Moth Orchid by Nicola Jones
Late at night on Christmas Eve, Julie heads out of London to visit her grandmother, but the journey does not go smoothly.
London 1997
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The night is fresh and very cold. Tangled flurries of snowflakes pirouette up from the pavement, creep along street signs, in and out of doorways, and swirl onto rubbish bins, vehicles, people scurrying to get out of the bitter wind. It's Christmas Eve and I am leaving Harrison & Eccles, the law firm where I work. The art deco building that houses the offices is solid and stately; it stands proudly right on the bank of the river Thames. I am sheltering in the portico, preparing to emerge out into the cold and the snow. Two arcs of poinsettias have been placed on either side of the front doors, garnishing the entrance. The red leaves are aflame in the chill of the evening, shavings of snow circling them in the brisk wind. I pause for a moment to look more closely and realise that there, in the centre of the scarlet clusters, tucked in tightly, are the small yellow flowers of each plant. Tiny drops of brightness, luminous as miniature suns.
I turn from the festivity of the poinsettia plants and look left now, as I almost always do at the end of my workday, down towards the river and the broad concrete bridge that spans it. This evening the bridge has been transformed by a layer of pristine flakes blanketing its stark structure, a glistening shroud lying over the decay of the begrimed path. Beneath the snowy covering though, I know the debris still lies there - the grey, flattened lumps of gum, the scraped skids of rubber heels, the dirty tissues that have wiped something unthinkable, the crinkled crisp packets, the discarded cigarette stubs - the myriad detritus that is to be found on any packed commuter path leading in and out of the City. For tonight though, adorned in its temporary patina of icy glamour, London sparkles under the street lamps - a fine, plump lady dressed for a ball.
It's close to midnight, late - too late really - although watching the beauty of the falling snow and seeing how it has renewed the city has given me a resurgence of energy. I badly need this, since when I get back to my flat in west London, I must still collect my car, and already-packed bags, and start the long drive up to my grandmother's house on the Welsh border. I sigh, not with exhaustion as I had a few minutes earlier, but now with a quiet, gentle pleasure at the thought that I will soon see my Nan.
I turn away from the bridge and walk the short distance up to Monument tube station. At the entrance, I bend over to brush the snow from my coat, sprinkles of crisp, bright icing sugar clinging to the blue wool, and I realise how very nearly I have stepped on a ragged pile of clothes and newspapers. I pull back abruptly when I see that the heap is in fact a young man sprawled out on the pavement. He is only a little younger than I am, with a long face capped by a high, domed forehead. He could easily be any one of the legal trainees with whom I work. I feel my own good fortune keenly - a decent flat, a great (although not yet well-paid) job, close friends, a family (especially a grandmother) who loves me and helps steer me through the complications of life. The boy looks up at me in surprise as I lay a twenty pound note on his open hand. It's all I have in my wallet. He nods, blinks quickly, closes his fingers, stiff and mottled, and crumples the note into his palm. I hesitate for a moment, feeling the colour move into my cheeks (knowing how silly this is), then pull off my new black mittens and with an uncertain smile hold these out to him. He mutters a faint "thanks" as he takes the gloves, pockets the money and shoves his hands as far as he can into the thick warmth of the fleece.
"It's nothing," I say quickly in reply. And so it is, but as I walk on towards the ticket barrier, I feel just slightly better about myself, and perhaps even about the world in general. I swipe my pass, move through the barrier and push aside thoughts of how little I've actually done for the boy, how much more help he really needs. It is, after all, Christmas Eve, not the night to be dwelling for too long on such sad or gloomy things.
As I arrive on the westbound platform, I see that it is as relatively empty as one might expect this late on the night before Christmas. The few passengers already there are gathered in unsteady clumps, and most appear to have been out celebrating. As I weave my way through the small, swaying groups, trying to find a quiet spot, I imagine myself as a Higgs boson - my meandering presence lending mass, existence even, as I pass by. I stop near the end of the platform and wiggle my toes about as much as my formal work shoes will allow. The middling heels, fine black leather and thin soles are ideal for the office but not so well suited for this snowy evening. Looking down to unzip my briefcase, I see the blue and purple marbling of my hands. I rub them together and think of the warmth of my fleecy mittens.
I have just reached in to pull out my book, when I hear a burst of raucous laughter and harsh, taunting voices - some sort of kerfuffle going on further down the platform. Not wanting to get caught up in the fracas, nor in any way draw attention to myself, I keep my chin down and peer up through the veil of my fringe, lifting my brows to get a clearer view. As I watch, a group of four or five men in their twenties maraud along the platform, clearly trying to provoke an altercation. The farther away I am from that group, the better. I am making my way down to the far end of the platform when I hear the scraping metallic crunch of an approaching train. Once it stops, I step quickly into the end carriage, relieved to have escaped the "constellation of chaos", as I have termed the group of trouble-seeking men in my mind.
The carriage is empty, except for a pleasant-looking, fair-haired man in his early thirties. The man is dressed in a very typical dark-blue suit and has one ankle propped casually over the other knee. The thing that attracts my attention though is his choice of footwear - deep plum-coloured, well-worn desert boots. I like that. Very much not typical City attire. He is reading his paper and merely glances up briefly as I enter. "Perfect." I think. "Just one other person engrossed in his reading" (just as I intend to be once I've settled down). I sit on the opposite side of the carriage, next to the window. The heaters are on and it feels oddly cosy. I take off my coat and lay it on the seat beside me. Through the window I watch the platform stream by more and more rapidly as the train rumbles out. Once we are clear of the station and safely on our way, I pick up my book and begin to read.
I am on page 384 and they still haven't encountered the whale. There is such a misconception about this book, I think. It's so not about the whale. It's about choices, compulsion, culture, mores and expectations, perception, literature, history, philosophy even. The essence of mankind. I wonder in awe - how has the author been able to weave so much into this incomparable tale? I make a deep fold in the corner of the page to remind myself to go back to the passage I've just read - it is brilliantly good. Masterful.
