Page 99 of The Last Train Home
I’ve sat in St Paul’s Churchyard so many times, but never once stepped inside the building. I’ve got time to kill, so I join the throngs of tourists piling inside. I waddle around, admiring the sheer scale of the place, the gold columns and chandeliers, the offshoot chapels and war memorials to the fallen. It’s sobering and I’m reminded – simply by seeing the memorials – that there are worse things in this world than my predicament, worse things than what happened to Tom and me the night of the derailment. It could all have been so much worse.
Despite the number of people in here, everyone is quiet, respectful, and so I take a seat in the moveable chairs and think about so many things. I’m reminded that on the night of the derailment I lived, and that Tom lived; we were the lucky ones. Others lost limbs, lost lives. When I think back to that night, which I try not to do too often these days, I wonder if I could have lingered over my drink a bit longer in the pub, not ended up on that train, not have been anywhere near it. And then I wouldn’t have met Tom. Perhaps some things are meant to happen for a reason.
The cathedral is cool, even in this intense summer heat, and the ceiling high. I spend another moment taking in the beauty of the building’s interior, admiring the way sunlight filters gently through the windows and onto the white floor. Everything is bright, dove-white, peaceful. It doesn’t feel as if I’m in London.
I’m not remotely religious, but I say a little prayer for those who didn’t survive. And then, even though Tom’s not dead, I say a prayer for him: a sort ofthank youprayer for sending him towards me that night, for making him the kind of man – a good man – who rushes forward in a crisis and helps people.
And then I rise slowly, my hand on my back to straighten myself, and I exit the sanctuary of the cathedral. The brightness of the sun shocks me, but I walk towards the patch of grass, find the place where Tom and I sat that night. Where Tom had knelt, pushing my hair from my face, examining my forehead, checking I was all right. Cocooning me in safety when I needed it most. I’ve still got the scar from that night on my forehead. Time is a great healer in some ways, and not in others.
I focus on the architecture, marvelling that while other old buildings get knocked down, replaced by skyscrapers in the name of progress, churches and cathedrals are afforded a special status. They stay put, remain resplendent, an everlasting beacon of hope for people who need it.
I don’t know how long I’ve been here. But I’m aware that I should probably move on, back through the railings segmenting this ecclesiastical space from that of the financial world it inhabits. I’m pleased I’ve done it. I’m pleased I’ve stumbled across this space. I’m pleased I’ve sat here. It’s almost as if it needed to be done, an unexpected reckoning; that I needed to encounter this memory and move on. Iammoving on. In so many ways.
A little way down the road is Mansion House Underground entrance. I have mixed feelings, looking at the Tube station from this distance. My stomach wants to knot itself, only the baby is in the way of all my organs functioning as I want them to. I’ve been past countless Tube stations since that night without issue, but today, without realising it, I’m clutching hold of my bag tightly, my body stubbornly refusing to move as a cold wave settles itself over me.
Perhaps I need to put this hatred, this fear, this loathing of the Underground to bed, after all these years. I don’t think it’s a case of win or lose, but I do think I need to at least draw level with it. It’s been so long, and I’ve been so scared of going anywhere near the Underground. I made Sean’s life and mine so hard in Singapore because I navigated my way around it by taxi and bus. I refused to even consider boarding their version of the Tube, the MRT.
But it’s only been five years. Perhaps I need longer. Perhaps I need never do it at all. I’ve been inside the cathedral,I’ve sat in the churchyard, reliving Tom’s and my own personal aftermath. That’s enough, surely?
I watch people as they mosey to and from the station. It’s not rush hour for a while yet, and so the pedestrian pace of movement isn’t as frenetic as it soon will be. But still there’s a steady trickle of people entering the station, pulling Oyster cards from their wallets, ready to tap and let the barriers usher them into the cavernous Underground system. Whatever I do next, I can’t stay here all day as the world goes about its business.
I need to be brave. I’m going to have a baby soon, and I’m scared about that, but I know I will do it. This is a fear I need to conquer. I hardly ever come to this part of town. I’ll probably never find myself in this spot again, or if I do, it might be another five years from now. I need to do this for me. I need to prove to myself that what happened that night hasn’t damaged me for ever, that I can get on the Tube and it will be fine. I can go a few stops towards Liverpool Street. Then I’m in the right place to catch my overground back to Enfield. Five stops. That’s all I need to do. Five short stops.
