Being Henry Applebee

This, in a way, had been Spanner Number One, though Henry wasted no time at all in assuring her that he was more than capable of making the journey by himself. The point was, her intention to go with him had been there, so what difference did it ultimately make if instead of being here by his side, she was trapped at home in Ladbroke Grove?

As he manoeuvred himself one footstep at a time towards the waiting train, Henry briefly entertained the possibility that somehow, via a perverse twist of fate, he’d inadvertently willed the morning’s events into being. In truth, not once during the course of the last few tumultuous days had he considered it necessary for Amy to escort him – like some glorified minder! – on his trip. And yet, he acknowledged with a faint twinge of guilt, there was no denying that if it hadn’t been for her chance discovery, he wouldn’t now find himself at the epicentre of one of London’s busiest train terminals at all.

Henry brushed the thought from his head and reminded himself that he didn’t need a babysitter; his destination was Scotland, not the moon. And he wasn’t that incapacitated! Just because he was eighty-five (and counting) didn’t mean he couldn’t make it halfway across the country in one piece. Plenty of people his age would have driven!

He squeezed the handle of his suitcase and listened for the reassuring sound of the aged leather creaking beneath his fingers. His joints ached. His mouth, which still tasted ominously of blood, felt stale and dry.

If he could just get himself into his seat… If the guard would only blow his whistle and send the train wheezing and grunting out of the station… If he could put some distance at last between himself and the weary, winter-tide streets of cold, old, lonely London… Then and only then could he be certain that nothing and no one might prevent him from reaching his destination on time.

There had been all of eight days to digest the news, which in Henry’s world was less time than it took for the bulletproof avocados from his local corner shop to embrace their natural-born destiny and ripen. One minute he was pottering on the patio, mimicking the sound of the Papadopouloses’ chickens clucking in their homemade coop next door; the next, he was engaged in the most surreal telephone conversation of his life.

‘Uncle Henry, it’s Amy. I’m calling to say that I’ve found her. I think I’ve found the woman you’ve been searching for all these years.’

Henry pressed a finger to his ear and waited for the punchline, the dénouement, the inevitable Candid Camera reveal.

He stared at the framed reproduction of Monet’s sublime water lilies floating serenely on the hall wall. His instinct, once he’d had a second or two to process Amy’s words, was to gasp, but his jaw fell slack and all he could muster was an acute, ear-splitting silence.

He wrapped his hand around the empty glass vase on the bureau, moving it an inch this way, that way, keeping the pads of his fingers pressed to its cool, hard surface for no other reason than because it was the only object in his immediate line of vision that was solid, and tangible, and real.

A wave of longing rolled through his body. The sensation came close to overwhelming him until it was matched, molecule by molecule, by a slow-moving river of fear in his veins. What if there’d been a mix-up? What if this was all just another terrible mistake?

‘Uncle Henry, are you there?’

‘Yes, Amy,’ he replied. ‘I’m here.’

‘Good, because I need you to listen to this – it’s from an article in last night’s Evening Standard: “The inspiration for the novel came from the author’s mother, Yorkshire girl Francine Keeley, who in the aftermath of the Second World War worked as a waitress at Blackpool’s Shore Hotel.” Did you hear that? It’s her name. Her hotel. Same town. From everything you’ve told me, I don’t think there can be any mistake.’

Slowly, Henry let the vase go. Amy was right. The match was nothing short of perfect.

‘I’m sorry, Amy,’ he managed at last. ‘What exactly is this article about?’

There was a momentary pause.

‘Oh. Sorry, I should have said… It’s a spotlight on a new wave of debut authors, one of whom has written some sort of mystery-thriller set on the Lancashire coast in the 1940s. She credits her mother – “Francine Keeley” – and the Shore Hotel as the jumping-off points for her story. Honestly, you should thank the customer who left the paper behind in the café this morning, because otherwise I would never have seen it. I’ll drop it over to you after work and you can read it for yourself. In the meantime, I think it’s probably safe to assume that according to this, Francine is – or at one point was – married. Either way, the one thing we know for sure is that she has a daughter.’

