Canterbury Tales

7.30pm: The Thief's Tale

They've locked me up. The questioning is over, at least for now.

‘Name?’ the copper said.

‘Kevin Peterson,’ I replied.

‘Age?’

‘15.’

He shook his head and tutted.

Loads more questions followed; some about me and some about THE CRIME. Then he told me I'd probably have to go to court. Oh shit, mum and dad are going to kill me. They're on their way now apparently. I think I'd rather stay in this stinky cell than go home.

I went along with Mick's idea to nick the purse. She was older than my gran but I didn't have a choice really.

‘Do it or else,’ Mick said raising his fist.

I wish I'd taken the beating. It would all be over and I'd be in my bedroom chatting on Facebook, having just finished a big plate of mum's chicken curry.

At least I didn't have any of the money on me. Mick took it all. I didn't grass up so maybe him and his mates will leave me alone. I don't want to be in their gang. Just my luck Mr Green was on the train. He won't be able to say much about it at school though given that he let a woman run after us. She looked a bit like my mum when she's really cross.

Oh fuck it they're here.

‘Come on Kevin, let's go home,’ dad says quietly. Mum doesn't look at me. She's been crying. This is so much worse than them shouting.

 

6.45pm: The 'Celebrity's' Tale

I'd better sort my stuff out like as I'm getting off the train soon. I've spent most of the journey since London Victoria signing photographs like. My agent says like I'll need them like for the supermarket opening tomorrow. Since I came fifth like in the TV talent show I've had quite a few jobs like this like. So Joey Bennett is becoming a household name.

There was a bit of hooha on the trip like. The woman I've just seen leaving the train like got me involved. She opened the door of the carriage I'm in like and screamed like for help. She was so red in the face like I thought she was having a heart attack like. One look at me like and the bad lads legged it. I didn't really wanna like draw attention to myself. But a man's gotta do and all that like. I got a few looks like on the way back to my seat like. One old bird asked for my autograph like but looked a bit surprised like after I'd signed her copy of Hello.

‘He's not the new young chap in Corrie then?,’ she said to the woman next to her like. Daft cow.

 

6.41pm: The Hero's Tale

As I leave the train at Faversham I look back at the woman whose money I tried to recover. I didn't succeed but it's bloody rude of her to not even acknowledge my presence. My heart is beating so fast it feels as if it might burst out my chest. I've never done anything like this before. I was known as 'Scaredy Kat' at school. I didn't even stop to think about it. One minute I was in the middle of my novel and the next I was running down the carriage.

 ‘My purse, my bag, they've stolen it,’ shouts the woman sitting in the four-seater diagonally behind me.

She's in her eighth decade I guess, nearer to the end than to 70. As I say I don't remember getting to my feet. All at once I'm giving chase. It's only afterwards I start to shake. I imagine the likely questioning from my mum when I tell her about my eventful journey.

‘Kathryn, what made you do it? They could have hurt you. What if they'd had a knife?’

‘I don't know mum, I didn't think about that. I just did it.’

‘Oh sweetheart. I'm so proud of you. Promise me you'll never, ever, do it again.’

I smile at the inevitability of this conversation, at the contradiction her fear for me and love of me leads to. Warmed by my thoughts, as by my mother's constant unconditional support, I no longer care about the old woman's ungraciousness. After all it wasn't bravery, merely instinct. Excitement over for the day I sling my backpack over my shoulder. Head down against the wind I walk towards the station car park.

 

6.10pm: The Bystander's Tale

As the train pulls out I thank the train guy for the coffee he's brought me. I glance down quickly as I'm too embarrassed to look the 40 something have-a-go-hero, sitting opposite me, in the eye. God if this gets out the kids at school will be calling me Miss Yellow rather than Mr Green. My poor excuse at not reacting, as the woman whose gaze I'm avoiding did, to the older woman's cry for help was my preoccupation with my own worries. I tried to mark the essays I have to return to my pupils tomorrow but just couldn't concentrate on the lackluster attempts to analyse the relationships between D. H. Lawrence's women. Instead my thoughts kept going back to the two most important women in my life and my role as mediator to their relationship.

The latest tension began over apple sauce of all things. Yesterday evening Emily made a delicious meal, roast pork and all the trimmings, and after a day stuck under the front of the car I was tucking in. As I reached out for what was left of the apple sauce my mother pushed the dish towards me and said, ‘there you go son, dip your crackling in it just like you do at home.’

We've been married for three years now and I knew Emily would be offended, hurt even, by the suggestion that the comfortable, if minimalist, flat we live in is not my home. But I'd misjudged the heat of her anger. Once we were in bed I found out.

‘How could you not say something Ben? Why didn't you tell her that your home is here with me?,’ she said, whispering and kind of shouting at the same time.

Like a fool I replied; ‘ah come on Em have a heart, she only says these sorts of things because she misses me and after all it was only apple sauce.’

‘Apple sauce that I made in our pan, on our cooker, in our home.’

I opened my mouth to reply.

‘No let me finish,’ she said raising her hand and slapping my lips hard to shut me up.

‘And what do you mean she misses you? Since your dad died she's stayed here for a few days at least every other month and you go to her place every time she so much as sighs.’

She stopped and I asked quietly, tentatively, ‘finished now?’

‘Believe me Benjamin,’ the use of my name in full highlighting the danger in the moment.

