Upperkirkgate Chapter 6: One That Was a Woman, Part 4

“That’s a bit morbid.”

     “Just because you don’t get it… Thomas Hardy said, I think it was in Tess of the d’Urbervilles, every year we pass the day of our death without knowing… it has to come some day.”

     “That’s reassuring.” The next train to Inverness had yet to arrive. The commuters below seemed impatient, straining, waiting to be let off a collective leash.

     “Actually, I think it is,” said Alison, moving closer to him. “Talk about fossil fuels… we are finite resources, ourselves.”

     “And equally bad for the environment.”

     “Do you think it’s possible to recycle people?”

     “Perhaps they recycle themselves- on bikes.”

     “The northbound line is surely late,” said Alison, checking her watch. “I like to know the time, the order of things… once I kept checking my watch on a train, it got me accused of being a train-spotter. It took three chocolate sessions to get the taste out of my mouth.”

     “So you don’t like trains then?” said Jules with a wry smile, folding his arms, facing her, his back to the south side.

     “Oh, I do… just not, like that.”

     “How do you draw the line between attraction and addiction?”

     “That’s what sleepers are for. Keep the barrier between night and day, waking and sleeping, the real world and dreams.”

     “You’re getting all metaphorical on me.”

     “You’re getting analytical. When do you ever stop? Are even your lecturers potential patients?”

     “Maybe.”

     “Or are they just a sort of food source to you, fodder to your analyses?” He did not reply. She looked down to the platforms. “I like these strong black girders. Like the ones by the road as you come down under where the Trinity Centre is now, that cobbled road. My father was often away; I remember coming to meet him. The rumble of the car tyres as we approached the station. Looking up at the big timetables on the wall, working out which one he was coming back on, like some sort of maths problem.”

     “And was it?”

     “What?”

     “A maths problem.”

     “Well, it was great having him back.” An approaching crowd from the southern side crossed the bridge, pressing Jules and Alison together briefly. They parted, and leaned over the north side of the bridge. A railway official looked up at them, briefly. “What was he thinking?” said Alison.

     “Do they get a lot of that? People trying to jump?”

     “I don’t know. You’d think they might do it at night, when it’s quiet. Maybe it’s easier in the day.”

     “I heard they’re going to block off this bridge, at the edges, to stop that happening.”

     “Pity. It’d spoil the view.”

     “And save lives. Hopefully."

     “And trains. And with them, lives.”

     “Exactly.”

     “They have these box bridges in America… some of them even swing round, cars and all. Jack told me once. His tutor lived there for a while.”

     “It’s like you’re trying to reach out… beyond the death of something.”

     “What can I say? Celebrating my death-day. Ahead of my time. Preserving something, before it happens. I will be remembered.”

     “Are you sure he’ll remember you?”

     “Who?” She grew darker, clutching at the cold rust of the girder.

     “You know. He’s going to marry her.”

     “Yes, I know. A shadow of me that goes with him. By this ring, I am Thane of Cawdor. Whoever he says he marries, it will be me. I will be with him, always.”

     “You’re aspiring to be a ghost. Stop it.”

     “I thought you would-be therapists were supposed to be all laissez-faire and uncritical, whatever the values of the patient.”

     “Is that how you see me?”

     “You’re so full of yourself, you-“ She moved away quickly, crossing the bridge and down onto the southbound platform. She approached a chocolate vending machine, and kicked out at it. “Ow!”

     “It’s been a long time since a Bounty was 16p,” said Jules mildly, appearing at her side. She looked around: had he flown? “That’s still no reason to take inflation out on those who only stand and wait.”

     “So, you think everything comes to those who wait, or some such twaddle. We all have to stand around, and await the outcome of certain predetermined causes. How convenient. How very uninspiring.” Alison glared around the platform. It was empty. “Oh well, there comes an end to everything. All I wanted was a last meal.”

     “Hey. You’re not thinking of-“

     “Of course not. Stupid man.” She sighed and re-ascended the steps to the bridge. They walked across it slowly. “Did you know there used to be a station at Guild Street, where the bus station is now, all those derelict sheds they just got round to demolishing for a new shopping centre, that was the start of the old Deeside railway line.”

     “Yes. I did,” said Jules. They drifted with the crowd, back nearer the entrance, the pigeons ever-present. They stopped by platform 6.

     “I’ve not been to the northbound line in years,” said Alison. “The last time was when my uncle died.” Jules nodded.

     “Maybe there is a slow train coming… huffing round the bend.”

     “I loved walking on the old Deeside railway line,” said Alison, folding her arms and squinting speculatively up the tunnel. “It was closed by Dr Beeching in the Sixties. The original line stretched from here out towards Cults, then to Ballater. When I was a kid, I’d take my bike, try not to run over dogs, or collide with horse riders. Those old platforms, some of them crumbling… I liked the old bridges, too. No rails left, of course.”

     “Of course.” She felt tired, leaned against a pillar for a moment. It had a timetable of the trains to Inverness above her. One of the commuters brushed against her, it unsettled her for a moment. He peered up the tunnel too, checking his watch. It made a brief flash of gold, catching the weak sun through the roof. No-one heard the slight crunch as the train arrived, the squeal of brakes drowning out the end.