Remembrance Day Part 1

He loathed that moment of hearing the phone ring at the other end of the line, sat waiting for the voice at the other end to cut it off, with a "Hello, Yankee Books" and preparing his voice for the lie he would tell. He loathed the moment entirely. He would tense his stomach and his throat, preparing his voice, like an actor with first night nerves, for the role of a man unfit for purpose, preparing himself to instil in his performance something palpable and real, even though the script he worked from was while tried and tested, stale and unimaginative: dodgy stomach, possibly food poisoning; I think it's the flu, there's a lot going round; a really bad migraine... He was unconvinced anyone could ever be convinced by these spurious lines, even if they had been read with truth and heartfelt conviction, but he steeled himself anyhow, readying for the moment, when his voice would have to step out, so to speak, on to the stage.

   Usually, about two or three times a year, since he'd been in the job and made such a call, he had at least the naturalistic design of a convincing set to help him pull off a passable performance. Propped up in bed or slumped on the sofa under a blanket, he could almost convince himself he was actually unwell, and that the day spent watching bland dramas, cookery shows or antiques related programming (for this was long before the days of on-demand television), were all he could do, in a condition such as his own, but this morning it was more difficult. He was stood at the station, like he would be, if he was going in, only this morning, he was climbing on a different train.

When the receptionist did answer, he was surprised, as he always must have been, how easily he lied and how easily, if not truly believed, the receptionist played along.

"Hope you feel better; let us know if you are still poorly tomorrow..."

He'd stood himself in a waiting room, so that wind, the sound of trains arriving and departing, and announcements over the tannoy could not give him away and it worked like clockwork, a short but successful performance and the guilt, while not totally disappearing, dissipated significantly with his croaky "Ok, thanks" and the click of the receptionist hanging up.

 He walked back out onto the platform, checking the time of arrival for the train to the city, and feeling again in  his bag, to check he had his camera and dictaphone.

   While pulling a sickie was not exactly an uncommon phenmona for most average people in office jobs such as his, which held little meaning other than a secure, though minimal financial reward each month, as he sat on the bench waiting for the train, he realised he'd always been someone who had lied and in fact, this small lie he'd just told was connected undeniably to the other bigger and more unusual lie, which if he had not made the week before, via e-mail, would not have led to this.

 The train pulled in and he climbed aboard. The old blue patterend seat covers, which had been s staple of his youth, and which were nearly all decommisioned now, heightened the sense of mixed nostalgia of doing something recklessly youthful, but also the sense of being in a moment when the past was being left finally behind.

He sat down and spent the forty minute journey through the suburbs staring out of the window. He looked at the back gardens of houses that bordered the railway lines, the risiing embankments, glimpses of open fields and then the growing red brick, concrete towers and glass edifices that marked the entrance to the city itself.