Being Henry Applebee. Celia ReynoldsЧитать онлайн книгу.
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‘My niece was supposed to be travelling with me today,’ he said in answer to her question. ‘But she’s been otherwise detained. Could I offer you her seat as a token of my thanks? Unless –’ he added somewhat doubtfully – ‘you already have a first-class ticket?’
He slipped the Basildon Bond envelope from his pocket and held out the tickets for Ariel to see. She looked down and regarded them with what appeared to be an expression of mild apprehension; or perhaps, it occurred to him with dismay, it was just sheer disbelief.
A violent rush of heat rose beneath his collar. ‘Of course,’ he muttered quickly, ‘if you’d rather not spend the entire journey in the company of an old man, and a bloody one at that, then I completely –’
‘Thank you, Henry.’ Ariel raised her head and gave him a shy, but none the less winning smile. ‘If you’re sure it wouldn’t be a problem, then yes, actually, that would be great.’
Relief flooded Henry’s face. ‘That’s settled then!’ he cried. ‘No sense in a perfectly good ticket going to waste!’
Ariel’s gaze shifted to the carriage steps, to his white-knuckled fingers curled around the handle of his stick. ‘Here, let me help you.’ Moving nimbly alongside him, she slipped her hand once more behind his arm.
Henry picked up his suitcase and stepped onto the train. The engine was already turning over, the microcosmic glow of the sleek, purring carriage firmly in his sights. The carriage door swung to behind him, gathering him up, buffering him in its steely embrace. He made his way inside, his heart pounding at the realisation that here, at last, was his return.
To his past…
And to the mistake that he’d give anything in the world to change.
Train Hopping
DECEMBER 6: EN ROUTE
Ariel
Ariel slid her wheelie bag into the luggage area just inside the carriage door. As she released the handle, three words popped into her brain, imprinting themselves like a trail of skywriting on the inner trajectory of her gaze: embrace the unforeseen.
What, she asked herself, was that supposed to mean?
She repeated the phrase under her breath. It wasn’t exactly unfamiliar, but then neither could she remember where she might have picked it up. Maybe it meant she wasn’t supposed to be running after all? Maybe what she actually needed to do was surrender, and trust that what was meant to unfold would do so naturally, of its own accord?
Immediately ahead of her, Henry drew to a stop, double-checked his reservation, and with a contented, ‘Ah, here we are,’ placed his suitcase on his seat.
Ariel followed behind him and walked into the carriage’s immaculate interior.
‘Holy shit.’
Her eyes made a rapid tour of her surroundings. The lighting was calm and muted. The seats were spacious and spotlessly clean. Even the air seemed less dense. She glanced to her right and saw that her seat was opposite Henry’s at the carriage’s near end. Their seating area (a table for two designated for herself and Henry, and a table for four with an aisle in between) was quasi-separated from the remainder of the passengers by a dusky glass panel which stretched all the way to the ceiling. She wondered if it had been tacked on as an afterthought, or whether it had been purposely designed to offer a small corner of additional exclusivity. Either way, she liked the subtle degree of privacy it provided. Seems like the perfect refuge, she mused, for anyone with something to hide.
‘That’s you,’ Henry said. He gestured amiably to her seat. ‘Make yourself at home!’
‘Thanks, Henry,’ she replied.
She slipped off her coat. Her mohair jumper – which had long seen better days – wilted under her gaze. Shit, she said again – silently, this time. She could just see Linus shaking his head in horror, then covering it up with a smile. She – like the rest of her family as far as she was aware – had never had the pleasure of travelling anywhere First Class.
She tucked her canvas shoulder bag under the table and sat down. ‘It’s another world in here,’ she said, her voice shot with awe. ‘Lots of leg room. Actual metal cutlery. Nice.’
An invisible steward had laid the table with white china mugs, place mats, svelte silver spoons – all much too smart for a girl from Oystermouth wearing ripped jeans and a charity-shop jumper. Her fingers sought the ends of her sleeves and curled around them into a protective ball.
‘My niece persuaded me to treat myself,’ Henry replied. ‘Of course, that was when she thought she’d be travelling with me. It’ll be one less thing for the bucket list, I suppose!’
Ariel smiled, then glanced over her shoulder and furtively eyed the door. She wondered if Henry would be offended if she made an excuse and slipped back to her rightful place in Standard Class, where she belonged.
Something moved in the corner of her eye, a quick flash of blue. A guy in his mid-twenties was lounging behind the table for four across the aisle. He was dressed in a woollen beanie, faded black jeans, and an electric-blue fisherman’s jumper almost as threadbare as her own. A tangle of rope and leather cords snaked around his wrist. His dark hair was splayed out in a casual mess beneath his hat, and from the dusting of stubble on his chin, it was obvious he hadn’t seen a razor in days.
He looked over and met her gaze.
Ariel gave him a self-conscious smile and deflected her attention further down the carriage. A group of businessmen were staking out their terrain, visibly assessing the available table space between themselves and their neighbours. She stared at them in disbelief. It was like laptops at dawn! Did they seriously not have enough room?
‘Well, there’s plenty of room here!’ Henry said in a cheerful voice.
He removed his coat, folded it into a rectangle and placed it next to his walking stick in the luggage rack overhead. ‘How the other half lives! It’ll be walk-in closets for everyone next!’
He bent over and rummaged in his suitcase, which was now lying open on his seat. Ariel tilted her head and discreetly peeped inside. His belongings were arranged in neat piles and held in place by four crisscrossing elasticated straps which snapped together in the middle like a pair of gentlemen’s braces. The case’s lining – a soft, fuzzy turmeric – was patchy and worn, its edges stained with rusty blooms of ochre and brown. Overall, she got the impression the suitcase must be almost as old as he was.
‘Back in a jiffy,’ Henry said. He pulled himself upright, tucked a bundle of fresh clothing under his arm and retraced his steps through the sliding door.
A palpable air of mystery lingered in his wake, absorbing Ariel’s thoughts entirely before curling around her shoulders and settling on the now closed, tight-lipped surface of his suitcase.
‘Excuse me? If you don’t mind me asking, is the gentleman okay?’
Her neighbour in the woollen beanie was staring at her over a copy of the Time Out Guide to Edinburgh. His question – along with his American accent – caught her momentarily off-guard.
‘Oh. Yes, he’s fine, thanks. He had a nosebleed. A pretty bad one, but it seems