I am so absorbed in my book that I've been unaware that the peace in the carriage is unravelling. Only when the door at the other end slams shut with a reverberating thud do I look up. The group of four men is now heading down the carriage towards me. They kick the seats as they go, pushing each other roughly, all the while laughing and swearing with self-conscious gusto. There is a clear leader - a wiry man of middling height with dark hair cut closely to his scalp. His eyes are deep brown and sharp.
I unzip the side pocket of my case and reach in to grab my set of keys. I do this reflexively, as it seems to be my only, admittedly paltry, means of defence. I squeeze the keys tightly until I feel the edges form indents in my fingers. The blond man sitting across the carriage moves his foot to the floor, looks over and holds my eyes for a moment. The acknowledgement moves between us: "Not good." I wonder about this man for a moment - What is he like, where does he come from? Does he have a wife, a child?
The crew is getting closer and I look down into my book, breathing purposefully. My hair falls across my cheek and I leave it there. I watch the big book on my lap rise and fall with the movement of my stomach.
"Oh look," says the dark-haired man, "isn't THIS nice?" He stands between the blond man and me and looks from one of us to the other. His face is contorted into a wide smile of false friendliness.
"What's this, then - the reeeading carriage?" The word is elongated in disdain.
I keep my head down and sit as still as I can. Is it possible that they might just go away? But no, I feel the bench shift as the man sits down next to me, not bothering to move my coat.
"Whatcha reading then?" he asks as he grabs at the book. I hear the pages rustle and a slight rip as he snatches it from me.
I look up then and say very quietly, since there seems to be no option, "Moby-Dick."
"Oh, the whale book," he says.
I am surprised that he knows of it and then immediately feel a flit of chagrin at my assumption.
"Yes," I say, softly and fairly evenly.
"So is it any good then?" he asks.
"Yes. Very," I say and look away, down the carriage.
"Oh, look how cute you are." He chuckles.
I let out a short breath, and as I do, he grabs one of my wrists.
"Your wrists are such tiny, skinny little things." He squeezes more tightly. "How do you even hold a big book like that anyway?" His breath wafts over me.
My wrist is now hurting, the skin turning white. I shrug in reply and turn to look out of the window.
Trees, pylons, buildings rush past. The snow is falling more heavily now. The rhythm of the train's movement is rocking the carriage. The window rattles.
For a moment I clearly hear a burst of Paul Weller:
"I first felt a fist and then a kick - I could now smell their breath. They smelled of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs and too many right-wing meetings... I'm down in the tube station at..."
"Hey! Look at me!" The man yanks my wrist and pulls me towards him. The hand in my pocket lets go of my keys.
"You're cute, you are. What are you doing on your own? You should have a man. Here, come sit on my lap." He forces me over roughly and pulls me on top of him.
My breath is coming unevenly now. The other men are whistling and guffawing as they close in around the seats.
The arc of bodies around me is obscuring my view of the blond man across the carriage, so when he speaks out, his voice seems to arrive from nowhere.
"Hey, guys. Leave her alone, OK? She's just a young woman." His words carry a distinct Australian accent. I wonder what my age has to do with it. Would it be OK if I were older?
"Shut up, Aussie!" yells the gang leader. "This is nothing to do with you. Keep out of it. Keep out of it or else you'll wish..." He flicks a glare over at the Australian and leaves the sentence unfinished.
The lackeys too have turned to look at the blond man and are starting to move towards him. The Australian man bends forward an inch or two, shifting his weight so that he is looking straight at me. When he nods, the movement is so slight that I nearly miss it. A brief dip of his head, a raise of his brow. I know what he means. We both know what it will mean. I want to tell him to keep out of it, keep safe, to thank him. But the words don't come.
The rhythm of the train is changing as it approaches the next station.
My eyes meet the Australian's again. He glances quickly at the door and then looks up as the gang closes in on him.
"Just leave her alone," he says again, his voice more assertive now.
The gang leader loosens his grip on my wrist and shoves me back onto the seat. He stands up and peers over.
"What did you say?" he asks quietly.
"I said, just leave her alone. She hasn't done anything to you."
"No, right, maybe she hasn't. But you have. Interfered in what's none of your business, you have."
There is a discordant squealing as the train is coming to a stop.
The dark-haired man is walking towards the Australian, wobbling from the jerking of the carriage. The man has put down his newspaper and is now facing the crew, waiting.
As the train comes to a halt and the doors rumble open, he nods once again to me and calls out, "Go! Now! Just go!"
I snatch up my bag and run. I make it along the corridor and jump out of the open doors before I look back. The gang has surrounded the blond man who is on his feet, raising his arm. The doors judder closed and the train moves off.
It is quiet as I stand on the platform. The snow is falling around me and I open my mouth wide to gulp it in. I swallow down the soft, icy air and feel the snowflakes melt and slide down my throat. The sight of the courageous man surrounded by four looming bodies tracks through my mind. I try to control my breathing, swallow down more of the cold air. I think about my book still lying on the seat, the corner of the page folded over - Melville's sultans seated on high, observing the predilections and contradictions of mankind, so far below. I let out a long breath, trying to expel the foulness I consumed in the carriage.
The platform is completely empty - no lights on in the station office, no person to be seen. I have no book, no coat, no gloves. I think of my warm jacket lying abandoned on the bristly seat. But I am safe. I cry momentarily. For myself, but also for the man trapped in the carriage. It feels pathetic and indulgent, as I think of the bravery of the man and then of my Nan, who will be waiting for me up in Shropshire. No wallowing, gain composure, find your resolve.
I know that at this time of night the wait for the next train will be at least ten minutes, probably more, but it seems to be the only option. I wait. Strangely, I don't feel cold. I don't feel anything. I stare down the track into the mottled, grey night. When finally I see the lights of a train emerging from the darkness, I begin to shiver. As soon as the train stops, I get into the nearest carriage and look around. It, like the station, is deserted. I move over to the red emergency handle, lift the plastic cover and pull the lever down with both hands. As I slump into the corner and stare down at my feet, I notice my shoes - how jagged, white rims of dampness have seeped up the sides to taint the polished black leather.
