The Beachcomber. Josephine CoxЧитать онлайн книгу.
talk away, if it helps,’ he suggested with a smile. ‘I really don’t mind.’
‘Only, you’ve been so quiet since I sat beside you, I thought you might be one of those people who like to be left alone?’ She giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘My son warned me not to be a nuisance. He knows how some folks don’t want to be bothered. You will tell me if I’m being a nuisance, won’t you?’
‘I promise, you’re not being a nuisance.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s just that I never find it easy to strike up a conversation.’
Encouraged, she chatted on about the new Queen, and when a short time later she started to nod off, he began to relax. When he relaxed, however, it was inevitable that he should be overwhelmed by the faces of the woman and children in that photograph. He had loved them with a passion that frightened him. Now, they were gone and all he had left was memories … of when they were walking in the park, he and Sheila laughing at the children’s antics, and afterwards eating in that pretty little café by the riverside, where they would throw leftovers to the ducks.
The memories rolled through his mind like the reel of a film. For one precious minute they made him smile; then they were breaking his heart.
‘Do you think it will be long before we get there?’ The elderly woman woke as suddenly as she had nodded off. ‘I’ve never been to London before. I wouldn’t be going now, if my only son hadn’t taken his family and moved down there.’ She continued wistfully, ‘I’ve got four beautiful grandchildren. I’ve missed them.’
Attempting to reassure her, he replied confidently. ‘Won’t be long now,’ he said. ‘And London’s fine. After a while you get used to it. I work for a big development corporation there,’ he confided.
She gave a wry grin. ‘I would have gone with them,’ she admitted. ‘My son wanted us to, but my husband is a cantankerous old sod. The furthest he’ll go is to the bottom of the garden and back.’
He smiled pensively. ‘I envy him.’
‘Why’s that?’ She was genuinely surprised by his statement.
‘Why, because he sounds contented.’ He would have given anything at that moment to be ‘contented’.
She gave a sorry little smile. ‘Unlike me! I’ve always been discontented! All the years we’ve been wed, I was the one who loved the dancing and going out – especially during the war, you know – but he was never that way inclined. He was an ARP warden. I expect that was enough excitement for him. If he could he’d be happy to sit by the fireside of a winter’s night, and potter about in the garden in the summer. I always put it down to laziness or lack of enthusiasm, but now I think about it, you could be right.’
His remark made her wonder. ‘Happen he’s just been “contented” all along.’ She gave a long, weary sigh. ‘It’s sad really. We’ve always been so very different in what we want. But he so depends on me, you see.’
When the tears rose in her eyes and she abruptly returned her attention to her book, he felt desperately sorry for her. He could imagine how this dear old woman and her husband might be mismatched; he assumed there were many couples like that: having stayed too long together, it was now too late for any chance of a new life for either of them.
Looking away, he peered out to where the countryside resembled a giant eiderdown, with misshapen patches of browns, yellows and melting shades of green. In the far distance, beyond the cotton-wool puffs from the train’s funnel, he could see a lake, shimmering and twinkling. At other times that beautiful sight would have gladdened his heart, but not now.
His own thoughts invaded the quietness. He had tried to go on, but it was impossible. This latest trip had been sheer hell! He found he could no longer conduct his business in that sharp, decisive way he used to. Too many things played on his mind. Dear God! Would there ever be any peace?
Right now, he didn’t even want to think about it. He wanted to wake up and find it was all a nightmare, that all was well and his family would be waiting at home, just like always. He laughed softly, a hard, cynical emotion cutting through his heart like a knife. It was not a nightmare, and he would not wake up from it; not for a long time; maybe never. Anger invaded his senses. A feeling of utter hopelessness swept through him. Life was a cruel master!
The last he saw of the old woman was in the train terminal. She looked a sorry sight as she trundled after the porter who carried her tiny suitcase. ‘I hope things turn out all right for you,’ he whispered and, almost as though she had heard, she suddenly turned to smile at him. He gave a small wave, she nodded, and in a moment was gone from his sight.
Hurrying to the taxi rank, he climbed into the first cab in the line. ‘Where to, sir?’ The cabbie was a rough-and-ready fella, going grey and slow in his step. Tom couldn’t help but notice the long scar running down the side of his face. ‘Got from running wild as a kid,’ he explained, anticipating Tom’s curiosity. ‘I’ve an interesting tattoo of a snake an’ all –’ he gave a hearty laugh – ‘but you wouldn’t want to know about that.’ Opening the cab door, he gave a cheeky wink. ‘I were drunk at the time … regretted it ever since.’
His imagination running riot, Tom didn’t dare ask. ‘We’ve all done things we regret,’ he answered with a friendly smile.
‘Not you! A man like yousel’? By! I should think you’ve got the world at your feet.’ When Tom made no comment he closed the cab door and climbed into the driver’s seat. ‘It might help if I knew where I were going,’ he quipped good-naturedly.
Having given him the address of his flat in Hammersmith, Tom leaned back in his seat. He suddenly felt incredibly weary … tired of his job; tired of trying to piece together his life. Tired of being so alone.
The cabbie discreetly regarded him through his mirror. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, guv, you look like you could do with a good night’s sleep.’ Suddenly swerving to avoid a delivery boy on his bicycle, he let loose a volley of abuse at the rider. ‘Watch where you’re going, mate!’ Leaning out the window, he screamed at the frightened fellow, who had done nothing wrong. ‘If you’re fed up wi’ life, throw yousel’ off a bleedin’ railway bridge!’
Having been flung clear across the seat, Tom righted himself and sat tight.
Completely oblivious to the chaos he’d caused, the cabbie asked, ‘Away on business, was you?’
‘Yes,’ Tom acknowledged.
‘I expect you glad to be ’ome, eh?’
‘Right again.’ But what was he coming home to? No family. No real home, and nothing worthwhile to look forward to. His life was work and more work. These past weeks he had been seriously wondering if he should give it all up. Now, as the idea loomed large in his thoughts, it seemed to overwhelm everything else.
‘What is it you do?’ the cabbie asked.
‘I’m one of three architects in a big development organisation. We build office blocks, factories, large housing developments, that sort of thing. There’s never two jobs the same.’ Wasn’t it strange, he thought, how you naturally imparted your business to a cabbie. Probably it was because you never expected to see him again.
Turning a corner, the cabbie grinned at him through the mirror. ‘By! You must lead an exciting life? Plenty to build an’ all, now the country’s back on its feet.’
Lapsing into silence, Tom let him chat on.
‘I’ve allus wanted to travel, but never had the time nor money. I’ve got six kids and a wife who spends like money’s gone outta fashion. I work six days a week, from seven of a morning till late at night. What chance ’ave I got to see the bleedin’ world, eh?’
He gave a loud, raucous laugh. ‘Matter o’ fact, I can never understand where I found the time to make all them bloody kids! Come to think of it, I can’t even remember enjoying mesel at it, neither!’ Taking his eyes off the