Henry felt as though he were floating out of his shoes. He reached out his hand and grabbed the edge of the bureau before sinking in a state of burgeoning delirium onto the hallway chair.

Banjo raced in from the patio and began to paw frantically at Henry’s shins. Henry’s body slumped forwards, his elbows skidding to his knees. He was trying his damnedest to formulate a response, but his powers of expression were scrambled, his train of thought unclear.

‘I wouldn’t blame you for thinking it’s too late,’ Amy continued on the other end of the line. ‘It was practically a lifetime ago, after all. Then again – if she really is that important to you – if you make contact with her daughter, you’ll find Francine. The ball’s in your court, Uncle Henry. What do you want to do?’

Henry gripped the handle of his walking stick and pressed ahead. Determination coursed through every muscle of his body. He’d seen Francine in his dreams again last night, only this one was more real to him than most; so real he was sure he could even smell her perfume.

Her words haunted him still:

Francine.

Always and forever, Francine.

Even now, the memory cleaved Henry’s heart in two. Time, it seemed, had been cruel, and capricious. It had healed nothing.

One thing he’d learned for sure: digging around in his memories as he sat, pen in hand, bent over his notebook, was like sifting for gold; he never quite knew when the most precious nuggets of all – the ones with the power to steal his breath away – were going to filter up to the surface.

Catch me, Henry! – her arms beating wildly against her sides – Catch me if you can!

Her smile was electric. Sometimes it was a transitory feeling, gentle as a whisper, as intangible as a baby’s breath; at other times it was a profound ache that grabbed hold of Henry’s heart and tightened its grip like an iron fist. It astounded him how the human heart could remain so vital and complex with the passing of the years; an organ so unwaveringly loyal and pure and constant on the inside, while the outer body bowed to its inevitable decline.

And yet…

Henry glanced in renewed horror at his blood-splattered clothes. He’d experienced spontaneous nosebleeds once or twice before, but never like this. He wondered if it were a side effect of the medicine he’d been prescribed (but so rarely succumbed to taking) for one of his various ailments. He’d never placed much stock in doctors’ pills and potions; they handed them out far too readily for his liking, when mostly – just like every other lonely pensioner he knew – all he wanted was a chat and the opportunity for a bit of social interaction in the waiting room. And now look at him! A disgrace in his dove-grey suit! He wasn’t sure things could be going any worse. He must look like a decrepit Sweeney Todd!

Henry came to a stop alongside the train and placed his suitcase at the platform’s edge. Thank heavens for the girl: Ariel. Here she was standing right next to him telling him that she was travelling to Edinburgh, too:

‘I was supposed to be on the one that left at eight,’ she said, a little disconsolately. ‘But I had a total nightmare getting here on the Tube. I’m sure it’ll be fine if I just get on this one. I don’t suppose it’s full.’

As she spoke, a horde of passengers swarmed onto the platform behind them, and jostled past in a shamelessly undignified scramble to board the train.

‘Well, not completely full, anyway,’ Ariel added with a frown.

She turned and peered briefly through the First Class window. ‘Is this your carriage? It looks nice. Would you like me to see you to your seat?’

Henry smiled, partly at her kindness, but mainly at the expression of wonder on her face. He cast a discreet glance at the holes in her jeans, at her faded black plimsolls (just like the ones he and Devlin had worn in school!). At her side was what he assumed must be the hand-me-down exterior of her rather tired-looking suitcase on wheels. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but at her age he could never have afforded the luxury of first-class travel. More to the point, if it hadn’t been for her helpful intervention, in all likelihood he might not have been allowed to board the train at all…

‘My niece was supposed to be travelling with me today,’ he said in answer to her question. ‘But she’s been otherwise detained. Could I offer you her seat as a token of my thanks? Unless –’ he added somewhat doubtfully – ‘you already have a first-class ticket?’

