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

I know you don’t like it when I leave you, but please don’t punish me for it. I’m sure Doreen’s been taking you out and feeding you well. Anyway, I’m back now, and I won’t leave you again.’

He turned towards her again and yawned.

She didn’t want to get up, but she was dying for a cup of tea and a wee, so she pushed herself out of the sofa and limped into the hall. Charlie followed. She passed the phone, blinking with messages. She suspected they were all from Laura, wondering where she was. She carried on into the kitchen, filled the kettle and plugged it in, went to the loo, came back and got the tea and a packet of biscuits out. She realised now she’d had nothing to eat since the night before at Laura’s, and only a weak cup of tea on the train when Mei-Ling had insisted on getting one for her. She hadn’t even finished the one at the gardens. She sat in a kitchen chair waiting for the kettle to boil. Charlie sat too.

‘Don’t look at me in that tone of voice, Charlie. I’ve said I’m sorry. Here, have a biscuit.’ She gave him one. He ate it and looked at her expectantly.

‘You want another one?’

He licked his lips.

‘One more. You know you have to watch your weight.’

She bent down and stroked his smooth fur. He rolled onto his back, demanding a tummy rub. She’d been forgiven. But Iris was too stiff to bend all the way down to the floor to reach him, and so after a few moments, he jumped onto her lap.

‘Good boy,’ she said, giving him a hug. ‘I’ve been thinking while I’ve been away, and there are some things I’m going to change around here.’ She had been thinking, but she hadn’t actually come up with any ideas. She’d said what she did to make herself feel better, but she knew they were empty words. The reality was, she didn’t know what to do.

Charlie cocked his head as if he understood. They sat there at the Formica-topped table. The kettle boiled, but Iris didn’t move. She had her dog, she was home, and for the time being, that was enough. She looked around her kitchen. Reg had built it years ago, made and fitted all the cupboards and painted them olive green on her orders. It looked shabby now, the paint peeling in places, faded in others. What had seemed so modern and chic twenty years ago was just old and tired now. Like her. She could afford to have it redone if she wanted. Reg and she had saved a bit, and she had her pension, but if she updated it, it wouldn’t remind her of Reg and her family anymore, of their evening meals taken together, of Barry and Laura doing their homework or fighting over an afternoon treat at this very table. Every inch of the house held a memory – the step on which Barry had slipped and broken his arm, the marks on the wall by the fridge that followed the growth of her children, the scratch on the sideboard from when Laura came in drunk at sixteen and scraped her keys across its surface. Reg’s clothes were still in the wardrobe. The very thought of tossing them out made her shudder. They were all she had left of him. The children’s school reports were in the desk drawer along with wedding invitations, letters and the drawings Laura and Barry had given her when they were little. It was like a museum of memories, and it was all Iris had left. She’d read once about the aborigines in Australia who knew their land by songlines; they sang songs as they moved about, songs that named the features of the landscape so they were never lost. Well, she had her own songlines that traced not only the features of the house, but its history and that of her family. If she changed anything about it, there was a chance her memories would fade. And if she didn’t have her memories, what would she have? She was too old to make many new ones, and she drew such comfort from the old.

Her stomach rumbled and she took a TV dinner out of the freezer. Crumbed fish with mashed potatoes and green beans. She zapped it in the microwave and set the table. She always set the table for a meal. It didn’t do to get sloppy and eat on a tray. Charlie sat at her feet, waiting for a morsel to fall.

After she’d washed and dried her knife and fork and made herself another cup of tea, she sat in the living room. Monday afternoon was usually bowls, but Iris had expected to be in Milton Keynes with Laura until midweek, so Jean, her partner, had agreed to play with someone else. There were other people she could play with, but she decided to give it a miss. She’d go to bridge club tomorrow, though; Edna loved her cards and would be happy she was back early. With a mind as sharp as a tack she was a good partner too. Yes, tomorrow she’d go out, but today she’d rest. She let her eyes close, and was asleep within minutes.

Iris was woken by the glare from the street light coming on outside her window. She looked around, momentarily disorientated, and then recognised her sitting room with its faded furniture and its worn carpet. Her back ached from sleeping in her chair but the rest had revived her and she felt ready to listen to Laura’s messages. Perhaps she had called to apologise.

She limped to the sideboard on feet that seemed to have cramped into hard knots while she was asleep, pressed the voicemail button and listened.

‘Mother – where are you – and why?’

Iris was about to delete the message when she changed her mind, and carried on to the next one.

‘Mother – how dare