The Stranger on the Train (2 page)

Rattling on the tracks. A breeze blew her hair across her face. She swung back towards the tunnel.

“Why didn't she pull the alarm?” the man asked.

Emma bit her lip. Oh God, train, come on. Please. Please. Come on.

The man said: “Look, I really think—”

“No,
you
look.” Emma turned on him, almost snarling. “I know you're trying to help, but please,
don't
press any alarms. You'll stop the trains, and I just want to get Ritchie at the next station, so please, just go away, and
leave me alone
!”

The train had arrived by this time. Emma was on it as soon as the doors were open. She kept moving, power walking down the aisle to the end of the carriage, as if by doing so she could bring herself closer to Ritchie.

A final shout from the man.

“Hey!” He was waving something. “Is this your—”

And then the doors closed.

In the train, Emma stood swaying by the window, almost touching it with her nose. The tunnel turned the window into a mirror. She saw her own pale face, like a blob, elongated and distorted in the glass. There were other people in the carriage but she never saw who they were.

“Come on, come on,” she whispered. The agony of just having to stand there and wait. She had a physical ache to have Ritchie back with her, a panicky feeling as if she wasn't getting enough oxygen until she could breathe him in. She pictured herself at the next station, grabbing him into her arms, pressing her face into the velvety curve of his neck.

That man's voice.

Why didn't she pull the alarm?

Something sucked at Emma's lungs. She tried to breathe, and nothing came in.

Suppose she got to the next station, and Ritchie wasn't there?

No. No. Don't think it. Of course he would be there. The woman had looked nice. What else would she do but take him off? It was the logical thing. She had said: Next. Stop. She had said it. Emma went back to picturing herself with Ritchie, his stubby, warm little body, his smell. Her eyes prickled. She had been such a crap mother to him. Not just today but every day; ever since he'd been born. He deserved better than her. She put her hand over her mouth, quietening her pain, swallowing back the tears, the guilt. She would make it up to him. She would. In another minute. Less than a minute. How long could the train take? When would the tunnel end? How long before she stopped seeing her own face in the window and saw the platform and Ritchie instead?

But what if he wasn't there?

The tunnel vanished. Emma's face was replaced by the outdoors: navy blue sky, brick walls, tracks converging on each other. Then they were in the station; lights and platforms and posters.
Clunkety-clunk
. The train slowed; she whipped her head from side to side, searching the platform, her lungs heavy, struggling to fill with the weight. There was a woman on a seat with a baby and . . . It was her baby, it was Ritchie, it was her woman. Oh God, oh God, oh God. She was going to fall. She managed to hold herself up until the train stopped and the doors opened, then she ran out and flew to the bench. Ritchie was sitting, quite unconcerned, on the woman's knee, chewing his sleeve, and the woman was looking at her and smiling. As Emma reached them, the woman rose to her feet, holding Ritchie up before her like a gift. Emma grabbed him and kissed all over his cheeks and forehead and ears, pulling his feathery head tight into her neck. She squeezed him to her until neither of them could breathe, and wept his name over and over again into the side of his silky little face.

Chapter Two

“Ngg.”

Ritchie wailed, arching his back and pushing Emma away with his fists. She was squashing him. His breath smelled of rusk, and orange lollipop. Emma's arms were too weak to hold him. She needed to sit down. The sides of her vision were going dark.

“Are you all right?” the woman asked. Her voice echoed from a long way away. “Shall I take him for you?”

Emma felt Ritchie being lifted from her arms; she felt the seat behind her with her knees and sank into it. A tide sound rushed at her ears. She closed her eyes and leaned forward.

After a minute, the rushing noise receded. The platform returned to normal around her.

Emma sat up.

“Thank you,” she said, and burst into tears.

She didn't know how long she cried. Probably no more than a few seconds, but when she looked up, Ritchie, sitting on the woman's knee, was staring at her, open-mouthed. A long thread of drool hung from his lower lip, inches from the woman's expensive-looking sleeve. It was that which made Emma get herself under control.

“I'm sorry.” She pressed the bases of her hands to her eyes. “There's only the two of us, my little boy and me. It's so hard sometimes . . . I'm sorry. I'm sorry.” She shook her head. “You don't want to hear this. You must think I'm a terrible mother.”

“Nonsense,” the woman murmured. “You've had a dreadful shock.”

She was right. Emma longed to cuddle Ritchie, but her hands were trembling and her face was soaked with tears and mucus. There was blood on her lip as well. She must have bitten it. She looked around for something to wipe it with. This station was much busier than the last one. Where were they? She looked at the sign above the seats. Whitechapel. Another train was pulling into the platform. Two girls stood up to meet it.

“Tissue?” The woman balanced Ritchie with one arm and rummaged in her bag. She did look the sort who would have a clean tissue with her at all times. Sensible, organized, like the headmistress of a school. She looked to be in her early forties, with blond hair cut in layers to just below her ears. Tweedy trousers. A short, fawn-colored jacket, with fur at the cuffs and collar.

“Here we are,” the woman said.

