Travelling by Train - Lisa Davies

~ 1 ~

Michael stretched and smiled lazily as the woman he loved more than life slid back the door of their compartment and went out into the gangway. Susannah. The train itself seemed to repeat her name. Susannah. Susannah. Susannah. On the seat opposite him, the carry cot moved slightly as their baby wriggled in her sleep.

And then his life changed, as his senses were assaulted by a noise unlike any he had heard before, a shrieking, scraping noise, the angry scream of metal on metal. Life was suspended for two, perhaps three seconds, before the noise of the collision exploded through his brain. Michael was slammed onto the opposite wall of the compartment, narrowly missing the carrycot.

He became aware of the shouting and screaming of passengers whose lives would never be the same again. And then through it all he heard a baby crying. His baby. Their baby. He fumbled for Emily in her carrycot. Pressed her to him. But the crying persisted. Grew louder. Grew angrier. Became screaming.

Michael woke, and shot bolt upright in the bed, dizzy and sweating. Shakily he climbed out of bed, stumbled across the room to the old wooden cot, dropped the gate, and reached down for baby Emily. Her tiny face was screwed up in distress, her legs drawn up to her body, her fists clenched.

“Alright. It's alright. I've got you. I'm here. Shhhh. Shhhh. Daddy's here.”

He fumbled next to the bed for his spectacles and pressed them on to his face.

“Alright? Are you hungry again? Lets see what we can do about that, shall we?” He padded bare-foot down the stairs, all the while talking quietly in Emily's ear until they reached the kitchen.

“Actually I'm glad you woke me. We were in the train again. It's always the same.”

Holding Emily upright against his left shoulder, with his other hand Michael boiled the kettle, poured hot water into a bowl, took a bottle from the fridge, and set the bottle to warm. Emily was quiet now. She'd grown used to this ritual in the last two weeks. In fact it was 16 days, Micheal thought, counting them up in his head. Sixteen days since Michael had kissed his wife's
mouth for the last time. Sixteen days since Emily had sucked at her mother's breast for the last time. The fear and adrenaline rush of the dream had subsided now, and fatigue rushed over him. He stood at the counter, leaned his head against the cupboard door, and jiggled the bottle in the bowl of hot water, watching in a detached way as the tears which rolled off the end of his nose and chin plopped into the water.

~ 2 ~

Michael fastened the final safety pin on Emily's nappy and kissed her tummy, tickling her with his 48-hour old beard. She smiled a gummy smile in delight and crammed her hands into her mouth. Micheal has been amazed that in the last month, as she had begun to smile and emerge as a person, he too, occasionally, had been able to smile.

He heard the knocker clattering against the front door.

"I wonder who that can be, Em?" He'd got into the habit of talking to her all the time. It was Susannah's mother. She was careful not to look him directly in the eye for too long. They knew that would start both of them crying again. At some point, you had to stop the tears. Except for when you were alone. Then there was no stopping them.

"Hello, dear. I just thought I'd pop in, see how you were getting on." Check that he was still functioning, that meant. Check he hadn't left the baby in Safeways. Check she'd not been unbathed for three days.

He kissed her cheek. Held her to him, briefly. I'm so sorry, he thought to himself, as he had so many times in the last few weeks.

"I'm alright, Mum. We're getting by." She'd wanted him to call her Mum – before the crash. He was glad he'd learned to. It was a little bridge between them over the yawning abyss of Susannah's death.

"Do you, do you – need any help?" She had to ask, as she always did. It had been so hard for her. She'd tried to get him to hand over the baby's care to her. She'd assumed it was her calling. Her right. He was a newly-widowed father of a six-week-old baby girl. She'd cleared out a room – not Susannah's old room, but Malcolm's – and she'd come to fetch the baby. He'd tried not to
hurt her any more than necessary. He hadn't shut her out. She was welcome to visit her granddaughter. But he wouldn't, couldn't go further than that. He was going to raise his own daughter. It wasn't that Emily wouldn't be well taken care of by Lorrraine. It was that Emily was her father's lifeline. His tether. Without the solid reality of his baby – Susannah's baby – he felt he would simply drift away and be lost forever.

~ 3 ~

"The flowers on this plant are pretty, Daddy. I think Mummy's spirit will like them." Almost-four-year old Emily held the plant up and buried her face in the pink blossom.

"But they smell funny. Can Mummy's spirit smell flowers, Daddy?"

