Out of Liverpool Street station

It has been a hot day. Now the children are back at school, anyone with any sense and money left will have gone on holiday. The rest of us are stuck on this train to Essex.

The woman diagonally opposite me looks of a delicate disposition. She reminds me of Frances de la Tour, but with platinum blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. She dabs at her face with a handkerchief. She is too elegant to slump in her seat, but she seems weighed down by something. As the train leaves London behind and heads towards the M25 belt that holds the city in, the heat, the time of day, her fellow passengers seem to get her down and she droops a little further. As do her eyelashes.

She is dressed as any conservative, even modest, city worker might. A pale fuschia linen shift dress and fitted cardigan for the expected autumn weather that has not quite arrived. Her shoes verge on the sensible. Her eyelashes are a feat of engineering but, in the heat, the glue seems to be melting. We cross the M25. Slowly, she removes her compact mirror from her small, neat handbag on her lap. She leans forward, peering into the mirror. She touches the undersides of her false lashes, lifting them slightly. I wonder if they had started to impede her vision. I wonder why she has them on for a day in the office. I know girls who wear false eyelashes all year round, work and play, but they are twenty. This commuter is anywhere between fifty and sixty-five.

When Operation Eyelash has been completed, she takes out a wet wipe from a packet and wipes round the edge of the compact and then her fingers. Then she takes out her mobile. It is possible that I am now on the edge of my seat. Certainly, I am trying not to stare. This woman makes strange but compelling viewing on this hot train. I have given up pretending to read the free newspaper. I am drawn in by her movements, all are slow and deliberate. This phone call must be important.

She does not press the ring button on the phone until the train is at a scheduled standstill. The voice on the other line answers the phone. We hear from him that his name is Steve. She says one word, so low that an eavesdropper like me would have to strain to hear it.

‘Shenfield.’

Then she hangs up.

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Posted on September 12, 2012, in Words and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

  1. Wray Barton Wrecking Crew

    I like your last two blogs very much. More of the same please!

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