Commencing Our Descent. Suzannah Dunn

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       A WEEP FROM A WOUND

      Yesterday, I was on a train, gazing through the window, with my headphones on and a CD spinning, when, from beyond the foam cushions of my earpieces, I heard, ‘Sadie.’ I looked up at a man in a suit as he reminded me, ‘Edwin Robinson: we met on Sunday at George Reynolds’ house.’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ I smiled, not knowing what else to say or do. I knocked the headphones down the length of my hair; the foam pads became pincers on the base of my throat. ‘Yes, hello. Edwin.’ His name was news to me.

      ‘Hello.’ He smiled, in return, without moving a facial muscle: somehow he gave an impression of smiling. ‘Do you mind?’

      Mind what? What had I done?

      He indicated the vacant seat opposite me.

      ‘Oh, no, no.’

      But, of course, I did; I did mind. Already, I had been captivated by the view, a screening of endlessly familiar suburbs, as slick as an advert. I was giving myself up to solitude, indolence, music: that unique, magical combination, my compensation for having to endure the train. The horrors of train travel: sunshine baked inside double-glazed, dirt-glazed windows; the ferocious slams of doors; blocked toilets and waterless taps; depleted buffets; delays. And now someone with whom I would be hard-pressed to pass the time of day, but with whom I would have to spend forty minutes.

      He looked exactly as he had looked at George’s house: he could have been waiting at the station all week. I was dressed very differently from how I had been dressed on Sunday: I was in clothes for a trip to town rather than something that resembled a tennis dress. But even with a disc of black glass over each eye and a contraption over my head and ears, I had been recognisable: my hair, a beacon.

      He was apologetic: ‘Actually, there’s nowhere else.’

      As far as I could see, every vacant seat bore a white card. ‘Reservations?’

      He muttered, ‘Reservations, I’ve had a few.’ Then, ‘Don’t let me stop you.’

      I had no idea what he meant.

      He pointed to my CD player.

      ‘Oh,’ I smiled my thanks, ‘no.’

      ‘No, please: listen away. Do.’

      ‘No, really.’ My solitude, indolence and music in front of him? I would have taken more kindly to a proposal that he watch me have a bath.

      ‘I’d hate to think that I could come between you and …’ He looked away, to the window, before asking, ‘something poppy?’

      Momentary confusion, for me, so I explained, ‘That’s my nickname.’

      An eyebrow kinked, questioning.

      ‘Poppy.’

      ‘Oh, I am sorry.’

      Was this sympathy? and how dare he? or an apology? and if so, for what? for the inadvertent familiarity?

      He continued, ‘How nice. Because of your hair?’

      I inclined my head, to give him what was intended as a long look: Stupid question. For a second, I pondered the symbolism of poppies: late-blooming? death-defying? full of opium?

      ‘Who uses this nickname of yours?’ But suddenly he backtracked, ‘I suppose that’s rather a personal question.’

      ‘Not at all.’

      How quaint: a personal question.

      I replied, ‘Almost everyone.’ This was the best that I could do; a more adequate account would have required my life story, friend by friend. I said, ‘Friends, family.’

      Old friends, I had been about to say, before realising that I had no other kind: new friend being, for me, I realised, a contradiction in terms. With the exception of George; if I could count George.

      ‘So, the hair colour’s natural?’

      ‘You think anyone would try to sell this?’

      He smiled. And this time, I saw how: a narrowing of the eyes; a tightening in one corner of the mouth. ‘Perhaps they should.’

      Then he nodded towards my CD player. ‘So, something poppy? Something I’m too old to know?’

      I was amused: ‘How old do you think I am.’ A rhetorical question.

      But he replied. ‘Mid-twenties.’

      I shook my head, owned up, ‘I’m the wrong side of thirty.’

      ‘Mid-twenties СКАЧАТЬ