By the time someone has come, I've explained what happened, been assured that help for the Australian man is on its way, the train has resumed its journey, and I've walked the eight minutes home from the station in the dark night, it is a little after one a.m. I am exhausted. But still I collect my bags and leave in a daze. The drive up to Shropshire feels long but at least the traffic is light. The snow on the other hand is relentless; flakes come at the windscreen in an onslaught.
When I reach the country lanes close to Marchamley, the blizzard is close to blinding and my body and mind are spent. The lanes are narrow, and the leaning hedgerows, white and heavy, give me the feeling that I am creeping along a snow-lined burrow. The car skids and the right-hand bumper scrapes against the brush, displacing the hoary overlay and revealing the spiny tangles of the hawthorn beneath it. In a strange flash I can see through the branches into the hedge, see small animals taking refuge in the thicket - dormice cuddling in their nests, hedgehogs curled up into tight balls protected by their spikes. And in my vision there HE is too - the Australian man, tucked up with the dormice, bordered by the gentle, furry bodies, safe in the hidden sanctuary, somehow transported from the cold hostility of the carriage to this organic retreat. He smiles contentedly as he shifts in his sleep. I jerk my head and make myself concentrate on the road. Only a few miles to go.
It is the early hours of Christmas morning by the time I pull into the small driveway, and yet I can see my grandmother still waiting up for me. She sits dozing in a chair in the front room, illuminated by the diffuse light from a low table lamp. I sit for a moment, observing her and listening to the click and tick of the cooling engine. After a few minutes she rouses, smiles, waves briefly, then comes quickly to the front door. As soon as I emerge from the car and walk up the path, my Nan's indefatigable arms draw me in. When I lean against her, against her solid form, and breathe in, it is the warm smell of my childhood that surrounds me. As I nestle into her, the opal around her neck (hard, rounded, translucently pink), presses against me with a familiar coolness. I'm here. I am home.
We settle on the small sofa in front of the ageing fire, each of us with a cup of tea and I with my golden, crusty toast, a knob of butter melting in its centre. It is still dark outside, and the single lamp spreads a gentle light over the small room.
My grandmother's response to the account I give is compassionate, but, as is her way, she does not descend into sentimentality.
"Oh my Jule, what a thing to happen. How worn out you must be."
When my grandmother says my name, I feel beloved, protected. Forgiven.
We sit there together, gazing at the embers, and my grandmother begins a story that I have never before heard, one which we will never directly mention again.
"When I was a girl," she begins calmly, "my mother died."
"Yes," I say as I stroke her warm hand with my thumb, "and you were sent away to live with your uncle and aunt."
"I was," she replies. "They were well-educated, scholarly people, but rather poor too. And not very warm or loving, if I'm being truthful about it."
I know this part of my grandmother's life from our previous conversations. But what comes next is new.
"I was in love with a boy, Christopher," she says. "As he was with me. But my family was poor and his people were wealthy landowners, so his father refused permission for us to marry.
"Not too long after Christopher and I separated, your Grandad, Tommy, came along. I'd known he liked me and he started taking me out to the young farmers' dances. It wasn't that I didn't care for him, just that I didn't love him in the way I had Christopher. Anyway, one night, Tommy was walking me home through the woods, and I could tell he was still stirred by our dancing together. Perhaps I should have suggested another way home. But I didn't. I went through the woods with him, and we ended up kissing, doing more than that. We were both caught up in the heat of it, but when really I wanted him to stop, he didn't."
She pauses.
"It was just the one time, but a little while after I found myself pregnant. And so, I married him."
I look at the beautiful, lined, stoic face and swallow to stop the tears that threaten to come. After a while I ask, "Do you think he was sorry about it? Afterwards, I mean?"
"I think he was. We didn't talk too much about it. I knew, though, that he loved me."
"Did you have the baby?" The question emerges softly, hesitantly, from the back of my throat.
"Yes. I did. And when she came, I loved her very much. We both did."
"Her? It was... Mum?" I ask this, knowing already that it was.
"Yes," she confirms. "It was Jean, your mum."
"But why, Nan?"
"In those days, my darling, there really was little choice."
We sit in silence for a while. I take her hand, still sturdy and firm, a little rough, in my smooth, cold one.
"But you had two more children," I mumble.
"We did. And I loved them all. And now, I have you too, and Sam, my two treasured girls." She says it with love, without even a ripple of self-pity.
I am tucked up against her on the sofa. I turn my head to look closely at her and reach across to put my forefinger lightly on the cold, smooth opal.
"So did Grandad give you this? I've always wondered; it almost seems to be a part of you."
"No, my darling. It was a present from the boy I loved before I married your Grandad, it was from Christopher." She raises her own hand to cup mine, and to touch the pendant. Then says, "And yes, it has become that."
The embers pop and spit and we sit on in silence. The glow from the dying fire seeps across the room and illuminates the stone that my grandmother wears around her neck, always.
Lying in bed in the early hours of Christmas morning, I ruminate on the story my Nan has told me, but also on the memories of my own early childhood. The last time I'd seen my grandfather, I'd been only five years old and he'd died very shortly afterwards. I'd gone with him to the agricultural supply shop, and there he'd bought me a small, cheap cactus, the only thing he'd ever given me. I'd looked after the cactus with great attention and had kept it for years, carefully wiping away the clumps of dust that gathered on its tiny spikes.
