Sidings 5

Part 5

Geoff looked back at his name on the board. He rested his finger under it, whispering, ‘Cawley, 2162. Cawley 2162.’

‘Come on,’ said George, putting his arm around Geoff and guiding him away from the timetables. ‘Let’s get you sat down. It’s all a bit of a shock to begin with.’

Geoff stared ahead as they walked down the platform. They passed below an electronic display, it’s orange dots fixed and steady. Geoff looked up.
‘2023,’ he murmured as he read the numbers. ‘2023.’

They reached the bench where Hugh sat. ‘Alright?’ he asked, still scanning the newspaper, hoping to find something he hadn’t read already.

Terry guided Geoff down next to Hugh. ‘There you go, mate’ he said, looking concerned.

Geoff sat, his gaze fixed, unfocussed. His lips moved but the sound was barely audible. ‘2023, 2023.’

‘I don’t like the look of him,’ said Terry. ‘He hasn’t taken it well.’

‘Do they ever?’ said Hugh, carefully folding his newspaper.

Geoff’s voice was building in volume. ‘2023, 2023, 2023…’

Hugh stood up, stowing his newspaper under an arm like a drill sergeant’s pace stick. He studied Geoff. ‘Yes, he’s about to blow. No doubt about it. Stand by, laddie,’ he ordered.

Geoff sprang up from the bench, screaming, ‘2162! 2162!’

Terry was trying to hold Geoff. They wrestled as he continued to shout the numbers, now a rising inclination, ‘2162? 2162?’

‘Help me, Hugh. We don’t want him trying to make a run for it,’ pleaded Terry. He was attempting to grip Geoff’s arms as they writhed like frenzied eels.

Hugh slapped his rolled newspaper against Geoff’s cheek. The shock of the strike brought him to a standstill.

After a brief hiatus, Geoff started to struggle again, managing to break free from Terry.

The sound of the newspaper landing on the top of Geoff’s head resonated along the station. ‘That… will… do…’ shouted Hugh with each blow.

Geoff crouched down under the volley; his arms arched over his head as he dropped to the floor.

‘That’s enough,’ shouted Terry as he kneeled next to Geoff.

The elderly couple in the waiting room came out onto the platform curious to see what was happening.

‘My apologies folks,’ said Hugh, smoothing his roll of newspaper as he spoke. ‘Our new arrival. I’m afraid he needed a little sedative.’ He raised the paper and waved it in the air. ‘It’s all sorted now.’

With disapproving shakes of the head, the man and woman disappeared back inside.

Hugh helped Terry lift Geoff to his feet. They guided him carefully to the bench. Geoff sobbed. He rocked back and forth in his seat, tears streaming over his cheeks and dropping into his lap.

Terry sat beside him. ‘It’s okay It’s a shock to all of us at first.’

‘Aye,’ added Hugh. ‘You’re not the first man to cry like a baby.’

Terry looked up at Hugh, frowning.

‘What?’ asked Hugh. ‘It’s true.’

Geoff was trying to say something.

‘It’s okay. Take your time,’ said Terry.

Hugh sat on the other side of Geoff. He considered having a glance at his newspaper but thought better of it. He rested it across his thighs and assessed the damage. Please God, see that the next one brings a decent paper with them, he thought.

‘Why is this happening to me?’ asked Geoff, his crying subsiding just enough for him to speak.

‘Well, the way I see it,’ began Terry, ‘is that we’re here for a purpose.’

‘Oh, here we go,’ mocked Hugh.

‘What? It’s what I believe Hugh,’ insisted Terry.

‘Aye, it’s what you believe laddie, nothing more.’

‘But he asked us a question. I’m giving him my answer.’

‘Aye and there’s no need to sugar-coat it. Best he hears it as it is.’

‘Well, I’m just saying there are several different ways at looking at it. People have different interpretations.’

‘Oh, come on!’ snapped Geoff. He appeared more annoyed than distressed. He turned his head to look at both men in turn. ‘Have you two quite finished?’

‘Sorry,’ said Terry.

‘May I?’ asked Hugh, looking across at Terry.

‘Be my guest,’ Terry replied, folding his arms, and settling back on the bench.

‘This is what we know,’ continued Hugh. ‘We’ve been brought here for a reason. We can only guess at why. Judging from what other passengers have told me in conversation, or from my own observations, those arriving seem to be, what would you say, lacking certain graces.’

