Inglorious (34 page)

With a low feeling of relief, she bought a ticket for the first train that was leaving the country, and that train was going to Paris. She would have gone to Brussels or Ghent, or wherever they sent her. She didn’t mind. Now her heart was thumping; her nerves were on edge. Her tooth was definitely loose, but she would see to that later. She filed along the platform,
finding her seat, arranging her bag in the luggage compartment. She was so tired she hardly noticed her surroundings, and when the train pulled out she turned to the wall and slept. She slept deeply, until she was woken as the train began to pick up speed. Stirring in her seat, she turned to the window and saw the sky was wreathed in clouds. There was a plane moving through the sky, weaving a trail of smoke that coiled and floated and then disintegrated slowly. The day had been dull earlier, but now the sun was shining faintly. Trees were moving gently in a low wind, swaying towards the tracks. It was almost winter and the hedgerows were bare. The train was moving towards the outskirts of the country, where the land met the sea. Swiftly, it was passing steel containers. She saw the shapes of hills, grey-toned, shadowed by clouds. They passed a railway junkyard full of bits of track, rubbish, piles of concrete, and a ruined engine. There was a mound of rubble by the side of the track, moss at its tip. The automated voice was telling them all that smoking was not allowed on the train. She saw lines of cars and steel fences. She had left her notebook and pen on the table, a table she was sharing with a man who was reading
Le Monde.
She took her pen in her hand. Now she saw the sea ahead, glinting in the sunshine.

With a low moan the train went into the tunnel, and the lights in the carriage became thin streams of reflected colour. There were only a few people around her. The man opposite, with his newspaper, his head buried. A family, eating sandwiches. A few lone travellers, occupied with papers and books. It was very quiet, just the low grumble of wheels on tracks, and the fizz of the air conditioning. She took her pen and wrote:

Dear Martin White, she wrote. Now I really will write the article.
I can feel it coming on. I’m certain I’ll have it with you
soon. All best wishes, Rosa Lane.

As the train rumbled through the tunnel under the sea, she stared out of the window and thought she would call Andreas when she got to France.
Dear Andreas
. She would explain that she couldn’t come to see his play. She hoped they would meet again, when she had more money and a firmer grip on herself.
Dear Andreas
, she wrote.
Sorry I woke you. Thanks for everything.
I have gone away for a short while. But I will see you
soon. Love, Rosa.
Now she looked out of the window again, but in the darkness all she could see was her face, hovering, neither inside nor outside the carriage.
Dear Whitchurch,
she wrote.
Thanks so much, and goodbye.
It was 3 p.m. and the service would be over. They would be at a reception in some flower-draped parlour, everyone with a glass in hand. The couple illuminated by the flash of cameras. Holding each other tightly. Well, that was done. She nodded and thought at least it was over. Her father would be in his garden, talking Spanish to Sarah. Jess would be plainly relieved, sipping champagne with the rest – Whitchurch, Lorne in an oversized suit. Liam and Grace receiving compliments. Kersti would be smiling and
patting them on the back. Perhaps Liam would give her a conspiratorial nod – ‘Yes, we settled it.’ But she thought he would keep quiet about it all. It would hardly be his main concern. Later they would all go back to their lighted rooms, with their views of brick walls and incessant motion. Andreas would be rehearsing his play somewhere in the south, shouting lines, his face flushed in concentration. Along the Westway the cars would be moving in slow files, and the trains would be snorting into Paddington and the city would be supplying dreams to the hopeful, pace and purpose to the uncertain.

To my dear mother
, she thought.
I know that you wouldn’t have wanted me to get so crazy about it all. I don’t yet
understand, nor do I accept it. I don’t accept any of it. But I
am trying to find a way to resume.
She didn’t want to go back to her previous lack of thought, her blitheness. She had lost that, she hoped. If she could just get back some of her tranquillity, then she would try not to slide into blitheness again. Aware of the abyss, but not staring straight down into it, that must be the best way to be.
Es muss sein
, she thought, and she grimaced and wanted to pound her fists on the window. She shuddered and thought it was a long way down, and a long way up, and all she had done was board a train. Another train, and even last time she had thought that would prove the catalyst.
I don’t want this to become normality, my
dear mother. It must surely be a transient state.
She was crying slightly but she thought she could keep it measured.
I
really will try this time,
she wrote, though she didn’t know if that meant anything. She shut her eyes again, and listened to the sounds of the carriage, the rustling of papers, the rise and fall of voices. They were all drifting in darkness, fumbling around. Perhaps that was it, after all. That was moderation, anyway. And then she thought how damn ironic that was, that you should seek obscurity and positively embrace ignorance. That you should fashion your philosophy from the acceptance of unknowability. Still she gripped her pen and wrote:
Your loving daughter.
She made a surreptitious
attempt to wipe her eyes. Resolution, she thought. She had to keep herself dry and quiet. The lights beyond were blurred and she saw grey tracks through the smoked glass. She heard the sweep of automatic doors behind her.
Bienvenue
en
France
said a metallic voice. A cold sun was shining.
Things
to do, Friday this day you are leaving the city,
she thought.
Things to do.
When the train emerged from the tunnel she saw broad fields stretching away. Now Rosa set down her notebook and stared out at the sky.

Joanna Kavenna grew up in various parts of Britain, and has also lived in the USA, France, Germany, Scandinavia and the Baltic States. Her first book
The Ice Museum
was about travelling in the North. Her second book, a novel called
Inglorious
, won the Orange Prize for New Writing. Kavenna’s writing has appeared in the
London Review of Books
, the
Guardian
and
Observer
, the
Times Literary Supplement
, the
International Herald Tribune
, the
Spectator
and the
Telegraph
, among other publications. She has held writing fellowships at St Antony’s College, Oxford and St John’s College, Cambridge. She currently lives in the Duddon Valley, Cumbria.