He slipped the Basildon Bond envelope from his pocket and held out the tickets for Ariel to see. She looked down and regarded them with what appeared to be an expression of mild apprehension; or perhaps, it occurred to him with dismay, it was just sheer disbelief.

A violent rush of heat rose beneath his collar. ‘Of course,’ he muttered quickly, ‘if you’d rather not spend the entire journey in the company of an old man, and a bloody one at that, then I completely –’

‘Thank you, Henry.’ Ariel raised her head and gave him a shy, but none the less winning smile. ‘If you’re sure it wouldn’t be a problem, then yes, actually, that would be great.’

Relief flooded Henry’s face. ‘That’s settled then!’ he cried. ‘No sense in a perfectly good ticket going to waste!’

Ariel’s gaze shifted to the carriage steps, to his white-knuckled fingers curled around the handle of his stick. ‘Here, let me help you.’ Moving nimbly alongside him, she slipped her hand once more behind his arm.

Henry picked up his suitcase and stepped onto the train. The engine was already turning over, the microcosmic glow of the sleek, purring carriage firmly in his sights. The carriage door swung to behind him, gathering him up, buffering him in its steely embrace. He made his way inside, his heart pounding at the realisation that here, at last, was his return.

To his past…

And to the mistake that he’d give anything in the world to change.

Part Two

7

Train Hopping

DECEMBER 6: EN ROUTE

Ariel

Ariel slid her wheelie bag into the luggage area just inside the carriage door. As she released the handle, three words popped into her brain, imprinting themselves like a trail of skywriting on the inner trajectory of her gaze: embrace the unforeseen.

What, she asked herself, was that supposed to mean?

She repeated the phrase under her breath. It wasn’t exactly unfamiliar, but then neither could she remember where she might have picked it up. Maybe it meant she wasn’t supposed to be running after all? Maybe what she actually needed to do was surrender, and trust that what was meant to unfold would do so naturally, of its own accord?

Immediately ahead of her, Henry drew to a stop, double-checked his reservation, and with a contented, ‘Ah, here we are,’ placed his suitcase on his seat.

Ariel followed behind him and walked into the carriage’s immaculate interior.

‘Holy shit.’

Her eyes made a rapid tour of her surroundings. The lighting was calm and muted. The seats were spacious and spotlessly clean. Even the air seemed less dense. She glanced to her right and saw that her seat was opposite Henry’s at the carriage’s near end. Their seating area (a table for two designated for herself and Henry, and a table for four with an aisle in between) was quasi-separated from the remainder of the passengers by a dusky glass panel which stretched all the way to the ceiling. She wondered if it had been tacked on as an afterthought, or whether it had been purposely designed to offer a small corner of additional exclusivity. Either way, she liked the subtle degree of privacy it provided. Seems like the perfect refuge, she mused, for anyone with something to hide.

‘That’s you,’ Henry said. He gestured amiably to her seat. ‘Make yourself at home!’

‘Thanks, Henry,’ she replied.

She slipped off her coat. Her mohair jumper – which had long seen better days – wilted under her gaze. Shit, she said again – silently, this time. She could just see Linus shaking his head in horror, then covering it up with a smile. She – like the rest of her family as far as she was aware – had never had the pleasure of travelling anywhere First Class.

She tucked her canvas shoulder bag under the table and sat down. ‘It’s another world in here,’ she said, her voice shot with awe. ‘Lots of leg room. Actual metal cutlery. Nice.’

An invisible steward had laid the table with white china mugs, place mats, svelte silver spoons – all much too smart for a girl from Oystermouth wearing ripped jeans and a charity-shop jumper. Her fingers sought the ends of her sleeves and curled around them into a protective ball.

‘My niece persuaded me to treat myself,’ Henry replied. ‘Of course, that was when she thought she’d be travelling with me. It’ll be one less thing for the bucket list, I suppose!’

Ariel smiled, then glanced over her shoulder and furtively eyed the door. She wondered if Henry would be offended if she made an excuse and slipped back to her rightful place in Standard Class, where she belonged.

