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

to imagine himself holding a fishing rod, sitting on the bank or the flat barge, listening to the twittering of birds and the buzzing of insects. His heart rate slowed and a smile lifted the corners of his mouth. How beautiful, how uncomplicated a life like that would be.

He turned to an elderly man who had sat beside him.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

The old man said nothing, and Trevor noticed he had his eyes closed. He nodded to himself; a gallery was a good place to take a rest but he felt slightly let down, cheated out of a bit of human interaction. His nod turned to a shake of the head. What had things come to when he needed to talk to strangers to make the time pass?

At half past four he left the fields and rivers of the Suffolk countryside in the art gallery and plunged into the chaos of Trafalgar Square. Tourists climbed onto the lions to take photos, pigeons plucked at the ground feeding off the scraps of fast food and its wrappers, suited men and women rushed by carrying briefcases and furled umbrellas. A mother screamed at her toddler who was teetering on the edge of the fountain. Ah, London, he thought, and realised he missed it now. He never had before. He’d had everything he wanted in Milton Keynes – a loving wife, a gifted daughter, a job he never grew tired of, his garden, his bicycle. It all seemed meaningless without Frostie and Felice to share it with. He went through the motions, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore.

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. No use getting maudlin, he told himself and launched into the stream of humanity that was London foot traffic.

An hour later, bearing a bunch of roses and an M&S cake as peace offerings, he approached Felice’s flat. She lived in a tiny one-bedroom apartment in a large house in Lewisham that had been divided into seven flats, some of them, she’d told him, even smaller than hers. It was the first time he’d visited her in London – she usually came home to see him. If Frostie was still alive they would have been down before now – she was the organiser, the one who made arrangements for both of them. He would need to start making more of an effort. He sighed at the weight of the realisation.

Standing before her door in the brightly lit hall he became aware of a feeling of awkwardness, as if the easy camaraderie of their relationship would be tested by this change, by her being the hostess and him the visitor. By the fact she was familiar with this place and he wasn’t. When he rang the bell she opened the door almost immediately.

‘Did you check the spyhole?’ asked Trevor. He had wanted her to live in a more secure block, one with video security and an entry phone. Felice had told him he was being ridiculous, that London wasn’t an unsafe place to live. Anyway, she liked this flat and even if she didn’t, she couldn’t afford anything else.

‘Da-ad,’ she said, drawing the word into two long syllables like she did when she thought he was being overprotective.

He shrugged. ‘I can’t help it. There were riots here, you know.’

‘Yes, I know, but I wasn’t living here then and it’s all been quite calm since I moved in. Anyway, there were riots in Brixton when you lived there.’

‘Indeed, and they were one of the reasons we decided to move out of London. We didn’t want to raise a family in an environment like that.’ Trevor looked at his daughter sternly, but he knew nothing he said would sway her. She’d always had her own mind and there was no good trying to change it now. He’d learned over the years which battles were worth fighting and which weren’t and this one was a lost cause. He had to start trusting her judgement.

Inside, the flat was tastefully decorated. Felice had a flair for colour and lighting. Trevor was taken by how different her taste was from her mother’s. Frostie went for three-piece suites in floral fabrics, muted colours, a clutter of ornaments and photos on every surface. Felice tended towards the minimalist – a few bright, textured cushions on the navy sofa, pictures on the walls, lamps rather than a central light, no clutter. Just the one photo on the mantelpiece of her and her parents, taken the day she’d received her university offer, their faces full of joy and pride and anticipation. Trevor picked it up, ran a finger along his wife’s face and put it down again with a sigh. He hoped Felice hadn’t seen; he didn’t want his daughter to know how lonely he was.

‘Drink?’ she asked.

‘I’d walk to India and back for a decent cup of tea.’ He rubbed his hands together.

Felice laughed. ‘You and your tea, Dad. I meant a glass of wine or a gin and tonic. But tea it shall be.’

Gin and tonic. His daughter was so sophisticated these days. That’s probably what working in an advertising agency did to you. He felt the tug of another apron string releasing. Those strings did that one by one he’d found, as Felice grew up and needed him less and less, made her own way in the world, started living a life that wasn’t the mirror of his.

While Felice made the tea in the tiny kitchen, Trevor looked at the pictures on the wall. One in particular drew him. It was a black-and-white photograph of an old man, his face wrinkled and weathered by a life lived outdoors. There was a faraway look in his eyes as if he was thinking not of the photographer, or even the present moment. There was a shadow over half his face making him look wistful, not quite sad. His jacket was worn, threadbare round the collar, his jumper frayed. In the background were fishing boats. What made Trevor linger