Above His Station (2 page)

*

I carried all my worldly possessions in my brown leather suitcase, with the more fragile or sentimental objects in the satchel over my shoulder. Strolling along Regal Street, a route that was to become familiar in my new role, I plonked my case down and eased myself onto one of the three benches along the platform. I leaned back and forth, testing the wood’s strength. It was well-constructed with not a squeaky joist to be heard. I wasn’t surprised in the slightest, but it proved an earlier supposition correct. Everything in the station was made of the finest materials and constructed with the finest workmanship in the land. I looked up and down the platform, trying to decide what it reminded me of. After far more consideration than was really necessary, I settled on the answer being a child’s model railway. I knew the station had been utilised several times before, but not in the last 20 years at least. No wonder it looked as if it had been built only yesterday.

There was still no sign of anyone coming to greet me, which was now far more than impolite, it was bordering on the remarkable. I was forced to question the date, wondering if my memory was at fault. But no, it was as reliable as ever. I was always good with dates; generally good with numbers in all forms, as it goes. It was the 23
^rd
October, the contractual start date exactly as had been written in my offer letter. I knew this because I had moved out of my bungalow at lunchtime on the 22
^nd
and slept last night at a reasonably-priced hotel in the city.

I then concluded that my new employer must be at fault, which was disconcerting to say the least, for surely that office was highly regarded for its adherence to protocol. What if my being late had had something to do with it? What if my new employers had dispatched someone to greet me and as I was found absent upon arrival they simply left? I felt myself getting a bit cross. My mind was grasping at straws to explain the oddness of things, and I was most anxious to prove that the error was not of my making.

After checking my watch yet again, I pulled out
Bear Island
by MacLean, one of the two novels that I had packed in my satchel (the other being
Sahara
by Cussler) and I flipped through the pages seeking my bookmark. It was of the type that I could not abide; far too short to effectively mark my place so it was forever getting lost in the pages. On several occasions I thought that I’d mislaid the thing, but then it would always turn up again, inexplicably in a completely different section of the book to where I had left it.

I put the book back into my satchel, thinking that it would give the wrong impression when (if) my contact eventually arrived, and instead I unfolded the newspaper that I had not yet bothered to even glance at. The headline was a blur without my spectacles, and they were somewhere at the bottom of my satchel. I had no wish to go rummaging around inside it searching for them, so I looked at the photographs on the front page instead. There was a large one of a celebrity whose name escapes me. She used to be a singer in one of those girl bands (although why they call themselves a ‘band’ is beyond me. Most of them couldn’t play an instrument to save their lives!). She married a footballer but he’d had several affairs, from what I recalled. The photograph showed her looking dishevelled, stumbling out of a nightclub at an ungodly hour. I began to regret not going to the effort of finding my spectacles, because now I was intrigued as to what her story was. Presumably something earth-shattering for it to be plastered across the front page, or perhaps she had just changed her hairstyle. Her ex-husband the footballer played for one of the tops clubs, although I forget which (I rarely follow the leagues these days, opting to watch only the internationals with the promise of a more entertaining game). I often wondered how it was at all possible in this day and age for a man to kick a leather ball about for 90 minutes and get paid more than a school teacher, a doctor, or a nurse. It beggared belief, but then my wish to remove myself from the modern world was but one of the reasons why I accepted this post in the first place.

*

After the elapse of 66 minutes, I found myself fidgeting on the bench. My buttocks are not as firm as they once were, and these days they offer me little in the way of cushioning. I wished they were like feather pillows and I could give them a good plump now and then. This made me think about the accommodation that would also come as part of this new job, and I wondered if it had a comfy armchair. I like a nice comfy armchair. One of those ones with an extendable footrest would be a dream come true, although if they’ve put a footstool in there I shall have to say something. I was forever tripping over my old one and I was glad to see the back of it when the leather perished. From the photographs that my employers had sent along, the ‘quarters’ as they called them (in reality this amounted to a few disused utility rooms converted into a living space) seemed perfectly modest. One lounge with an adjoining bedroom and bathroom and a small kitchen with a breakfast bar reserved for eating. And speaking of which, I was allocated a weekly allowance of £100 (!) for food - although the Welcome Pack did make a point of saying this is to be treated as a guideline and not a target. That made me hoot with laughter. As if money was an object to my employers!

A small place requiring very little upkeep with plenty of privacy was just what the doctor ordered. I had long since stopped caring about how big my castle was, and ever since Molly had passed away, the bungalow had become far too big for just one person. The accommodation inclusive to my salary was another of the reasons why I had accepted this job because it gave me an excuse to leave that place. It just wasn’t the same without Molly. Her perfume still lingered as a constant reminder, and often I would have to remind myself that she hadn’t just popped down the shops and would be back any minute. Sometimes I would walk into a room and an unexpected memory would be stirred, taking me quite by surprise. Random things seemed to trigger them off. A particular song on the radio, a smell on the breeze through the kitchen window, familiar themes from our favourite TV programmes. I was preparing the porridge one morning and realised that I’d put two bowls out onto the breakfast table. When I was hit by the recognition of my mistake, it was like watching her die all over again. Forty-three years we’d been married (together forty-five) and that punch knocked me for six. I had to hold onto the corner of the table, reeling with a sudden bout of nausea. Claire, as sensitive as always, told me that I needed to break my routine, and that all these little things were only making it harder for me to adapt to living by myself. She was right as usual, only I felt I needed to do more than just break my routine; I needed to smash it to smithereens. That was my deciding factor for taking this job. Nothing could be the same. Out with the old and in with the refreshingly unrehearsed.