Something moved in the corner of her eye, a quick flash of blue. A guy in his mid-twenties was lounging behind the table for four across the aisle. He was dressed in a woollen beanie, faded black jeans, and an electric-blue fisherman’s jumper almost as threadbare as her own. A tangle of rope and leather cords snaked around his wrist. His dark hair was splayed out in a casual mess beneath his hat, and from the dusting of stubble on his chin, it was obvious he hadn’t seen a razor in days.

He looked over and met her gaze.

Ariel gave him a self-conscious smile and deflected her attention further down the carriage. A group of businessmen were staking out their terrain, visibly assessing the available table space between themselves and their neighbours. She stared at them in disbelief. It was like laptops at dawn! Did they seriously not have enough room?

‘Well, there’s plenty of room here!’ Henry said in a cheerful voice.

He removed his coat, folded it into a rectangle and placed it next to his walking stick in the luggage rack overhead. ‘How the other half lives! It’ll be walk-in closets for everyone next!’

He bent over and rummaged in his suitcase, which was now lying open on his seat. Ariel tilted her head and discreetly peeped inside. His belongings were arranged in neat piles and held in place by four crisscrossing elasticated straps which snapped together in the middle like a pair of gentlemen’s braces. The case’s lining – a soft, fuzzy turmeric – was patchy and worn, its edges stained with rusty blooms of ochre and brown. Overall, she got the impression the suitcase must be almost as old as he was.

‘Back in a jiffy,’ Henry said. He pulled himself upright, tucked a bundle of fresh clothing under his arm and retraced his steps through the sliding door.

A palpable air of mystery lingered in his wake, absorbing Ariel’s thoughts entirely before curling around her shoulders and settling on the now closed, tight-lipped surface of his suitcase.

‘Excuse me? If you don’t mind me asking, is the gentleman okay?’

Her neighbour in the woollen beanie was staring at her over a copy of the Time Out Guide to Edinburgh. His question – along with his American accent – caught her momentarily off-guard.

‘Oh. Yes, he’s fine, thanks. He had a nosebleed. A pretty bad one, but it seems to be under control now.’

‘Nosebleed, huh? That’s a relief. I thought maybe he’d been in a fight.’ Beanie Guy’s deadpan demeanour segued into a broad, easy smile.

She waited for him to return to his book, but he held her gaze, his inquisitive brown eyes watching her closely, like someone examining something curious, something foreign or unfamiliar under a microscopic lens. A moment later he shifted forwards in his seat, his palm pressed to his chest.

‘Hi, I’m Travis Farlan. I’m guessing we’re going to be sitting across the aisle from one another for the next four and a half hours, so I thought I may as well live up to the cultural cliché of the gregarious American and introduce myself.’

As he spoke, Ariel noticed a battered music case lying on the window seat beside him. The case was liberally plastered with a ragtag collection of stickers, the majority of which were scuffed and fraying at the edges. She caught the word ‘Chicago’ emblazoned across one; ‘Monterey’ on another. A couple of friends from school had wandered the hallways with stickered cases like that. Violins and flutes, mainly. The odd French horn. Every once in a while one or other of them would get pounced on in the schoolyard. One boy even had his viola tossed into the recycling bin. She never understood why they were targeted like that. She always thought they were cool.

‘If you’re the gregarious American, does that make me a classically reserved Brit?’ she countered with a smile.

Travis held up his hands and laughed. ‘Touché!’

Ariel leaned her elbows on the table, taking care not to disturb the precise alignment of the crockery any more than was absolutely necessary. ‘I’m Ariel Bliss, and he’s –’ she pointed vaguely towards Henry’s empty seat – ‘Henry.’

She hesitated, unsure what more to add, then decided the truth was as good as anything under the circumstances. ‘Henry and I met in the station this morning. I went over to make sure he was okay, and when he found out we were both travelling to Edinburgh he offered me his spare first-class ticket as a thank you.’

‘For real? That’s awesome! You and I are kindred spirits. My first-class ticket was a gift, too.’ He uttered a low chuckle. ‘We’re like a pair of high-class railroad bums. I guess both of us landed on our feet.’

