Normal service

Normal service

I am standing on the middle escalator, waiting for my train out of
London Bridge.
The escalator is not working. It isn't broken, out of order or even
awaiting repair; it just isn't moving. There are no signs or
announcements, but it has become a universal truth. Normal Service will
be resumed shortly. We are sorry for the temporary delay.
But I am not sure that I am really sorry for the wait.
I shudder. Stranded in the middle, either side of me, the two other
escalators push on with their journeys. As one person steps off the
treadmill, another replaces them. All spaces are spoken for, all seats
confirmed. In the middle, between the rushing and the rushed, I am out
of time. In truth, my destination has no great significance because
although I am expected, I am not awaited. The rhythm of my journey has
unalterably changed. My ticket has expired.
I have had a beer now, I should tell you, although you probably know,
so that I can continue my journey. The hard edges of my thought are
slurred.
But you, my forgiving listener, should also be aware that it was not
always like this. I have breathlessly measured my journey home and I
have bounded up the stairs. I have impatiently phoned through to say I
am late, that the train was delayed and that I was on my way.
But I have not called tonight, and I can no longer apologise. I have
forfeited my right, I am told. Instead, I take a delayed train and I
get off at Denmark Hill and I board a bus that goes past the hospital.
I get off the bus and I walk the rest of the way up the hill.
I do this slowly because I do not want to know for sure what I already
suspect - that she has already closed her eyes.
People pass me, but I think that perhaps I have stopped noticing. I
sneeringly tell myself that there is always a chance, that hope is
eternal. But I once heard her say she would have her revenge. And she
has the right to the last word.
She is asleep when I get home and my dinner is on the table. I walk
into our half-lit bedroom and I take off my tie and place my jacket
carefully on the back of a chair, and I make an awkward effort to face
her. She has turned to face the wall. The blanket has been drawn up
under her white knuckles, I am sure, and her hair has been tied tight
to her skull. She does not stir, and I do my best to leave her as she
has set herself. I do not try and kiss her good night.
In the living room, her dinner is only half-finished and her chair is
still warm. The television is still flickering and I do not know how
long this will continue. I only know that when things are not working
they should be stopped or they should be repaired.