I play this memory over in my mind until it is inextricably intertwined with my grandmother's story. My memories of my grandfather haven't changed, but my knowledge of the world surrounding them has. The uncovering of what had happened in the woods, my understanding that my grandmother hadn't really chosen the man she'd been married to and lived with for so long, that her choice had been another man - a man who was not resolute enough to wed her. How had that felt? The man whom my grandmother had preferred had been educated and gentle, but there must have also been a weakness and a willingness to accede to a life of comfort and family harmony. It seems his love hadn't been resilient enough, or he himself hadn't been strong enough. Acknowledging this must have been a great disappointment to my grandmother. But then, the man who chose her, and whom she hadn't freely chosen but had married, was hard-working, forceful and determined but... what? Hard-edged? No, the fact was that he'd been rough, abusive, at least on that one occasion. I struggle in characterising my grandfather this harshly, but it is the truth. Or at least a truth. How had that felt to my Nan? The comparison between the two men is stark. What would her life have been like if the man she'd chosen had had the fortitude to stand by his choice, by her? Would they then have been happy in the end? To me, my grandmother seems such a determined, strong and independent person that I have to question whether this love would, eventually, have worn out, been erased by the abrasions of life, along with her respect for this man, Christopher.
And then I think of how my Nan has always seemed happy in her life. At least in the latter part, now that I am older and have become more aware of how she might feel. In the last two decades she has travelled widely to visit her three children, to New Zealand, South Africa, Norway. She has many friends, plays contract bridge, delivers meals to the "old dears", tends her glorious pots of geraniums and, of course, plays a mean game of Scrabble, handling the little, worn tiles as if they were gems. She speeds around in her zippy, yellow Scirocco hatchback, visiting, caring, doing - perpetually busy, widely respected and deeply loved.
So then, is unfettered choice, after all, really the best path for a life of fulfilment and happiness? Does such a thing even exist? Love seems an essential element of happiness, but perhaps that love needn't be romantic. My grandmother certainly has a love-filled life - love for her friends, her family, for my sister and me, especially. My mind, when directed by reason and logic, can bring me to these thoughts, but I am still young enough that, in my heart, I don't truly believe them. For myself at least, I still see a single, enduring, romantic love that will last for all my life, a person I will choose; a person who will choose and passionately love only me.
As I think all this, I lie in the little bed where I always sleep, warmed by the hot water bottle (snug in its soft knitted cover) that my Nan has tucked in with me. Still, the respite of sleep won't come for a long time. When finally it does, I dream of a deep, dark forest of thorns and brambles, and of the Australian man curled up in a hollow, being cared for by apron-wearing hedgehogs, a team of saintly Mrs Tiggy-Winkles salving his wounds and adjusting his blankets. In my dream he looks straight up through the leaves and branches, through the ether, to fix his eyes on mine as I watch him from above.
I awake late on Christmas morning with a revelation of strange and absolute clarity - the kind that comes only when a mind is still partially trapped in the realm of dreams. That the world is made up of a kaleidoscope of intricacies, underlayers, blurred edges, radiating brilliance with the endless spectra created by the forces, forms and phases of love. That there is not one single resplendent point of origin but an array of variegations and sources. This all coalesces into a momentary understanding that slips from my grasp as I emerge into consciousness.
Fully awake now, I consider all that has happened the day before, and I think of the Australian man, how he risked his life, sacrificed himself, to keep me, Julia, whom he'd never met before, safe. How is it that a person could be that good and that brave? I hadn't been - I could have chosen to stay, to help fend off the gang. But I had fled and saved myself. A shadow of shame passes over me again. Was he badly hurt? Is he even alive? How are our fates now connected - for surely they must be.
I borrow my Nan's imperishable Macintosh and wait for the internet to connect. The report is fairly easy to find, a brief article in the online news:
"Two men were hospitalised and one is in custody today following an incident on the District Line around midnight last night. The victim of the alleged attack, Mr. Peter Harris, originally of Darwin, Australia, suffered multiple lacerations, a broken collarbone and several fractured ribs. He is being kept in hospital for observation. Mr Harris, 32, who is a banker and holds a black belt in the martial art of Hapkido, is reportedly recovering well. He is expected to be discharged within the next few days. A second man will be released from hospital today and was named by police as a suspect in the case. A third man in his twenties was questioned by police and released on bail. Additionally, Mr. John Albert Williams, 27, of Acton, has been charged with causing grievous bodily harm and remains in custody. Mr. Williams was released from prison last year after serving a seven-year sentence for violent sexual assault."
It is a lot to take in. I look out of the kitchen window. The morning sunlight has been subdued by its long winter voyage but still has sufficient strength to give a gorgeous refulgence to the snow covering the fields opposite. As the snow has begun to melt, the ground beneath it is revealed, breaking through in dark, clumpy blotches that taint the sparkling white covering with saturated, uneven stains.
On the ledge in front of the window sits the phalaenopsis, or moth orchid, that I brought my grandmother when I visited in the autumn. The plant's long, single stem is bent towards the light and is drooping in its efforts to uphold the weight of its flowers. Still, the cream-coloured petals that frame the exposed inner labella glisten richly in the morning light, their ivory sheen flecked with a multitude of coloured specks. I turn off the computer.
Today is Christmas day, and for now it is time just to eat and to be - there has been quite enough heaviness over the past day or so. Early the next morning though, I will return to London and tramp through the slushy, melting snow to find the man who protected and, very likely, saved me.
Coda
The hospital to which Peter Harris has been taken is in Ealing, west London. It is large and impersonal and smells as institutional as it looks. I steel myself as I walk down the anonymous, blanched corridor towards his room. My breathing comes unevenly and is oddly amplified as it echoes from the walls and the ceiling. Is it completely irrational to think that those few minutes on the train have created a connection between me and this unknown man?
I knock on the door and open it slightly. The first thing I see is an unsightly flesh-pink sconce affixed to a cold, grey wall; only in a hospital would such unfortunate colour combinations be used. I stand for a moment, then peer around the door and into the room. Peter is sitting up in a metal hospital bed with bandages wrapped around his midriff and his shoulder. His left arm is in a sling, an IV tube connected to the inside of his right elbow. There is a rhythmic beeping of various instruments and the sharp odour of sanitising solution.
I look into his face and see for the first time the colour of his eyes - hazel it seems, speckled green and brown, like an imperial topaz stone with so many shards. I hadn't noticed this before, on the train - but then we hadn't been sitting closely together and there had been far too much else to occupy my attention.