‘Sorry?’

‘It’s a train-hopping reference. Or don’t you guys have that over here?’

Ariel gave him a blank stare.

‘Maybe not…’

She raised her eyebrows. ‘So…’

Travis seized his cue. ‘So basically, there’s this whole subculture of homeless people who ride freight trains all over the U.S. – illegally, obviously. They’re like modern-day hobos. They haven’t got any place to live, so they use the rolling stock as a means of putting a temporary roof over their heads. Some of them cover hundreds and thousands of miles a year hopping from one freight carrier to another. Some even travel with families, kids as young as five or six.’

‘Sounds dangerous.’

‘Uh-huh. Imagine risking your life every time you jumped! They’d argue it’s worth it just to have the chance to kick back in one of those old, open boxcar carriages and watch the world fly by. You need some balls to do it, though.’

Ariel nestled deeper into the folds of her multicoloured scarf. ‘Can’t say I’d be up for it on a freezing cold day like today.’

Travis rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. ‘They stuff their clothes with newspaper to keep warm. Apparently.’

She shot him a questioning glance, but Travis just smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking… I’m a New Yorker, born and bred. I’ve done my fair share of cross-country travelling, but never like that. I’m a professional musician. There’s no way I could jump on and off moving trains and risk injuring my hands. I wouldn’t be much of a sax player without fully functioning fingers.’

He draped his arm affectionately over the top of his saxophone case and gave it a gentle pat. ‘Train hoppers have to contend with a shower of loose ballast if they fall between cars. They can lose limbs. Wind up dead. I like to think of myself as a free spirit, but those guys are fearless. I’m way too attached to life to risk it all for a cinema-screen view of the American landscape, no matter how awe-inspiring it might be.’

Their conversation was interrupted by the slamming of carriage doors and the piercing trill of the guard’s whistle. Ariel stared out of the window as the train began its slow, steady advance from the station.

‘Right on time,’ a voice announced at her side.

She turned to see Henry looking a million times better. ‘Hi, Henry. That was quick!’

Beneath his jacket he was now wearing a plain white shirt and light green tie. He’d washed his face and neck. Even wiped the specks of blood from his shoes. His complexion was still a little drawn, but overall she thought he looked pretty relaxed, considering.

He dropped his soiled clothing into a Tesco carrier bag which he flattened and slipped inside his suitcase, immediately above the elasticated straps. He clicked the case shut and bent over to lift it onto the luggage rack.

Travis sprang to his feet. ‘Can I help you with that?’

‘Oh, not to worry, I can manage. Thank you,’ Henry replied.

The loose, crêpey folds of skin on his neck stretched and tautened as he arched his back, and with quivering arms slid his case overhead. Lowering himself at last into his seat, he cast a final glance through the metal bars running above him.

‘We made it!’ he said to Ariel. ‘I don’t know why there’s always such a tangible sense of achievement about boarding a train. It almost makes you feel worthy of a medal just for negotiating your way to your seat.’

He clasped his hands in his lap, leaned his head against the back of his seat and closed his eyes.

Elsewhere throughout the carriage passengers shifted and settled; announcements were made over the loudspeaker; newspapers, books and laptops were opened; tablets switched on; earphones wedged in ears. Seduced by the rhythmic rocking of the train, a sea of heads lolled left and right.

Ariel gazed out of the window at the flat, industrial grey of the urban cityscape whizzing by. They were picking up speed now: ca-choo ca-choo, ca-choo ca-choo, ca-choo ca-choo.

Before long they slithered through a tunnel, and then, not even twenty minutes from King’s Cross, the train was flanked by a retinue of fields, and a bank of leafless trees rose to attention like balding consorts on either side of the track. The train barrelled onwards, the sun scrambling from behind a cloud to shine upon the trees’ outstretched branches, infusing them with an oddly mystical glow.

Exactly twenty-three minutes from London, the first cow lumbered into sight.