Deep breaths.
Across the road a black cab drops someone off and its orange light goes on. I’m saved. I can just walk over there and get in that taxi. I don’thaveto do this.
But I don’t move towards the taxi. I force myself, with every shred of mental power I have, to stay rooted to the spot. Eventually the taxi leaves, and panic and relief hit me in one go.
I’ve made the decision now. There’s no going back.
I cross the road, walk the short distance towards the Tube station and propel myself inside, to the glass screenthat divides me from the uniformed vendor – the gateway between me and a ticket. I don’t know what to ask for, so I mumble to the station worker that I want a Travelcard and, before I know it, I’ve paid and I’m clutching the little credit-card-sized ticket, walking towards the barriers, forcing myself to stop shaking. Inducing this level of worry today probably isn’t the most sensible thing to do, given that I’m weeks away from giving birth, but it feels like a rite of passage. I have to do this.
I push the ticket into the barrier and watch as it’s spat out for me to collect. I grab it and move through the open barriers before it’s too late and they close on me.
And then I’m holding the handrail, forcing myself onwards down to the platform, where I look at the yellow-lit sign telling me that I’m one minute away from the next Circle Line train. One minute – I can do that without turning around and making a bolt for it. I count down: sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, and on and on until I’ve gone past zero and attempt to amuse and distract myself,minus four, minus five, minus six.
The rush of air hits me first, indicating that a train is rocketing its way towards my platform. I stand firm. I’m not turning round now.
The train enters the platform, a set of doors open before me and people get out, fumbling for their tickets, ready for the barriers above us. It’s now or never, and I get on, my feet crossing the threshold of the carriage. At this time of day there are seats available and I move to one, sitting down next to the glass partition, and although I don’t need to hold the long vertical yellow handrail, I clutch it tightly anyway.
I look around, wondering if anyone else is giving off the same ‘get me out of here’ vibes that I must be. But around me the average commuters, students and tourists have their noses deep in books or newspapers or are fiddling with their phones or headsets. The doors close, the train begins moving and we leave Mansion House station behind. I’ve done it. I’m on the Underground. The automatic announcer tells us: ‘This is a Circle Line train via Embankment and Victoria. The next station is Blackfriars.’
No, that can’t be right. I’ve gone the wrong way. How have I gone the wrong way? I was too busy counting down the endless minutes instead of paying attention to which platform I should have been on, and now I’m on the wrong train.
Breathe in. Breathe out. It’s OK, I can fix this. I have to allow the train to carry me onwards through the blackness and into the next station, knowing that I’ve got to get off and come back the way I’ve just been. I’m too tired and pregnant for this. But at least this is distracting me from what I was originally panicking about.
I’m accidentally doing a portion of my old commute. I wonder if I get off here and do my old walk to work, how that will make me feel. I’m here now. I might as well have a look around the courtyard that I used to work in, see if Gianni’s is still there, remember all those blasts from the past. I’ll get off, wander around and then get back on the Tube again to go home. Then I’vereallyproved I can do it.
And after this, I never have to do it again. But … if for some reason I do have to get on the Underground in the distant future, then it’ll be OK. I’ll be calm. Iamcalm. Sort of. Let’s see how I feel when I get off. At least I’ve stopped shaking.
The doors open.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. It was the fear that I had to beat, not the train itself. I might need a few minutes of walking around my old haunts, though, before I get back on again.
I take a deep breath of smoggy London air as I emerge from the station. I process what I’ve just done, congratulating myself while I look round at my surroundings. I need a moment to digest the enormity of the last few minutes.Deep breaths, Abbie. Deep breaths. You’ve done it. The worst is over. Next time it’ll be easier.
I’m so close to the Thames. I want to go down to the river, past all the places where I used to hang out. I want to take a look at my life from five years ago and, because it’s so starkly different from how I’m going to live in a matter of weeks, bid it a fond farewell. Again.