We look at each other without talking for a curiously long time. The machines buzz and hum but otherwise the air is still. His gaze is warm and steady, no sign of resentment, and it is this that finally gives me the courage to whisper, "I'm sorry - I should have stayed to help you. Thank you for what you did."
We continue studying each other until he smiles, his lower lids rising slightly and the colour of his eyes deepening. A direct response seems superfluous. Instead Peter says, "I'm glad you came. I was waiting."
I turn from the festivity of the poinsettia plants and look left now, as I almost always do at the end of my workday, down towards the river and the broad concrete bridge that spans it. This evening the bridge has been transformed by a layer of pristine flakes blanketing its stark structure, a glistening shroud lying over the decay of the begrimed path. Beneath the snowy covering though, I know the debris still lies there - the grey, flattened lumps of gum, the scraped skids of rubber heels, the dirty tissues that have wiped something unthinkable, the crinkled crisp packets, the discarded cigarette stubs - the myriad detritus that is to be found on any packed commuter path leading in and out of the City. For tonight though, adorned in its temporary patina of icy glamour, London sparkles under the street lamps - a fine, plump lady dressed for a ball.
It's close to midnight, late - too late really - although watching the beauty of the falling snow and seeing how it has renewed the city has given me a resurgence of energy. I badly need this, since when I get back to my flat in west London, I must still collect my car, and already-packed bags, and start the long drive up to my grandmother's house on the Welsh border. I sigh, not with exhaustion as I had a few minutes earlier, but now with a quiet, gentle pleasure at the thought that I will soon see my Nan.
I turn away from the bridge and walk the short distance up to Monument tube station. At the entrance, I bend over to brush the snow from my coat, sprinkles of crisp, bright icing sugar clinging to the blue wool, and I realise how very nearly I have stepped on a ragged pile of clothes and newspapers. I pull back abruptly when I see that the heap is in fact a young man sprawled out on the pavement. He is only a little younger than I am, with a long face capped by a high, domed forehead. He could easily be any one of the legal trainees with whom I work. I feel my own good fortune keenly - a decent flat, a great (although not yet well-paid) job, close friends, a family (especially a grandmother) who loves me and helps steer me through the complications of life. The boy looks up at me in surprise as I lay a twenty pound note on his open hand. It's all I have in my wallet. He nods, blinks quickly, closes his fingers, stiff and mottled, and crumples the note into his palm. I hesitate for a moment, feeling the colour move into my cheeks (knowing how silly this is), then pull off my new black mittens and with an uncertain smile hold these out to him. He mutters a faint "thanks" as he takes the gloves, pockets the money and shoves his hands as far as he can into the thick warmth of the fleece.
"It's nothing," I say quickly in reply. And so it is, but as I walk on towards the ticket barrier, I feel just slightly better about myself, and perhaps even about the world in general. I swipe my pass, move through the barrier and push aside thoughts of how little I've actually done for the boy, how much more help he really needs. It is, after all, Christmas Eve, not the night to be dwelling for too long on such sad or gloomy things.
As I arrive on the westbound platform, I see that it is as relatively empty as one might expect this late on the night before Christmas. The few passengers already there are gathered in unsteady clumps, and most appear to have been out celebrating. As I weave my way through the small, swaying groups, trying to find a quiet spot, I imagine myself as a Higgs boson - my meandering presence lending mass, existence even, as I pass by. I stop near the end of the platform and wiggle my toes about as much as my formal work shoes will allow. The middling heels, fine black leather and thin soles are ideal for the office but not so well suited for this snowy evening. Looking down to unzip my briefcase, I see the blue and purple marbling of my hands. I rub them together and think of the warmth of my fleecy mittens.
I have just reached in to pull out my book, when I hear a burst of raucous laughter and harsh, taunting voices - some sort of kerfuffle going on further down the platform. Not wanting to get caught up in the fracas, nor in any way draw attention to myself, I keep my chin down and peer up through the veil of my fringe, lifting my brows to get a clearer view. As I watch, a group of four or five men in their twenties maraud along the platform, clearly trying to provoke an altercation. The farther away I am from that group, the better. I am making my way down to the far end of the platform when I hear the scraping metallic crunch of an approaching train. Once it stops, I step quickly into the end carriage, relieved to have escaped the "constellation of chaos", as I have termed the group of trouble-seeking men in my mind.
The carriage is empty, except for a pleasant-looking, fair-haired man in his early thirties. The man is dressed in a very typical dark-blue suit and has one ankle propped casually over the other knee. The thing that attracts my attention though is his choice of footwear - deep plum-coloured, well-worn desert boots. I like that. Very much not typical City attire. He is reading his paper and merely glances up briefly as I enter. "Perfect." I think. "Just one other person engrossed in his reading" (just as I intend to be once I've settled down). I sit on the opposite side of the carriage, next to the window. The heaters are on and it feels oddly cosy. I take off my coat and lay it on the seat beside me. Through the window I watch the platform stream by more and more rapidly as the train rumbles out. Once we are clear of the station and safely on our way, I pick up my book and begin to read.
I am on page 384 and they still haven't encountered the whale. There is such a misconception about this book, I think. It's so not about the whale. It's about choices, compulsion, culture, mores and expectations, perception, literature, history, philosophy even. The essence of mankind. I wonder in awe - how has the author been able to weave so much into this incomparable tale? I make a deep fold in the corner of the page to remind myself to go back to the passage I've just read - it is brilliantly good. Masterful.
I am so absorbed in my book that I've been unaware that the peace in the carriage is unravelling. Only when the door at the other end slams shut with a reverberating thud do I look up. The group of four men is now heading down the carriage towards me. They kick the seats as they go, pushing each other roughly, all the while laughing and swearing with self-conscious gusto. There is a clear leader - a wiry man of middling height with dark hair cut closely to his scalp. His eyes are deep brown and sharp.
