Reflections on a Journey

I have been in the ladies’ so long that the stale soapy smell is making me dizzy. The train rattles into the station. The noise beats against my head. “Martin Martin Martin,” it says. I take one last glance at the grimy mirror, check again that my hair is in place and my makeup subtle. Martin will be sorry when he sees me. He’ll beg me to let him come home.

It pours spitefully. I teeter across the platform in my heels, straining my ankles to stay upright. Cold splashes spot my face and dribble down my neck. My foot slips as I step on the train. I hit my knee hard on the floor. From somewhere in the train I hear a moan. It crawls like a cockroach through my chest. I try to stand up. A black shoe, long and heavy like Martin’s, steps on the hem of my skirt. It leaves a soggy footprint.

I struggle up, scrabbling at the wall, and limp, slightly, into the carriage. It smells mustily sweet like sickness. There is a woman crouching in the middle of the aisle. She is bent over, I can’t see her face, just white hair flaked with grey skin. The hair doesn’t cover her head. A floral skirt splattered brown and black is caught up in her arms. Her legs are purple and grey.

I walk further in. That moan comes from her. It hurts me. I stop and wait for someone to do something. The other passengers stare at books or sit with their eyes shut.

The only empty seats are beyond the woman. I’ll stand. People glance up at me. I am big and clumsy. I am the only person not pretending the woman isn’t there. Perhaps I could get past her. I step closer. Around her the air tastes bitter. The train judders. I almost fall on to her. A spindly hand creeps out and wraps itself round my ankle.

“Where you going?” Her voice itches over me like fleas.

I stutter. “Nowhere.”

I try to pull my leg gently away. She is gripping tight.

“Don’t you get away.”

She lifts her head. She wears pastel pink lipstick that stretches out across her cheeks. Her eyes are the colour of twilight. Like mine. Her face is lined with loss and loneliness. Splinters of her desperation press into my stomach. I look quickly away before I collapse. The train enters a tunnel. My reflection is hunched in the window. Rain has frizzed up my grey-threaded hair. Mascara smudges my eyes. My mouth hangs like an upside down horseshoe.

No wonder Martin doesn’t want me.

“Help me,” says the woman. She moves her hands up my legs and begins to pull herself up.

My throat is gagged with sickness. I make noise but no meaning. The train pulls into a station. It’s not my stop. It’s not where Martin is. I jerk my leg away. There is a sound like glass breaking. As I turn and stumble to the door the woman moans. It doesn’t stop. On the platform I pull at my clothes but the smell of despair has seeped through into my skin. The train moves on, its cry “Martin Martin Martin” becomes weaker as it vanishes into the horizon. I cross the footbridge to the other platform where the trains come in the opposite direction. My breath is shaky. My head feels weak.

The woman is everywhere I go. The air is heavy with hurt. Spider-like hands reach out to me from the mirror. They weave webs of fine lines over my face.

And that moan waits inside me.