A few Saturdays back I asked Claire and David to pop round for 11:00hrs. I didn’t tell them why though, thinking that they would assume that I was either ill, or dying, or going to give them some money (possibly all three if the illness was terminal). I left my invitation purposely vague, allowing them to interpret it any way they chose. Claire inherited my appreciation for strict punctuality and sure enough, at the stroke of 10:59hrs she let herself in with her spare key. David arrived some 23 minutes later cursing another motorist that had cut him up on the ring road. His clothes were creased and his aftershave was stale. It didn’t look as if he’d been home the previous night, but I didn’t ask if everything was all right with him and Laura, although it did cross my mind. By the time I’d taken his jacket and hung it at the end of the stairs, I had already sided with Laura anyway, knowing that if they were having marital problems then they were no doubt of my son’s making. I told Claire and David to help themselves to the fresh pot of tea in the kitchen, and quite without invitation, David pilfered my last three chocolate digestives that I was saving for my bedtime cocoa. That didn’t put me in a good mood from the outset, and I knew that my news would shock them because I no longer had the impetus to beat around the bush.

“I’m going away” I told them flatly.

Bless Claire for thinking that was a secret code for me popping my clogs, and I hastily corrected her when she asked me how long I had. David was already mentally evaluating the ornaments in my glass cabinet, trying not to look too obvious about it.

“I’ve accepted a new job and it’s got its own accommodation as part of the package,” I told them. David didn’t even ask what the job was; he only wanted to know the exact date that I intended to leave. That could have been the very next day as far as I was concerned, but I hadn’t let on to the children how unhappy I was. I didn’t want to worry them, and there was little they could do about it anyway. Neither had the room for me at their places and I would never have even dreamt of imposing myself upon them even if they did.

As my accommodation was fully-furnished, I no longer needed my bed, wardrobes, sofa or the two armchairs, so whatever Claire or David didn’t want was either taken to the charity shop or down the tip. In many ways it was as if I really had popped my clogs, because the bungalow was stripped bare of anything precious to me (now within the suitcase at my feet, or the satchel by my side). The bungalow was put up for sale and a lovely married couple put in an offer that was duly accepted. They were newly-married and had dogs instead of children, as many young couples tend to do these days, so the bungalow was the perfect size for them. Within a matter of 6 weeks all the paperwork was finished and I was eager to start my new life – or more accurately, start a new direction for my current one, however many years I had left to spend.

I put on a little goodbye tea and invited Claire and her (then current, now ex) boyfriend Jason, and David and Laura, although Jason had to leave early as he was helping a friend move house and he needed his van. Neither of my offspring had any children - which I take as a blessing as far as David is concerned - I couldn’t imagine a miniature version of him running about the place. But Claire is a real shame. She’s very much like Molly in so many ways, and I know that she would make a wonderful mother. She doesn’t have the time, so she tells me, what with her job, going down the gym or out with her friends. Molly and I never worried about fitting a child into our busy schedules when we were young – we never even had such a thing in our day!

When I think about all the sacrifices that we made when the children were growing up, I don’t know how we managed to keep a smile on our faces. Claire and David were born only 18 months apart so at one point there were 4 of us in a 2 bedroom flat, with the children sharing. Molly got a part-time job at the library, which enabled us to look at getting a bigger place. My salary was adequate, but Molly was always one to pull her weight. It was important, we both agreed, that the children have their own rooms, but even that came with its sacrifices. I had always set my heart on a den; somewhere quiet to read a MacLean, Cussler or even a Deighton, or look out onto the garden, or somewhere just to sit and contemplate the throes of life.

Eventually, we moved into a semi-detached with a nice south-facing garden and a spacious conservatory, which meant plenty of light all year round. It had its own radiator and blinds that you could pull down if you wanted to block out the sun, with patio doors leading out into the back garden. There was a perfect position for a desk and ample room for a nice swivel chair, preferably high-backed and firmly upholstered. But it never came to pass. Somewhere along the way it became a playroom for the children. Whenever I would walk into that room, stepping carefully through the minefield of toys, I would feel my stomach sag a little lower and I would be reminded of how fleeting dreams can be.

We stayed at that house for 14 years before Molly was forced to give up work because of her illness, and that’s why we decided to move into a bungalow, so she wouldn’t have to worry about the stairs. That was where she spent the remainder of her years, bed-ridden in the back room with the curtains permanently drawn. I made sure that I put all her china ornaments on the dressing table so that she could see them, and once a week I would go in and give them a quick polish. She would give me such a look if I ever put them back in the wrong positions, let me tell you! They all had to run in order: the father horse, the mother horse and then the two baby horses. Claire had given them to her one Mother’s Day and Molly was always very fond of those ornaments. Even though her memory was going towards the end, she never forgot how much they meant to her. No wonder I couldn’t set foot in that room after she’d gone. I’d considered redecorating several times over the past few months, but it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t
my
room. It was Molly’s room. It was just yesterday when I opened that door and said my final goodbyes to her. Even though her ashes were spread throughout the forest where we used to walk when we were courting, I always felt that a part of her had remained in that room. It had been her prison, but she never once complained about it, my Molly. Her body had already imprisoned her enough, so a tiny little box room wasn’t going to add to her ordeal.

I stepped out of my memories once I’d noticed the time. Now the chap that I was scheduled to meet was almost 93 minutes late. It was beyond a joke! Of all offices, I had expected his to be a bit more reliable. I dug my hand into the inside pocket of my anorak and pulled out the envelope that I had received, but without my spectacles, all I could make out was the crest at the top of the letter. I was certain that I hadn’t made a mistake. I have always been appreciative of punctuality, not just for my own calendar but for other people’s too. If someone says they’ll be somewhere at a certain time but fail to show up (without prior notification) then it is inexcusable. Promises had been made, agreements and contracts signed, I couldn’t just go back home and pick up my life again as if nothing had happened.