‘Believe me, I am nowhere near finished. I have had enough. I'm sick of the way she follows me around the house re-plumping the cushions, straightening imagined crooked paintings, rearranging towels on the rack. I'm fed up with her constant references to how hard you work whilst at the same time failing to mention my job or my financial, as well as emotional, support of you all through teacher training. But most of all I'm completely pissed off by the carping on and on and on about the babies she thinks we, no I, should have. I am not a baby-making machine and will not deliver a child to order.’

‘I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. Either she goes or I do.’

She refused to speak anymore after that, shrugging me off and locking herself in the bathroom for ages when I tried to cajole and comfort her. She slept clinging on to the edge of the bed, as far away from me as possible and was still asleep, or at least feigning sleep, when I got up. Entering the kitchen I saw that my mother was laying the breakfast table with a wedding present set that she knows we only use on special occasions. I said nothing and ate the full English, normally a weekend treat, even though I knew it would lay heavy in my stomach all morning. I know she heard us rowing. I love my wife.  I love my mother and have responsibilities towards her. Why can't Emily see that? Why doesn't mother try a bit harder?  What can I do to help them to at least tolerate each other?

Reliving the last 24 hours and my ineffectual participation in them I notice the two young guys running past. I even look closely at the smaller one who reminds me of a kid in my new GCSE group. But I do nothing. Focusing on my own problems my brain doesn't make sense of what I see and hear. So although I'm able to give a good description of one of the thieves it's so much less than the woman, who older and heavier than me, is now holding her cup with hands that shake a little. She's not spoken to me but her expression says it all. I'm not the only male in the carriage and to a man we stayed sat in our seats proving beyond doubt our status as the second sex.

 

5.42pm: The Train Manager's Tale

At Chatham station I delay the opening of the doors. We should leave within a couple of minutes but there's no chance of that this evening. I feel sympathy for the lady who has had her money stolen. What a horrible shock for her. I'll take her a hot drink and something sweet to eat as soon as I can. But why did this have to happen on my shift? Late for my supper again, fish tonight too; my favourite.

Yesterday I was late home due to a signal failure and tomorrow I'm doing a double shift because of the football. I used to love my job but you don't need to be a member of Mensa to work out that rising prices and overcrowded trains equals unhappy customers. When I started I was a Guard, now I'm a Train Manager. The title might be grander, the daily grind is worse. The British romance with the railways is well and truly over for all of us; customers and staff.

Last week I was in charge of a train held up due to a suicide. I felt so sorry for Pete the driver who's new to the job. It was his first jumper. Poor bastard, how low down must a person be to end their life that way? We were delayed for nearly three hours waiting for the emergency services and for a new driver to replace Pete. Eventually I make an announcement explaining the delay. Many of the passengers had guessed and honesty is usually the best policy. I had to wait for permission from head office and there were a few grumbles after an hour or so. Even after I'd come clean, picking my words carefully, as there were children on the train, the complaints didn't stop.

‘Isn't there anything you can do to hurry us up a bit?,’ said one suited and booted commuter.

‘I'm sorry sir but we have to wait for the police to say we can leave and we are also waiting for a new driver.’ I replied.

‘The driver's left? For Christ's sake, I've got an important meeting that I'm already very, very late for.’

‘There's really nothing I can do sir. We all have to be patient. Can I get you a complimentary hot drink from the buffet trolley?’

Dismissing me with a wave of his hand he was already raising his mobile phone to his ear.

‘Jack, Phil here, I don't know when I'll be there. Some idiot has topped himself by jumping in front of my train,’ he says, in one sentence claiming ownership of the stock and ruining my carefully constructed public statement.

At least we aren't delayed for too long this evening. The police board the train in search of the two thieves. The woman who chased after them is no help at all now. She can't remember anything about them. It's funny how the mind works. The guy sitting opposite her, who like all the other useless prats in the carriage didn't move a muscle to help, could recall quite a bit of detail about one of the scallies. Just a kid, a scared one at that. Probably not the mastermind of the project. He won't name his accomplice and after a while the coppers decide to be content with one arrest and leave the train, along with the customers due to disembark. I thank the bloke, as I embarrassingly assume that he is the senior officer. His female boss puts me right. Seems to be the day for girl power.

 

6.55pm: The Victim's Tale

I suppose it was stupid of me to leave my purse on the table. I don't care about the money but my granddaughter Lucy bought me the purse for my 75th birthday.  Frank, my husband, will be angry with me when I tell him. I'm tired though. That's my excuse. It's been a long journey from Exeter where my daughter and the children waved me off and what with the trip across London between Paddington and Victoria anyone could be forgiven for such a small slip. How kind of the train guard to bring me a drink and some biscuits once all the excitement was over. He also brought one for the young man and the woman sitting opposite him. I'm not sure why she got one. I noticed she was shaking a little, nerves obviously. I didn't see her leave at the last station (I was looking for my phone so I can ring Frank) or I would have given her a reassuring smile. Never mind, I can at least thank the nice looking, clean cut, young man who tried to get my money back and gave such a good description to the police.  Teacher, I heard him tell the policeman. I'm not surprised.

The train is pulling into Canterbury East now. I turn and smile at my saviour as I get up to leave the train. ‘Thank you so much for trying to help me. So kind of you. Your wife is very lucky to have you.’

I noticed his wedding ring earlier.

I'm very observant.

The extent of his blushes surprises me. Modesty is clearly another if his attributes.