“Thank you.” Emma took the tissue and wiped her eyes and face. The woman watched her in a sympathetic sort of way. Close up, she had tiny, spidery veins on her cheeks. It was an outdoor face, despite the pearl earrings and coiffed hair. A horse rider's or gardener's face. Emma had seen plenty of women like her during her childhood in Bath. They were everywhere at Christmas, lunching in cozy tea shops with their daughters, surrounded by shopping bags. Emma had waited on them during her school holidays.

“Let me take him.” Emma finished drying her eyes and reached for Ritchie. Immediately he shook his head, leaned back into the woman's elbow and stuck his fist in his mouth.

“What's wrong?” Emma was upset. “Why won't you come to me?”

The woman gave a little laugh. “I think he must have got a fright when you squeezed him.”

“I probably hurt him,” Emma worried. It wasn't like Ritchie to be so manipulative. Normally he wouldn't go to anyone except her.

“It was the shock. And of course he doesn't know he nearly went missing, do you, little manikin?” The woman jiggled Ritchie and leaned sideways to look at him. He gazed up at her, chewing his fist. “You had your mummy all worried, didn't you, you naughty little man?” She looked back at Emma. “He's adorable, isn't he? Such blond hair. And you're so dark. What's his name?”

“Richard. Ritchie.”

“Ritchie. How sweet. Is that after his daddy?”

“No.” Emma looked away.

The woman didn't push it. “Would you like another tissue?” she asked. She pronounced it
tiss-yoo
. “No, give that old one back to me. There aren't any bins down here.”

She took the sodden tissue from Emma and tucked it into her bag.

“By the way.” She held out her hand. “I'm Antonia.”

“Emma. Emma Turner.” Emma shook Antonia's hand.

“Where do you live, Emma? Are you near home?”

“No,” Emma said. “I live in Fulham. Hammersmith, really, I suppose.”

“Well, you are a long way from home. Shall I come some of the way with you on the train? You shouldn't travel alone in this state.”

“I'll be fine. Honestly.” It was almost true. She was still shaky, but she was starting to recover. She just wanted to be alone now, to get her bearings and get herself and Ritchie back to the flat. And then she remembered. “Oh. My bag. I left it at the other station.”

“My goodness,” Antonia said. “You
have
got yourself in a mess.”

“I'll be all right.” Emma stood up. She'd sort something out. What was a lost bag? A few minutes ago, she thought she'd lost her son. “Ritchie and I will go back there and ask. See if anyone's handed it in.”

“Well,” said Antonia, “I think the chances of you finding that bag at this stage are really very small. Perhaps I should wait to see if you need some money to get home?”

“Oh, no.” Emma was horrified. She hadn't meant to sound like she was asking for money.

“I insist. I'm going to make sure you get home safely. You've had a very nasty shock.” Antonia put a hand on Emma's arm. “Won't you come for a cup of coffee? My treat.”

“I couldn't ask you to do that. You've done enough.” Emma felt her barriers going up. She knew she must look awful, streaky with tears, her hair all over the place. The sleeve of her jacket was ripped from where she'd fallen on the platform, and the front of one of her trainers was lifting off its sole. Antonia seemed kind, but Emma just wanted to be left in peace. Just to get back to herself again, have another little cry, even, if she wanted to. She found it hard enough to talk to people these days, never mind someone like Antonia who was being very tactful but must be wondering how anyone could be so stupid as to leave their baby on a train.

“Just one coffee.” Antonia was watching her. “Look, I have an idea. I've been visiting a friend of mine, and I was supposed to meet my husband in town, but why don't I call him and ask him to collect me here instead? He has a car. Let us take you home.”

Emma wanted to say no. She really did, but she felt beaten, weary, unexpectedly overwhelmed at the idea of someone being kind to her. Her shoulders were heavy, as though someone had put a blanket over them.

“Okay,” she said. Her eyes prickled. “Thank you.”

While she was blowing her nose again, Antonia stood up with Ritchie in her arms.

“I'll get this young man settled,” she said.

“He won't let—” Emma began, but Antonia was already loading Ritchie into his pushchair. He didn't protest at all. His head nodded, his eyelids drooped. Antonia fastened him in with the straps. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing.

“There.” She patted Ritchie's head. “You need a sleep, don't you? Poor little man.”

Emma went to take the buggy, but Antonia had the handles in her grasp. She took off at a brisk pace, steering Ritchie towards the stairs. Emma had nothing to do but follow them, empty-handed. The platform was open at both ends; a chill breeze blew over their heads. Emma's knees stung beneath her jeans. It felt strange to have nothing to carry, no Ritchie, no bag. She felt out of control. Vulnerable. She would have preferred to carry Rich, to take him out of the buggy and hold him; but Antonia had been so kind, it would be rude to wake him up. She settled for watching him as they walked. My God, my God.

She helped Antonia to lift the buggy up the stairs. At the turnstile, Antonia turned to her and said: “You've lost your ticket, haven't you? You'll need to report your missing bag to the guard. Ask him to let you through.”

Emma hesitated.

“Go on.” Antonia gave her an encouraging smile. “Don't worry about Ritchie and me. We'll wait for you at the entrance.”