"I'm really not sure, Em."

"Oh well, I hope not. Stephen brought Miss Willow some yellow flowers yesterday. They smelled funny too, but Miss Willow didn't mind. She said they were, they were, cristhem-somethings. Can I take Miss Willow some flowers, Dad? Stephen's Mummy is still alive, Dad. I think he's lucky. I wish my Mummy was still alive. Daddy, maybe you can marry Miss Willow! She likes flowers! Then I could have a Mummy who's alive, like Stephen does."

"This is our stop, Em," Michael said gratefully.

Michael stepped off the bus, Emily held out her arms to him, and he swung her down beside him. They crossed the road, walked hand in hand through the cemetary gate, and started down the path. Emily knew the way, and she skipped along in front of him. He followed with the pink-flowered pot plant which looked beautiful but smelled funny. He also carried a small canvas
bag containing a hand-rake and some shears, and his usual bag of child supplies.

"Straight, turn left, over the hill, turn right at the twin angels headstone, and left again," he heard her clear little voice ringing out ahead of him.

Micheal set to work tidying up Susannah's grave. A crisp packet and the cellophane off a packet of cigarettes had settled against Susannah's headstone.

Susannah Joy Scott
1952 – 1974
Always Loved

He put the bits of rubbish in the canvas bag to throw away later, along with the remains of the flowers had had brought last time. Flowers were so expensive this season he'd decided to switch to something more lasting, hence the pot plant. It was more environmentally friendly, anyhow, he thought, as he snipped the grass with the shears and raked away the fallen leaves. Susannah
would approve of pot plants more than flowers, he admitted ruefully to himself. He wasn't sure she'd have approved of the whole grave business at all. The environment had been important to her, and he wasn't entirely sure she would have liked taking up space on the earth like this after her death. He was glad they'd never discussed burial versus cremation, and that they'd never got around to making out wills. He'd felt he'd needed her to be laid to rest somewhere he could actually go, and he'd hoped she understood from wherever she was watching.

Michael completed his efforts and set the pot plant in a suitable spot.

"Ready to go, Emily?"

"OK Daddy. Dad, can we stop for tea and cakes at Tessa's?"

Tessa's was their regular haunt. It was a small tea-shop nearby, part of a much larger park, and it had outdoor tables close to the swings, see-saws and slides which Emily adored.

"Tea and cake?" he said, sounding shocked. It was a regular game.

"Yes yes yes!"

"Tea AND cake?"

"Please Daddy please!"

"Hmmmm."

"And a play on the swings!"

"Oh very well, I can see you're more than a match for me," he said, and he watched, smiling, and she bolted down the path ahead of him, whooping in excitement. Lucky it's a chilly day, today, he thought. Not too many people to disturb.

Just then, Emily careered around a corner ahead of him and collided head-on with someone coming in the other direction. She was knocked completely off balance and landed hard on the paving stones.

Torn between apologising to the person his daughter had crashed into, and tending to Emily, Michael hesitated between them for a moment.

"Oh please," said the other person, a woman, young and plump, probably in her early twenties, waving him towards his daughter.

Emily was still on the ground making the loud sorts of of noises typical of small children. She was winded, and had skinned both her knees and one of her wrists, but there was no serious harm done. Micheal picked her up and cuddled her.

"Not too bad, I don't think, sweetheart."

He felt around in his Emily-bag, as he always thought of it, and produced a small tin of sticking plaster, a piece of flannel, and a bottle of water. Deftly he cleaned his daughter up, and as the plasters went on the tears were gulped back.

"Impressive first-aid work. And your wife believes in being prepared," the young woman said, indicating the bag and all the paraphernalia he had produced.

"Thank you, but my wife ... " he tailed off, unable to finish the sentence, but glancing automatically back along the path they'd just come down.

"Oh I'm sorry. How thoughtless of me. I just assumed – "

"I know. It's alright."

And she turned suddenly, held onto the back of a bench, and stared out over the cemetary. He realised she was crying. He wasn't sure what to do next. He couldn't leave things as they were and go on to the bus-stop, but he didn't know what to say either. He knelt down, and slowly tidied his things back into the Emily-bag, giving her a few moments to compose herself.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No, thank you. I'm sorry. It was a combination of watching the tenderness between you and your daughter, and then finding out about your wife. It was suddenly too much for me." She clapsed her hands beneath her stomach and took a deep breath. In the next few moments, he realized she was not merely plump, she was pregnant, she had lost the man she loved, she had been here to visit his grave, and the child she carried was destined to begin life with only one parent.

