It's Loverly To Be Free

It's lovely to be free

Anderson is on his way to work. Folded into a seat in the far corner of
the train carriage, knees pressed against the back of the seat in
front, he stares drowsily through the graffiti-etched window,
hypnotised by the blur of metal rails. An anthology of modern poetry
lays closed in his lap; he hasn't got the energy to read this morning
and anyway, it's far too early for poetry. The train eases to a stop at
Maidenhead, hesitates, then accelerates again towards its destination.
Anderson closes his eyes and shuffles to relieve the pain in his left
buttock.

The drone of diesel engines is usually overlaid by quiet, guarded
chatter; most commuters prefer to travel in their own company, settling
into regular seats, cocooning themselves with a daily paper or music
from their personal stereos. Some cliques do develop but adopt an
unspoken rule of maintaining a silence of sorts. So the middle-aged
woman that slices through the carriage, talking loudly over her
shoulder, causes a Mexican-wave of lowered newspapers. Anderson opens
one eye.

"C'mon, Victor, come and sit down, there's plenty of chairs." Her voice
is husky, the accent broad cockney, her flowery dress smart but years
out of fashion and the reddish brown patches that stain her scalp
suggests her thinning hair has recently been DIY dyed. She sways
between two rows of face-to-face seats and beckons to her male
companion with a flamboyant wave. "C'mon, Victor, look there's one-
two- three- four- five- six-, six chairs." Of the six only two are
actually empty, the middle in each row. She sits down heavily between
two pin-striped men, forcing them to shuffle sideways in their seats.
They grunt and rattle their broadsheets.

The middle seats the woman has chosen tend to remain empty throughout
the peak morning journey, even though many passengers have to stand. A
na?ve Anderson once sat in one of them during his probationary
commuting days, a mistake he wouldn't repeat. After spending fifty
minutes pinned to his seat by the shoulders of his neighbours, elbows
digging into his ribs and forced to play footsie with a guy in the
opposite row, Anderson had the distinct impression that he'd strayed
into enemy territory. This 'choosing the same seat' phenomenon never
ceases to amaze Anderson and he regularly derives childish pleasure by
plonking himself down in a different part of the carriage, smiling with
wry humour at the ripple effect as his fellow passengers have to
rearrange themselves. The woman appears not to notice that she's
ruffled more than the newspapers of her neighbours.

"C'mon, Victor, take a seat, it's what they're for, sitting on," the
woman tells her companion, pointing to the seat opposite and eyeing the
standing passengers warily. Victor follows and delicately lowers
himself into the indicated seat to face her, pinching the creases in
his trousers, easing the fabric away from his knees. His face says
mid-twenties, the brown suit shouts middle-aged. He wears a tie, the
knot small and tight as a brussel sprout, his hair Brylcreamed flat
above a moist forehead. He squints back at her through thick-framed
glasses.

"You look nice, I like your tie, Victor," she smiles at him then sweeps
her eyes around the carriage, stares intently at anyone meeting her
gaze. Anderson ducks, peeks at her through a gap between collared
necks, watches her hands as she smoothes the fabric of her dress, risks
looking at her face. She's smiling at Victor again. Her smile fades,
returns. She begins to talk, her sentences running into each other.
Anderson listens, transfixed, trying to memorise her conversation,
annoyed that doesn't have his notebook to hand.

"I feel so young, forty-six yesterday, had a lovely birthday, don't cry
Victor, you'll see me again, you've got my number. If you have trouble
getting in touch with me just ring nine nine nine and ask for me, ask
for Georgie, Victor, they know me, the police, think I'm a bonny lass.
You do look nice, Victor. Nice tie, what are you today, Victor? A
judge, a judge, Victor? Policeman, clerk, office worker? Office worker
best job in the world, Computers? I'm learning computering at college,
got a course at college, Victor. If I have any trouble I just ring Mr
Steven on nine nine nine and say it's Georgie and he says I'm pretty
but I can't have a room for the night. He works in the C.I.D. They like
me at the C.I.D. A bonny lass. Oh it's lovely to be free, no job,
Victor, but Tony Blair looks after us, the Mentally Disabled, care in
the community, not locked up but free to live. Tony Blair looks after
me, Victor. I'm a manic depressive, lovely girl, but not locked up,
happy out in the world."
She hesitates at the Star Trek-like noise the carriage doors make as
they slide open. A ticket inspector appears. "Have your tickets ready
please."

Most of the people in the carriage have gone back to reading their
newspapers or books. Some are dozing, their mouths open wider than
they'd have consciously liked, some, like Anderson, continue to
covertly watch the woman.

"Here's my ticket, Sir, lovely Inspector, Victor. Jesus Christ. Oh look
he looks like Jesus Christ, he's got a beard, Victor. Here's my ticket,
Inspector." She leans over the back of her seat waving her ticket
excitedly, oblivious that her hand has brushed the head of the man
beside her, his combed hair ruffled out of place.

"Here's my ticket, Sir, you look like Jesus Christ, you've got a beard,
shake hands Sir, shake hands? She holds out her hand to the ticket
inspector.

"Haven't got time, Luv," he mumbles lamely, ignoring the proffered hand
and continuing to check and punch tickets.

"Go on shake hands, Sir. Just a little finger then, there you are." And
she links her little finger through one of his and gives it a little
shake. She smiles up at him. He brushes her hand away and stares at her
for a second.

"Good luck Inspector, see you next week. I'm up to see my brother lives
at fourteen Mulberry Crescent," she leans sideways to tell him as he
turns his back on her.

"He's nice, ain't he Victor?" she says as the Ticket Inspector
disappears through the crowd of standing commuters.

"I won't see you again, Victor. Victor Mature. Are you mature, Victor?"
Her companion, whose eyes haven't wavered from hers, remains
silent.

"Ava Gardner, they said I looked like Ava Gardner when I was younger.
Had a hard time since then, Victor, since Mummy died, five years ago.
Lovely woman, Mummy, she loved me. Lovely to be free, I'm so happy,
Victor. Oh here's our stop, Victor," and she hurriedly rises to her
feet and leads Victor through the carriage as the trains pulls into
Slough station.

In the silence that follows, a few people look at each other and smile,
some shake their heads. Anderson closes his eyes again and tries to
formulate a story around the event.