I unzip the side pocket of my case and reach in to grab my set of keys. I do this reflexively, as it seems to be my only, admittedly paltry, means of defence. I squeeze the keys tightly until I feel the edges form indents in my fingers. The blond man sitting across the carriage moves his foot to the floor, looks over and holds my eyes for a moment. The acknowledgement moves between us: "Not good." I wonder about this man for a moment - What is he like, where does he come from? Does he have a wife, a child?
The crew is getting closer and I look down into my book, breathing purposefully. My hair falls across my cheek and I leave it there. I watch the big book on my lap rise and fall with the movement of my stomach.
"Oh look," says the dark-haired man, "isn't THIS nice?" He stands between the blond man and me and looks from one of us to the other. His face is contorted into a wide smile of false friendliness.
"What's this, then - the reeeading carriage?" The word is elongated in disdain.
I keep my head down and sit as still as I can. Is it possible that they might just go away? But no, I feel the bench shift as the man sits down next to me, not bothering to move my coat.
"Whatcha reading then?" he asks as he grabs at the book. I hear the pages rustle and a slight rip as he snatches it from me.
I look up then and say very quietly, since there seems to be no option, "Moby-Dick."
"Oh, the whale book," he says.
I am surprised that he knows of it and then immediately feel a flit of chagrin at my assumption.
"Yes," I say, softly and fairly evenly.
"So is it any good then?" he asks.
"Yes. Very," I say and look away, down the carriage.
"Oh, look how cute you are." He chuckles.
I let out a short breath, and as I do, he grabs one of my wrists.
"Your wrists are such tiny, skinny little things." He squeezes more tightly. "How do you even hold a big book like that anyway?" His breath wafts over me.
My wrist is now hurting, the skin turning white. I shrug in reply and turn to look out of the window.
Trees, pylons, buildings rush past. The snow is falling more heavily now. The rhythm of the train's movement is rocking the carriage. The window rattles.
For a moment I clearly hear a burst of Paul Weller:
"I first felt a fist and then a kick - I could now smell their breath. They smelled of pubs and Wormwood Scrubs and too many right-wing meetings... I'm down in the tube station at..."
"Hey! Look at me!" The man yanks my wrist and pulls me towards him. The hand in my pocket lets go of my keys.
"You're cute, you are. What are you doing on your own? You should have a man. Here, come sit on my lap." He forces me over roughly and pulls me on top of him.
My breath is coming unevenly now. The other men are whistling and guffawing as they close in around the seats.
The arc of bodies around me is obscuring my view of the blond man across the carriage, so when he speaks out, his voice seems to arrive from nowhere.
"Hey, guys. Leave her alone, OK? She's just a young woman." His words carry a distinct Australian accent. I wonder what my age has to do with it. Would it be OK if I were older?
"Shut up, Aussie!" yells the gang leader. "This is nothing to do with you. Keep out of it. Keep out of it or else you'll wish..." He flicks a glare over at the Australian and leaves the sentence unfinished.
The lackeys too have turned to look at the blond man and are starting to move towards him. The Australian man bends forward an inch or two, shifting his weight so that he is looking straight at me. When he nods, the movement is so slight that I nearly miss it. A brief dip of his head, a raise of his brow. I know what he means. We both know what it will mean. I want to tell him to keep out of it, keep safe, to thank him. But the words don't come.
The rhythm of the train is changing as it approaches the next station.
My eyes meet the Australian's again. He glances quickly at the door and then looks up as the gang closes in on him.
"Just leave her alone," he says again, his voice more assertive now.
The gang leader loosens his grip on my wrist and shoves me back onto the seat. He stands up and peers over.
"What did you say?" he asks quietly.
"I said, just leave her alone. She hasn't done anything to you."
"No, right, maybe she hasn't. But you have. Interfered in what's none of your business, you have."
There is a discordant squealing as the train is coming to a stop.
The dark-haired man is walking towards the Australian, wobbling from the jerking of the carriage. The man has put down his newspaper and is now facing the crew, waiting.
As the train comes to a halt and the doors rumble open, he nods once again to me and calls out, "Go! Now! Just go!"
I snatch up my bag and run. I make it along the corridor and jump out of the open doors before I look back. The gang has surrounded the blond man who is on his feet, raising his arm. The doors judder closed and the train moves off.
It is quiet as I stand on the platform. The snow is falling around me and I open my mouth wide to gulp it in. I swallow down the soft, icy air and feel the snowflakes melt and slide down my throat. The sight of the courageous man surrounded by four looming bodies tracks through my mind. I try to control my breathing, swallow down more of the cold air. I think about my book still lying on the seat, the corner of the page folded over - Melville's sultans seated on high, observing the predilections and contradictions of mankind, so far below. I let out a long breath, trying to expel the foulness I consumed in the carriage.
The platform is completely empty - no lights on in the station office, no person to be seen. I have no book, no coat, no gloves. I think of my warm jacket lying abandoned on the bristly seat. But I am safe. I cry momentarily. For myself, but also for the man trapped in the carriage. It feels pathetic and indulgent, as I think of the bravery of the man and then of my Nan, who will be waiting for me up in Shropshire. No wallowing, gain composure, find your resolve.
I know that at this time of night the wait for the next train will be at least ten minutes, probably more, but it seems to be the only option. I wait. Strangely, I don't feel cold. I don't feel anything. I stare down the track into the mottled, grey night. When finally I see the lights of a train emerging from the darkness, I begin to shiver. As soon as the train stops, I get into the nearest carriage and look around. It, like the station, is deserted. I move over to the red emergency handle, lift the plastic cover and pull the lever down with both hands. As I slump into the corner and stare down at my feet, I notice my shoes - how jagged, white rims of dampness have seeped up the sides to taint the polished black leather.
By the time someone has come, I've explained what happened, been assured that help for the Australian man is on its way, the train has resumed its journey, and I've walked the eight minutes home from the station in the dark night, it is a little after one a.m. I am exhausted. But still I collect my bags and leave in a daze. The drive up to Shropshire feels long but at least the traffic is light. The snow on the other hand is relentless; flakes come at the windscreen in an onslaught.