Terry chuckled. ‘Lacking certain graces?’

‘And how exactly would you put it, laddie?’

‘How about miserable, or mean, nasty, bad tempered, short tempered, a bit of an arse…’

‘Aye,’ interrupted Hugh. ‘As I was saying, we seem to be lacking certain…’ He glanced at Terry, who was grinning devilishly. ‘We seem to be lacking… decorum. Yes, decorum, I’d say.’

Terry laughed. ‘Decorum?’

‘Hey. Don’t be thinking you’re beyond a good thumping,’ threatened Hugh.

‘Whoa, steady now,’ said Terry, his laugh quickly subsiding. ‘We don’t want your train being delayed.’ He leant into Geoff and spoke softly into his ear. ‘What our friend is trying to say is that we’re all, or we have been, as my old mum used to say, nasty bags of washing.’

Geoff lifted his head, roused from staring at the flagstone between the scuffed toecaps of his shoes. ‘We’re what?’ he asked.

‘Well, take me for example,’ said Terry. ‘I loved my mum, was raised to respect my elders and be polite to those that lived in the street. But after a hard week at work, I liked to unwind with my mates, have a few pints, and spend Saturday afternoon at the Bridge.’

‘The Bridge?’ asked Geoff, barely interested.

‘Stamford Bridge,’ replied Terry. ‘Not that I was that bothered about the football, mind. It was all about the fighting.’

‘And to think that’s what they’ve done to the game. Longhaired hooligans, the lot of them,’ added Hugh.

‘Yeah, afraid so,’ conceded Terry, ‘I can’t deny it. Every weekend. Until I took one kicking too many in an alley by Filbert Street.’

‘Bloody disgrace,’ muttered Hugh.

‘I’m not proud of it,’ admitted Terry, ‘but none of us are perfect. All of us here could have done a better job of it. I was a football hooligan. Hugh was a…’ He stopped talking as he saw the Scotsman slowly raising the brim of his bowler hat with a pointed finger. ‘Well, I was a football hooligan, and I dare say you might admit to being a bit of a grouch. If the truth be told.’

Geoff started crying again. He groaned, bending forward, dragging his fingers through his thinning hair, and resting them on the back of his head. With his elbows braced on his thighs, his body trembled. He sat back again, looking up at the station roof as he spoke. ‘What about Susan? What about my wife?’

The three men sat in uncomfortable silence.

Hugh stood up. ‘Come on,’ he said, gesturing with his thumb. ‘That’s enough of all that. Let’s get you off to see old Bill.’

Geoff wiped his cheeks with his jacket sleeve. ‘The Old Bill?’ he asked.

‘Christ, have mercy, no. Not the Old Bill, just old Bill.’

Terry laughed. ‘He means Old William. He keeps our clothes store.’

‘Run’s it more like a haberdashery than a warehouse,’ added Hugh. ‘If people arrive here with luggage, they’re encouraged to donate it to the collection. Not everyone can be persuaded, but we find one set of clothes will suffice.’

‘If there’s one good thing about being here,’ said Terry, rising to his feet, ‘it’s the absence of sweat glands.’ He sniffed his armpit and grinned. ‘Fresh as a daisy.’

‘Charming,’ replied Hugh. ‘He’s right, mind. It would seem only tears are essential for repentance, nothing more.’ They helped Geoff to his feet. ‘You won’t be needing to dress for dinner either,’ continued Hugh, ‘but there’s no sense waiting around an eternity in those dirty things.’

‘An eternity?’ asked Geoff.

‘Well, no, not an eternity,’ Hugh replied, ‘just a figure of speech, laddie. What was it, 2160…?’

Geoff didn’t answer.

‘2162, I think,’ suggested Terry, as they started to lead Geoff away, his upper arms held firmly by the two men on each side.

Geoff walked between them, his head bowed, like a man being escorted to the gallows.

They approached the storeroom, its door a thick layer of blue gloss, the station lights behind them reflecting brightly on its surface.

Terry hesitated before pressing the bell button. ‘Whatever you do, don’t be too critical about the clothes he offers you,’ he said.

‘Aye, rumour has it he arrived on Stephenson’s Rocket,’ added Hugh. ‘He’s been here all this time and he’s still a curmudgeonly old bast…’

The sound of a bolt scraping in its housing silenced him, and the door swung open.