Wanting to hurry, Emma didn't mention anything to the cheerful orange-jacketed guard about Ritchie getting caught on the train. She just said that she'd lost her bag at the previous station, Stepney Green, and asked if anyone had handed it in. The guard went into a room at the side to use the phone. Emma glanced through the turnstiles, towards the entrance to the station. It was dark now outside. Raining, it looked like. The pavements were shiny with light. A couple of people stood inside the doors, sheltering from the rain, or queuing for the little newspaper and sweet kiosk at the side. More people pushed through the barriers: a man wearing a woolen hat, a woman in a hijab holding the hand of a little girl. Then they were gone, and there were just their footsteps on the wet floor. Emma looked again at the entrance. Then she froze. She took a jerky half step towards the barrier.

Where had Antonia gone?

She saw her then, just beside the kiosk. She was kneeling by Ritchie's buggy, adjusting the zip of his fleece; that must be why she'd missed her at first. Emma let out a shaky breath. It just went to show how jumpy she was. Ritchie was asleep. She watched him hungrily. His head was on his chest, making him look as if he had three chins. His wispy hair was brushed straight down on his forehead. The smiley blue elephant on his front moved up and down as he breathed. Antonia looked up just then and saw Emma watching. She gave a little wave.

The guard came back.

“No bag, I'm afraid,” he said. “There's a number for Lost Property if you—”

“It's okay.” Emma was anxious to be back with Ritchie. She gestured to the barrier. “Is it all right if I go on through? My ticket was in my bag.”

The guard was in a good mood. He tipped his hand to his forehead and released the turnstile for her. Once through it, Emma headed straight for Ritchie. She reached for the handles of the pushchair and instead found Antonia pressing a twenty-pound note into her hand.

“You must take it,” Antonia insisted as Emma began to protest. “There's a café open down that way, look.” She pointed down a side street to where a sign on a lighted window read: “Mr. Bap's.”

“We'll go there to wait for my husband,” Antonia said. “You can buy the coffees. You might want to get something for Ritchie too, and I wouldn't know what to buy.”

“I . . . oh, okay.” Emma gave in. Antonia had a point. Ritchie would be hungry soon. She'd buy something for him to eat, but as soon as she was at the table she'd wake him up and take him onto her knee and have him back to herself again.

Mr. Bap's turned out to be more of a fast-food restaurant than a café. Inside, the damp air of the street gave way to a strong smell of vinegar and chips. Rows of brown plastic tables and benches took up the front half of the restaurant. Most of the tables were in need of a wipe. At the back of the shop was the counter, lined with giant bottles of brown sauce and mustard. The only other customer, an elderly bearded man with a beige jacket zipped up to his neck, sat at a table by the wall, staring into a cup in his hand.

“Not very nice, is it?” Antonia wrinkled her nose. “Still, it's warm. And we won't be here for very long.”

She wheeled the buggy to a table by the window. Ritchie was still asleep. Emma went to order the drinks.

“Two coffees, please,” she said quickly to the gray-haired, stubble-faced man behind the counter. “And one of those chocolate buns. And a carton of milk.”

“Large or small coffees?”

“Any one. It doesn't matter.”

Emma fidgeted, gazing around her as the man poked through a tall steel fridge. The wall beside the counter was smeared with something red, darkened and crusted into the paint. Ketchup, Emma hoped. She shuddered. What a dreary place to work on a Sunday evening. Over by the window, Antonia had her mobile phone to her ear. She was talking in a low voice, probably so as not to wake Ritchie. Her hand covered her mouth as she spoke.

“Anything else?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Oh.” Emma looked back at the tray. “No, thank you. Just what's there.”

The man couldn't seem to work the cash register. The drawer kept springing open at the wrong time. Every time it did, the man tutted and slammed it shut again. Emma wished he'd just hand over the change. Ritchie had moved in his sleep. Now his head was tipped back, his mouth open, his two white top teeth showing. Antonia was still on the phone. She had her back to Emma, but her head was turned to the side and her hand had moved away from her mouth. Emma could see the movements of her lips as she spoke.

Bird rack,
Antonia seemed to be saying. Or at least that was what her lips made it look like.

For no reason at all, a vivid image popped into Emma's head. Her mum, sitting, watching the telly in their terraced house in Bath. Emma was at the corner table, doing her homework. The curtains were drawn; the flames of the gas fire flickered. Emma could see her mum, sitting as usual in her brown-and-red flowery armchair by the fire. The half-drunk mug of tea beside her on the coffee table. The fixed, rather sad expression on her face as she concentrated on her program.

Emma frowned. How many times had she seen her mum watching the telly like that when she was young? What had made her suddenly think of it now? She looked again at Ritchie and shook her head.

Finally the man managed to get the drawer to work, and handed Emma her change. Emma took the coffees and bun over to the window. Antonia was still talking into her mobile phone. Emma slid the tray onto the table.

“Sorry for the delay,” she began.

Antonia jumped and spun around. Then she lifted her finger and smiled.

“I have to go now,” she said into the phone. “I'll see you soon.”

She helped Emma to unload the tray.

“That was my husband,” she said. “He's on his way.”

Emma sat down thankfully and pulled Ritchie's buggy towards her.