When I reach the country lanes close to Marchamley, the blizzard is close to blinding and my body and mind are spent. The lanes are narrow, and the leaning hedgerows, white and heavy, give me the feeling that I am creeping along a snow-lined burrow. The car skids and the right-hand bumper scrapes against the brush, displacing the hoary overlay and revealing the spiny tangles of the hawthorn beneath it. In a strange flash I can see through the branches into the hedge, see small animals taking refuge in the thicket - dormice cuddling in their nests, hedgehogs curled up into tight balls protected by their spikes. And in my vision there HE is too - the Australian man, tucked up with the dormice, bordered by the gentle, furry bodies, safe in the hidden sanctuary, somehow transported from the cold hostility of the carriage to this organic retreat. He smiles contentedly as he shifts in his sleep. I jerk my head and make myself concentrate on the road. Only a few miles to go.
It is the early hours of Christmas morning by the time I pull into the small driveway, and yet I can see my grandmother still waiting up for me. She sits dozing in a chair in the front room, illuminated by the diffuse light from a low table lamp. I sit for a moment, observing her and listening to the click and tick of the cooling engine. After a few minutes she rouses, smiles, waves briefly, then comes quickly to the front door. As soon as I emerge from the car and walk up the path, my Nan's indefatigable arms draw me in. When I lean against her, against her solid form, and breathe in, it is the warm smell of my childhood that surrounds me. As I nestle into her, the opal around her neck (hard, rounded, translucently pink), presses against me with a familiar coolness. I'm here. I am home.
We settle on the small sofa in front of the ageing fire, each of us with a cup of tea and I with my golden, crusty toast, a knob of butter melting in its centre. It is still dark outside, and the single lamp spreads a gentle light over the small room.
My grandmother's response to the account I give is compassionate, but, as is her way, she does not descend into sentimentality.
"Oh my Jule, what a thing to happen. How worn out you must be."
When my grandmother says my name, I feel beloved, protected. Forgiven.
We sit there together, gazing at the embers, and my grandmother begins a story that I have never before heard, one which we will never directly mention again.
"When I was a girl," she begins calmly, "my mother died."
"Yes," I say as I stroke her warm hand with my thumb, "and you were sent away to live with your uncle and aunt."
"I was," she replies. "They were well-educated, scholarly people, but rather poor too. And not very warm or loving, if I'm being truthful about it."
I know this part of my grandmother's life from our previous conversations. But what comes next is new.
"I was in love with a boy, Christopher," she says. "As he was with me. But my family was poor and his people were wealthy landowners, so his father refused permission for us to marry.
"Not too long after Christopher and I separated, your Grandad, Tommy, came along. I'd known he liked me and he started taking me out to the young farmers' dances. It wasn't that I didn't care for him, just that I didn't love him in the way I had Christopher. Anyway, one night, Tommy was walking me home through the woods, and I could tell he was still stirred by our dancing together. Perhaps I should have suggested another way home. But I didn't. I went through the woods with him, and we ended up kissing, doing more than that. We were both caught up in the heat of it, but when really I wanted him to stop, he didn't."
She pauses.
"It was just the one time, but a little while after I found myself pregnant. And so, I married him."
I look at the beautiful, lined, stoic face and swallow to stop the tears that threaten to come. After a while I ask, "Do you think he was sorry about it? Afterwards, I mean?"
"I think he was. We didn't talk too much about it. I knew, though, that he loved me."
"Did you have the baby?" The question emerges softly, hesitantly, from the back of my throat.
"Yes. I did. And when she came, I loved her very much. We both did."
"Her? It was... Mum?" I ask this, knowing already that it was.
"Yes," she confirms. "It was Jean, your mum."
"But why, Nan?"
"In those days, my darling, there really was little choice."
We sit in silence for a while. I take her hand, still sturdy and firm, a little rough, in my smooth, cold one.
"But you had two more children," I mumble.
"We did. And I loved them all. And now, I have you too, and Sam, my two treasured girls." She says it with love, without even a ripple of self-pity.
I am tucked up against her on the sofa. I turn my head to look closely at her and reach across to put my forefinger lightly on the cold, smooth opal.
"So did Grandad give you this? I've always wondered; it almost seems to be a part of you."
"No, my darling. It was a present from the boy I loved before I married your Grandad, it was from Christopher." She raises her own hand to cup mine, and to touch the pendant. Then says, "And yes, it has become that."
The embers pop and spit and we sit on in silence. The glow from the dying fire seeps across the room and illuminates the stone that my grandmother wears around her neck, always.
Lying in bed in the early hours of Christmas morning, I ruminate on the story my Nan has told me, but also on the memories of my own early childhood. The last time I'd seen my grandfather, I'd been only five years old and he'd died very shortly afterwards. I'd gone with him to the agricultural supply shop, and there he'd bought me a small, cheap cactus, the only thing he'd ever given me. I'd looked after the cactus with great attention and had kept it for years, carefully wiping away the clumps of dust that gathered on its tiny spikes.
I play this memory over in my mind until it is inextricably intertwined with my grandmother's story. My memories of my grandfather haven't changed, but my knowledge of the world surrounding them has. The uncovering of what had happened in the woods, my understanding that my grandmother hadn't really chosen the man she'd been married to and lived with for so long, that her choice had been another man - a man who was not resolute enough to wed her. How had that felt? The man whom my grandmother had preferred had been educated and gentle, but there must have also been a weakness and a willingness to accede to a life of comfort and family harmony. It seems his love hadn't been resilient enough, or he himself hadn't been strong enough. Acknowledging this must have been a great disappointment to my grandmother. But then, the man who chose her, and whom she hadn't freely chosen but had married, was hard-working, forceful and determined but... what? Hard-edged? No, the fact was that he'd been rough, abusive, at least on that one occasion. I struggle in characterising my grandfather this harshly, but it is the truth. Or at least a truth. How had that felt to my Nan? The comparison between the two men is stark. What would her life have been like if the man she'd chosen had had the fortitude to stand by his choice, by her? Would they then have been happy in the end? To me, my grandmother seems such a determined, strong and independent person that I have to question whether this love would, eventually, have worn out, been erased by the abrasions of life, along with her respect for this man, Christopher.
