bed ensuring he didn’t sleep.

‘Perhaps we could order a takeaway,’ he said.

‘Oh, no. We never get takeaways. You don’t know what they put in those meals. Your father says they spit in them.’

Ray sighed. ‘All right, how about we rustle something up from whatever you’ve got in the fridge?’

His mother looked in the fridge, went to the larder, back to the fridge. ‘I haven’t been shopping, I told you.’

‘Well, what were you and Father going to have tonight?’

His mother looked in the larder again, as if hoping some food had miraculously appeared since last she looked. She shrugged. ‘Your father was going to take me shopping, but he must’ve lost track of time.’

Ray wondered how often that happened. ‘Why don’t you order your shopping online? It’s very easy. I can show you if you like.’

‘Oh, no. I couldn’t do that. I like to smell the fruit and veg. They give you the bad stuff if you don’t handle it yourself. And what if they don’t have what you want and you’re expecting it to arrive and it doesn’t?’

He sighed again. He’d forgotten how much sighing he did at his parents’ house. It was better than shouting. ‘I was just thinking it would be easier for you, seeing as you don’t like going out on your own. You wouldn’t have to wait around for Father.’ Ray could feel the old anger rising. Anger at his mother’s passivity, his father’s insensitivity. He took a deep breath.

‘You look tired.’ His mother always changed the subject when she didn’t like the course the conversation was taking.

Ray sank into a chair. He felt a strange sensation starting in his nose. A pinched feeling almost like the beginning of a sneeze, that spread to his sinuses. A pressure, not unpleasant, that reached behind his eyes and out to his temples. He felt the wetness on his cheeks and the weight of his mother’s arms around his shoulders.

‘What’s the matter, love?’

He couldn’t speak, was lost in the warmth of his mother’s embrace. This was what he had come for. This was why his feet had led him to Wandsworth. His mother. The comfort she could give. He could be needy and scared and she would provide succour. He leant into her and allowed himself to cry. He hung on to her, hands around her waist as she stood beside him holding him tight.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ His father came into the room and sat heavily in the chair at the head of the table.

His mother pulled away abruptly. Ray almost fell sideways off his seat.

‘Ray’s a bit upset, that’s all,’ she said, wringing her hands.

‘Hmm. What’s for tea?’

Ray didn’t hear his mother’s response. He made his way to the downstairs toilet and locked himself in. Sitting on the loo, head in hands, he bit his lip to stop himself from screaming. It had always been the same; his father came first. Demanded it. Made life so unpleasant if anyone dared put their needs before his that, over time, they’d all given in. Maybe his sister had been right after all to cut off all contact. At least she’d spared herself the hope it would ever change and the disappointment when it didn’t.

He felt stupid for thinking it would ever be any different, for allowing himself to be vulnerable in this house.

He washed his face, looked at himself in the mirror, drew his shoulders back and lifted his chin.

Back in the kitchen his mother was standing by the cooker, stirring something. An empty baked bean tin sat on the countertop. Two slices of white bread were ready to go into the toaster. His father was reading the newspaper.

‘I’ve got cancer,’ said Ray.

His mother dropped the wooden spoon and turned to him, her face drawn into a mask of shock. She looked across at his father who shook his newspaper and turned the page.

‘I just thought you should know,’ he added into the lengthening silence.

His mother put her hand out to him across the kitchen but didn’t move from her spot by the stove. Eventually his father put his newspaper down.

‘AIDS, is it?’ he asked.

Ray clenched his teeth. ‘No, actually. Not all–’

‘That’s