It seemed unthinkinable for him not to say, "I'm Michael, and this is Emily, who's almost four. We were just going to get a cup of tea. Would you like to join us?"

"Don't forget the cake, Dad. And a go on the swings."

"Thank you. I would like that. I'm Sarah."

He chose apple pie and cream, she cheese-cake. Emily asked for a scone with jam, and ate a token few bites before rushing off to the slide. They ate and drank in soothing silence for a few minutes, watching Emily's antics thirty yards away.

"This is good tea-shop. Do you come here often?" Sarah said.

Micheal raised an eyebrow. "Only after visiting graves."

They laughed. She paused, then asked, "So it does get easier?"

"No. Yes."

He chased a couple of crumbs around his plate. "I have good days and bad days," he smiled at her.

She poured them both a second cup of tea.

"This is a good day."

"Your daughter is lovely. Your wife must have been very beautiful."

"Gosh, thanks."

"There I go again!" she laughed. "I'm so sorry!"

"It's alright. Without a bit of laughter you tend to seize up inside, you know? Children are good for that. Emily lives so much in the moment, and with such, such forcefulness, she somehow helps me do the same. At least some of the time."

He sugared his tea and slid the sugar over to her.

"She was. Beautiful. Susannah was beautiful. She was a free spirit. A little on the wild side. But she was so kind. She cared – fiercely – about everyone. Everything. She had hundred of causes." He smiled, remembering.

"What happened?" It seemed alright for her to ask, now.

"We were together on a train. Emily was six weeks old. Susannah put Emily down to sleep and then slipped out of the compartment to fetch papers and chocolate. There was a collision with another train ahead on the track The driver couldn't stop in time. Susannah was thrown down the corridor. They said she was killed instantly."

Sarah was silent, absorbing this.

"So then it was just Emily and me. Wind the tape on a few years, and here we are."

"How did you – how did you cope?"

"A day at a time. As I said, good days and bad days. Emily keeps us both busy. And I have my work – I restore furniture. It isn't easy though. Single widowed fathers don't fit in too well. And much of the time I don't really feel I know what I'm doing."

"You've done a marvellous job with her. She's delightful."

"Yes, when she's not in a graveyard yelling loud enough to wake the dead."

When they stopped laughing, Sarah said, "After all that I feel I should tell you my story."

"There's really no need, unless you want to. How about a walk?"

They called Emily and set off around the duck pond. Around them couples and families enjoyed the afternoon together, which suprisingly, though still crisp had turned beautifully sunny.

Slowly, and to her surprise, relatively calmly, Sarah told him.

"Jack and I had been married three years. We knew from the start we wanted children – the more the merrier, according to Jack. Three or four, according to me.

"We were happy together – I mean we had our moments, as all couples do. But by and large, life was good, and we waited eagerly for the beginning of our new family. But it never happened. A year passed, then two, then three.

"We had more or less given up. Stopped scrutinising calendars and counting days. Jack had tentatively mentioned the possibility of adoption a few times, and I was starting to consider it too.

"Then a few days after our third anniversary, Jack developed a bad bout of the flu. He dismissed it, taking just a few aspirin, hot lemon, that sort of thing. On the fourth night of it, he felt particularly weak. I was woken at half past two in the morning by Jack, barely able to breathe. The ambulance came, and he was hospitalised, but it was too late. Severe pneumonia had set in. He died two days later."

Jack waited for her to go on. His glance flickered briefy over the round swelling of her belly. There was more to come.

"Throughout the funeral I fought nausea and dizziness. It was only later that afternoon, when I was on my own again, that I realised I was pregnant. I checked my calendar, thought back over our last few weeks together, and everything added up.

"I was 10 weeks pregnant with our first child. And I never even got to tell him. That was three months ago."

They stood watching a family of ducks for a while.

"Can I expect my life ever to be normal again?"

"Don't expect too much too soon. You may surprise yourself. Some parts of my life are back together. Some pieces will always be broken." He paused, wondering whether to continue.
"I've never been able to get on a train again. The last time I tried was about two years ago. I just can't do it. The mere possibility of it overwhelms me with panic and nausea.

"So we walk a lot. Explore the city. Take the bus."