And then I think of how my Nan has always seemed happy in her life. At least in the latter part, now that I am older and have become more aware of how she might feel. In the last two decades she has travelled widely to visit her three children, to New Zealand, South Africa, Norway. She has many friends, plays contract bridge, delivers meals to the "old dears", tends her glorious pots of geraniums and, of course, plays a mean game of Scrabble, handling the little, worn tiles as if they were gems. She speeds around in her zippy, yellow Scirocco hatchback, visiting, caring, doing - perpetually busy, widely respected and deeply loved.
So then, is unfettered choice, after all, really the best path for a life of fulfilment and happiness? Does such a thing even exist? Love seems an essential element of happiness, but perhaps that love needn't be romantic. My grandmother certainly has a love-filled life - love for her friends, her family, for my sister and me, especially. My mind, when directed by reason and logic, can bring me to these thoughts, but I am still young enough that, in my heart, I don't truly believe them. For myself at least, I still see a single, enduring, romantic love that will last for all my life, a person I will choose; a person who will choose and passionately love only me.
As I think all this, I lie in the little bed where I always sleep, warmed by the hot water bottle (snug in its soft knitted cover) that my Nan has tucked in with me. Still, the respite of sleep won't come for a long time. When finally it does, I dream of a deep, dark forest of thorns and brambles, and of the Australian man curled up in a hollow, being cared for by apron-wearing hedgehogs, a team of saintly Mrs Tiggy-Winkles salving his wounds and adjusting his blankets. In my dream he looks straight up through the leaves and branches, through the ether, to fix his eyes on mine as I watch him from above.
I awake late on Christmas morning with a revelation of strange and absolute clarity - the kind that comes only when a mind is still partially trapped in the realm of dreams. That the world is made up of a kaleidoscope of intricacies, underlayers, blurred edges, radiating brilliance with the endless spectra created by the forces, forms and phases of love. That there is not one single resplendent point of origin but an array of variegations and sources. This all coalesces into a momentary understanding that slips from my grasp as I emerge into consciousness.
Fully awake now, I consider all that has happened the day before, and I think of the Australian man, how he risked his life, sacrificed himself, to keep me, Julia, whom he'd never met before, safe. How is it that a person could be that good and that brave? I hadn't been - I could have chosen to stay, to help fend off the gang. But I had fled and saved myself. A shadow of shame passes over me again. Was he badly hurt? Is he even alive? How are our fates now connected - for surely they must be.
I borrow my Nan's imperishable Macintosh and wait for the internet to connect. The report is fairly easy to find, a brief article in the online news:
"Two men were hospitalised and one is in custody today following an incident on the District Line around midnight last night. The victim of the alleged attack, Mr. Peter Harris, originally of Darwin, Australia, suffered multiple lacerations, a broken collarbone and several fractured ribs. He is being kept in hospital for observation. Mr Harris, 32, who is a banker and holds a black belt in the martial art of Hapkido, is reportedly recovering well. He is expected to be discharged within the next few days. A second man will be released from hospital today and was named by police as a suspect in the case. A third man in his twenties was questioned by police and released on bail. Additionally, Mr. John Albert Williams, 27, of Acton, has been charged with causing grievous bodily harm and remains in custody. Mr. Williams was released from prison last year after serving a seven-year sentence for violent sexual assault."
It is a lot to take in. I look out of the kitchen window. The morning sunlight has been subdued by its long winter voyage but still has sufficient strength to give a gorgeous refulgence to the snow covering the fields opposite. As the snow has begun to melt, the ground beneath it is revealed, breaking through in dark, clumpy blotches that taint the sparkling white covering with saturated, uneven stains.
On the ledge in front of the window sits the phalaenopsis, or moth orchid, that I brought my grandmother when I visited in the autumn. The plant's long, single stem is bent towards the light and is drooping in its efforts to uphold the weight of its flowers. Still, the cream-coloured petals that frame the exposed inner labella glisten richly in the morning light, their ivory sheen flecked with a multitude of coloured specks. I turn off the computer.
Today is Christmas day, and for now it is time just to eat and to be - there has been quite enough heaviness over the past day or so. Early the next morning though, I will return to London and tramp through the slushy, melting snow to find the man who protected and, very likely, saved me.
Coda
The hospital to which Peter Harris has been taken is in Ealing, west London. It is large and impersonal and smells as institutional as it looks. I steel myself as I walk down the anonymous, blanched corridor towards his room. My breathing comes unevenly and is oddly amplified as it echoes from the walls and the ceiling. Is it completely irrational to think that those few minutes on the train have created a connection between me and this unknown man?
I knock on the door and open it slightly. The first thing I see is an unsightly flesh-pink sconce affixed to a cold, grey wall; only in a hospital would such unfortunate colour combinations be used. I stand for a moment, then peer around the door and into the room. Peter is sitting up in a metal hospital bed with bandages wrapped around his midriff and his shoulder. His left arm is in a sling, an IV tube connected to the inside of his right elbow. There is a rhythmic beeping of various instruments and the sharp odour of sanitising solution.
I look into his face and see for the first time the colour of his eyes - hazel it seems, speckled green and brown, like an imperial topaz stone with so many shards. I hadn't noticed this before, on the train - but then we hadn't been sitting closely together and there had been far too much else to occupy my attention.
We look at each other without talking for a curiously long time. The machines buzz and hum but otherwise the air is still. His gaze is warm and steady, no sign of resentment, and it is this that finally gives me the courage to whisper, "I'm sorry - I should have stayed to help you. Thank you for what you did."
We continue studying each other until he smiles, his lower lids rising slightly and the colour of his eyes deepening. A direct response seems superfluous. Instead Peter says, "I'm glad you came. I was waiting."
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