First Aid
Authors: Janet Davey
Contents
Janet Davey was born in 1953. Her first novel,
English
Correspondence,
was longlisted for the 2002 Orange Prize. She lives in London.
ALSO BY JANET DAVEY
English Correspondence
To Imogen and Rosamund
Janet Davey
1
IF YOU WANT
to know how things used to be and still are, you can go on a train to the far end of the East Kent line and start paying attention after Ashford International. The train itself is suited to nostalgia: no automatic doors or high-tech hums, just doors that slam and windows that open wide enough to lean out of, and which have to be leant out of, in order to open the doors from the outside. Then there are the stations, neat but run-down, built like houses, with windows and chimneys and iron railings. And nothing is spoiled by getting out. It is worth getting out and looking up and down the straight tracks, blurred by the seed heads on the grasses. Check the times of the return trains, two an hour, in the still, square station hall and set off. You will have to ignore the cars, parked and moving, bright and insignificant against the tall old houses, ludicrously capacious against the low terraced cottages. This is routine obliteration and you'll soon come to the street with the shops. Everyone likes old shops: yellow cellophane stretched across windows to keep out the sun, items of household linen you haven't seen for years, roller towels, kettle holders, floor cloths, piles of tea cloths for eternal washing up. And in the junk shop, the remains of the remains of people's lives. Always more saucers than cups. There's a sense of loss, but offhand, not profound. Catch the rapid speech and abrupt applause of midday radio comedy, coming from the back.
The train home, in the late afternoon, is slightly busier, but you still have a compartment to yourself. The front carriage is out in the sun and the rest of the train is shaded by the scalloped edges of the station roof. The other people getting on are mostly local â going a few stops at the end of the working day or travelling up for an evening in London. Already the capital overflows to meet you, seeping down the line. Loose pages from the
Evening Standard
flutter on the seat. The last of the sea breezes.
You hear footsteps, voices and a scuffle outside. The whistle blows. The door of the next compartment is opened. There is a thud and something heavy scrapes along the floor.
âDon't just stand there, Ella. Help, for God's sake. I can't get this lot on with you in the way. The train's about to leave.'
It is a woman speaking â the open-air sound of someone saying goodbye â though the words aren't goodbye.
âLet it leave.'
âWell, carry something, or pick up your sister.'
A boy appears in the gap that runs down the middle of the carriage. He's wearing a baggy T-shirt and jeans and heavy trainers. He looks tall enough to be twelve or thirteen but his face has a child's roundness.
âThere's more space here, Mum,' he says.
âElla, move some of this stuff. I won't be able to shut the door. Sorry, was that your foot? Sorry. Ella, pick Annie up so I can get these bags in.'
The boy turns and tugs at a suitcase that has appeared behind him.
âElla, push that through. Help, for God's sake.' The woman's voice is inside now.
The suitcase lurches through the gap that connects the compartments and bangs against the boy's shins.
âShe didn't say kick it,' he says.
The door slams and the train moves off, rattling out of the station. The boy braces one foot against the seat and heaves the case on to the luggage rack. His arms shake with the effort, but he wedges it in place. He goes back to the gap and gathers up a battered holdall and a plastic laundry bag with its handles tied together. He swings them both up and presses them into the remaining space.
The woman appears, but she doesn't settle. She pushes strands of hair away from her face. Her attention shifts from object to object, then, distractedly, back down the carriage. A little girl trails behind her. She clasps a piece of her mother's skirt and with the other hand pulls at one of the straps of her sun-dress, hitching it back on her shoulder.
âRob, we'll never get it all down again,' the woman says.
âIt's out of the way, isn't it? Stop fussing, Mum. Give me what you've got in your hands,' the boy says.
He snatches two bulging black bin liners, tied into knots at the top, and tries to fit them on to the opposite rack.
âWhere's the buggy?' she says.
âI haven't seen it,' he says, still occupied with the bags.
âI didn't leave it on the platform, did I?'
An older girl pushes past her. She ignores everyone present and walks with exaggerated carefulness round a squashed chip on the floor. Then she examines a spare stretch of seat. She stares at the black disc of flattened chewing gum that is on the upholstery and sits clear of it. It is impossible not to watch her. She wants to be watched while pretending that no one is there to do the watching. She is a year or so older than the boy. Otherwise she looks like her mother. They have the same facial bones and almost identical hair. She pulls a magazine out of her bag, opens it across her knees, and flicks through the pages.
The woman moves back to the other compartment and the little girl goes after her, trying to catch at her hand.
âNo, there it is,' she says. âSorry, was that your foot? Sorry. Annie, don't walk that way. We're sitting here. Careful. Mind that umbrella. No, don't cry. You didn't hurt yourself. Get up, Annie. We're on the train.'