"But you can't travel very far afield then?"

"No. But anyway, I can't really imagine doing that for any length of time. It would mean leaving Susannah's grave."

Sarah nodded slowly, taking in the extent of the healing that Michael still needed.

~ 4 ~

"Come on, Emily, or we'll be late for Sarah," Michael called.

It was Sunday morning and they were meeting Sarah for brunch as they had done several times over the last three months. The connection they had felt that first day had continued and grown. Being together was easy. Each understood and accepted effortlessly the extent of the other's pain. As they had relaxed in that understanding and acceptance, their friendship had deepened,
and they had begun to realise that, slowly, the wounds were healing.

Michael had at first felt shocked, and then confused and guilty, to discover that his feelings for Sarah were deepening. Being with her stirred up powerful emotions in him – emotions that he thought had died with Susannah.

Sarah waved as she saw them coming. Emily threw herself into Sarah's arms and plonked a kiss on her belly as she always did. She was fascinated by the baby. Sarah had even shown her pictures in a book of what the baby might look like as the months went by.

Sarah watched as the man she loved help his daughter order what she wanted. Over the last three months she had fallen deeply and utterly in love with him. She had dreamed of the two of them living a normal life together. But she knew that he did not reciprocate her feelings – not in that way. Susannah was the only woman Michael would ever love. He could not even contemplate leaving the place where she was buried. He would be horrified if he knew her secret. But continuing to love him secretly would tear her apart. She had come to realise that she could not go on like this.

She waited until their orders had arrived, and then waited some more until Emily had wandered off to explore the nearby gardens. As gently as she could, she said, "Michael, I don't know how to bring this up, so I'll just come right out and say it. I'm leaving."

"You're leaving? But why? And where?"

"I'm going to Farnborough. My sister is there. When the baby comes, I'll need help. I have no one here to help me. I know nothing about babies."

"Hey, I could have helped you," he joked. "Anyway, when will you be back?"

"Michael, I'm moving there. I'm going to raise my baby there. The country is so much better than the city for children. And my sister has some connections with the local library. I need to earn an income." Sarah had told him soon after they had met that she was a qualified librarian.

Michael felt as though he had been punched in the stomach. The euphoria of the last few days, as he had started coming to terms with his feelings for Sarah, already seemed a distant memory.

He wanted to tell her not to go, she couldn't go, he loved her, he wanted them to be together forever, he wanted then to raise Emily and her baby together.

Instead, he saw her mind was made up, and he could not stand in her way. Although he did not understand her reasons, he would at least try to respect them.

"When do you leave?"

"On Wednesday."

"How are you getting there?"

She paused. "I'm travelling by train."

~ 5 ~

Michael and Emily resumed the old rhythm of their life together – work, school, walks, museums, visits to the park. But months later the old colours were still grey and faded.

"Daddy," she said one day, when they were back at the cemetary, "we're not very happy, are we?"

Michael wondered whether to argue. "No Emily, I'm afraid we're not."

"We haven't been happy since Sarah left, have we Daddy? I miss Sarah."

"I miss her too, Emily."

"Was Mummy a happy person, Daddy?" Emily asked, leaning her cheek against Susannah;s headstone.

"Yes Em, she was indeed."

"I bet she wishes we were happy, Dad."

~ 6 ~

Sarah had almost finished rocking her baby to sleep when the doorbell rang. She deliberated briefly whether to attempt to put the baby down first, then decided against it. He'd only wake up again instantly, as he always did, she thought tiredly. Holding Luke against her shoulder with one hand, she opened the door.

"Hello Sarah."

"Michael?" he could see the shock and disbelief on her face. Emily, suddenly unsure of herself, clung to his leg.

"We've come to see the baby," she said to Sarah.

"Yes," said Michael. "And we've come to see you. We missed you. And if you'll let us, we'd like to stay here with you, in Farnborough."

He smiled at her. "I hear it's a lovely place for children."

The tears started running down Sarah's cheeks.

"But Micheal, how did you get here?"

"I travelled by train, Sarah. I travelled to you by train."

And they stepped towards each other, and held each other tightly, all four of them enmeshed in a big complicated hug.

Sarah wanted to believe it. But she had to know for sure, and so she whispered, "What about Susannah's grave?"

Michael was unsure whether he was laughing or crying.

"Oh well," he said "you know, Susannah was a wild one. She never really went in for silly little tidy gardens."