LOVE PROBABLY

12.

Phew, I arrive on the platform at exactly the same time as the train on the track. I didn’t know I had to stand directly in front of the right carriage. I climbed on as soon as I could for fear that it would leave without me. As a result, I have to go up the carriages to find my place. I’m in carriage 08, in seat 77. The train starts moving again and picks up speed. I waddle around, smiling, clinging to the seats so as not to fall. It feels like I’m on a game show and I’m not allowed to fall; like Fear Factor. The other travellers look at me, amused. I feel like I’m climbing Everest. After a while, I finally arrived, out of breath, at my place. It’s a kind of square. Three of the four places are already occupied by women in their fifties. They smile at me, as a welcome. I find them funny. One has bobbed brown hair. Another has all grey hair and the third has blond locks, pulled up in a bun and small glasses that remind me of my very first school teacher. I take off my coat and put it on my seat, a way to mark my territory. I turn back to put my small suitcase in the luggage compartment. When I return to my seat, the six ladies’ eyes stare at me. I even come to wonder if there isn’t something wrong with me when, of course, I remember that I haven’t taken off my improvised headgear, my red scarf quickly put on my head to protect me from the downpour that fell on Beccles when the train arrived. Well yes, it may come as a surprise. Not only do I have a look from another era, but in addition, I have a grandma’s quirks. But all that will change. I’ll have to adapt. London won’t want me if I don’t fit the mould. I have every intention of becoming a real fashionista. I like the idea. A real challenge!

I sit down in my place and look at these ladies in turn to greet them.

“Hello!” They answer me in unison.

I feel welcome. Confidence sets in. Involuntarily, I eye the candy packet ripped open on the table. The smell of sugar reaches my nostrils. I could almost salivate.

“Do you want one?” the woman with short, greying hair asks me. “Go for it! Help yourself!”

“Thank you. But, I’m okay,” I say, already reaching into the packet as Mom’s old warnings from when I was going to school come to mind.

“Go for it! They’re just sweets…” encourages the brunette who reads my thoughts. “There are no drugs in them. Relax!” she adds, hilarious.

“So much the better! So, I’ll take two!”

The three friends start laughing. I have a sense of humour, it seems. This is a great discovery for me.

I smile stupidly. I can’t help myself. I feel happy. It had been ages since I felt such a simple emotion. It depends on very little if you really think about it.

Throughout the journey, I discreetly listen to the conversation of my neighbours. They were three long-time friends who had organised a short stay in London. They list all the things they have planned to do. I try to memorise some of their activities.

And then, their voices reassure me and rock me. I pass the journey with my eyes glued to the outside when a gargantuan growl echoes from my stomach. I’m already hungry, goodness me.

“Travelling sucks!” says one of my neighbours.

“I don’t know!” I said. “It’s the first time for me.”

“The first time? What do you mean?” asks another, perplexed.

“Uh... The first time I’ve taken the train.”

“That isn’t possible!” said the third. “Are you kidding us?”

“Uh... Really, this is the first time I’ve left my village.”

“But then, you’ve never flown?”

“Even less. When I tell you it’s the first time, it’s really the first time. The only means of transport that I’ve had the opportunity to know is the school bus and as much to tell you that it has been a very very long time.”

“But that’s crazy!”

“But then, will this also be your first time in London?” asks one of them.

“Eh, yes!”

“Completely crazy!”

I feel like I piqued their curiosity. They’ll ask me a whole bunch of questions, starting with:

“Excuse our indiscretion, but how old are you?”

And so it starts again. After Simone and Gerard, I find myself having to tell my life story to total strangers who look at me like the Immaculate Conception of Lourdes who hasn’t come out of her cave. Without wanting to spread myself further, I simply tell them that I lived for nearly thirty-six years in Wheatacre, that my father died when I was eight years old, that my mother has just joined him and that basically, she left me a letter in which she invites me to see the country.

Softened by my very small, not to say shabby life, they look at me as if I had just been born. Their kind looks infuse me with a brand new sweetness. My stomach calls me to order: I was hungry a few minutes ago, and I almost forgot. I take the sandwich made by Simone and the violent smell hits me as soon as I move the aluminium foil to unwrap it. Wow… phew… it’s mind-blowing. What could she have put in it? My neighbours also seem suddenly indisposed. I think back to the homeless guy at the station who, unwittingly, was right to be choosy. I’m not sure he would have appreciated Simone’s preparation. Neither would his dog, for that matter.

“Are you sure you’re going to eat that?” my neighbour asks, pointing to the sandwich I’m holding in my hands.

“I don’t really know. I can’t imagine what’s inside,” I answer, puzzled.

“Well, given the smell of rotten feet…” she insists.

“Oh, Catherine, anyway! You can’t say that!” her girlfriend reproaches her for having blocked her nose.

“Well, she’s not entirely wrong,” I said, pushing the bread aside. “Here, hard-boiled eggs! I should have known.”

“Ah, well, that’s what stinks!” says her girlfriend.

“Ah, and also Camembert,” I added.

“Seriously? But that’s disgusting…”

“Well... I was very hungry but now, I admit that the appetite is gone.”

And that’s not all! In addition to camembert and boiled eggs, there’s also garlic sausage, grated carrots and dried tomato. It would seem that Simone has demonstrated a nameless creativity.

Slightly disgusted, I pack everything up and decide to take my troubles patiently. My stomach keeps moaning. Pained, my neighbours organise themselves. They use sign language to communicate with each other. After a few looks, one of them said to me:

“Hold on! We always prepare too much. On the other hand, it’s a classic: a ham with butter,” she says with a certain irony in her voice.

“Oh, that’s really too nice, but I don’t want to take the bread out of your mouth.”

“We told you that we pack too much! There’s sausage, too”

“And we also have pâté with pickles.”

“Oh no! We told you not to make any with pâté. Smell-wise, it’s the same as the other, there…” she said, pointing to Simone’s original confection.

We all four burst out laughing. It’s precisely at this moment that the train driver announces the imminent arrival at the station. I sigh, both to catch my breath after that giggle, but also in relief. My stay seems to be announced under better auspices. Finally, in a few bites, I devoured the three sandwiches they offered me: the ham with butter, the sausage and even the one with pâté. I made short work of the latter to prevent the odours from having time to spread through the carriage, but judging by the disapproving looks of the other travellers, I fear that the evil has been done because of Simone’s original snack.

Finally satisfied, I’m ready to face the capital. The urban landscape has replaced the fields that we no longer saw because of nightfall. We are approaching our destination. When the train pulls into the station, I say goodbye to my travelling friends. They wish me a good stay, good luck and everything that a young woman of my age can hope for. On the platform, I follow them for a moment before our paths part.