The woman returns, drops the folded buggy on the floor and sits down. She leans her head back, exhausted. The little girl picks herself up, examines her knees, then licks a finger and tries to rub the dirty marks off.
âLeave it where it is, Rob, there's enough up there,' the woman says through closed eyes.
The boy gets hold of the buggy and grapples with it above his head until it is clamped in place. The woman glances up and shuts her eyes again.
The train runs close to the cliff edge, in and out of tunnels stamped into the chalk. You can see a ferry in the Channel, people walking their dogs. It's not much of a sea view, but it is the sea. No one else looks out of the window.
âMum, that's disgusting. Annie's eating stuff off the floor,' says the boy.
The woman reaches forward and pulls the little girl to her. She half pinches her cheeks and fishes out the chip. The child's eyes light up in astonishment before scrunching up. She begins to cry.
âShut up, Annie,' says the boy. âDo you want a drink?'
âWhat did you say that for?' says the woman. âThere isn't a drink.'
âThere is,' says the boy. âIt's in one of those bags.'
âOh my God,' says the girl.
âI'll get it,' says the boy. âShut up, Annie.'
He climbs on to the seat and pulls down the laundry bag.
âIt's not in there,' says the woman. âPlease don't do this, Rob.'
âI know where it is, Mum. I can get at it when I've moved some of the stuff down.'
He stretches up and roots about, destabilising the pile and nearly toppling it to the floor. Eventually he hands down a small carton. The woman takes it and gives it to the child.
âGet down now, Rob.'
âI've just got to put it all back properly.'
A ticket collector comes through the door, which connects with the driver's cabin.
âGet off of them seats.'
The boy tries to push the bags back into place.
âI said off. People got to sit on them.'
The man stands and waits while the boy gives one last shove and clambers down. He looks at the woman. Down her right cheek, from the corner of her eye to the edge of her jaw, is a stripe of purple skin broken by a series of pale horizontal strips of sticking plaster that interlock like a large zip fastener. The child is sitting at her feet, trying to fit a straw into a carton. Orange liquid wells up and drips down her leg.
âDon't let me catch you doing that again,' the ticket collector says to the boy. He turns to go.
âThis is sick,' says the girl, without raising her eyes.
âSorry?' The ticket collector looks back over his shoulder.
âThis magazine. It's sick. I found it on the train. You should clear up. Not leave this kind of stuff lying around,' she says.
âShut up, El,' says the boy.
âYou shut up. And don't call me El.'
âNothing to do with me,' says the ticket collector. He disappears.
âWhat did you say that for?' the boy says.
âWhat do you mean?' the girl says.
âAbout picking it up on the train. You didn't.'
âI know. It's yours. I found it at home. It's sick. Games about total annihilation and hamster firing squads. You give them marks out of ten. You'll be into cake decoration next. Death Row in different-coloured icing. Haven't you got anything better to do?'
âLeave him alone, Ella. He's not hurting you,' the woman says.
âNot hurting me. Is that all you care about? Just because you've been hurt you don't have to take it out on the rest of us. Look at him. Ticking things in catalogues and fitting the fucking bags on the rack like Lego. I've got to share a room with him at Gran's.'
The girl starts to pluck at the bead bracelet round her wrist, twanging the elastic.
âAnnie'll whinge all the time. And you'll hang about like a ghost, not telling us what's going on. And Gran and Grandad'll be fussing round and making hot drinks and locking up at ten o'clock. Locking up. That'll be about it, won't it? All banged up together. What are we going away for, anyway?' she says.
The train jolts and stops. The engine chatters for a minute. Then cuts out. There is silence. Outside are fields and hedges and, in the distance, orderly rows of houses. The sea has gone.
The girl looks away from her mother and down the length of the carriage. Suddenly she grabs her bag, reaches the door, pulls the window down and leans out. She opens the door and jumps.
âMum,' says the boy. He is kneeling up on the seat, staring out.
The engine starts into life.
âMum. What are you going to do?'
âShut the door, Rob, before Annie falls out.'
The boy looks at her, agonised. The train begins to move. He gets up, rests one hand on the door-jamb and slams it shut with the other. The train picks up speed.
âWhat you up to now?' The ticket collector is standing there again. âWhat you doing with the window wide open?'
âNothing.'
The boy turns round, keeping his back to the door and hiding the view. The man looks sharply at him.
âWere you smoking? It's the same, you know, out the window or in. Counts the same. Hundred pound fine.'
He approaches the boy and sniffs.
âShut the window, then. You can't leave it like that.'
The boy turns back and slowly shuts the window all the way. The temperature rises as soon as it is fully closed. The ticket collector looks round the compartment.
