3
Barbara was not enjoying the journey. The carriage from Cambridge smelled of stale cheese which she believed came from the perspiration of too-closely-seated unwashed bodies. The man who sat hunched opposite her had a laptop on the table and it hogged the entire space, so there was hardly any room for her small handbag. Then a teenager in the seat across the aisle continued to chatter on her phone about her disastrous shopping trip, despite the fact that it was the quiet carriage. After five minutes, Barbara was forced to tap her on the shoulder and point to the sign, but the young woman continued to gabble about tacky handbags and oversized leopard-print onesies.
Barbara spent the rest of the journey thinking about Pauline. As a child, she’d always called her younger sister ‘Pud’, a clumsy attempt at an affectionate abbreviation, but when Pauline became a slightly pudgy adolescent, the nickname had made her cry. Barbara smiled: it was even more appropriate once she became Mrs Pye. Mrs Pudding Pye. But it hurt her sister’s feelings each time she slipped into the childish pet name. Barbara decided she’d try her best not to upset Pauline this time. Now was about mending a fragmented past; about closing the distance that had developed between them, due to neglect, due to not noticing the passing of time, having little or no practice at being proper sisters. She brought her lips together in a straight line: so far, she hadn’t had much success. But she would try harder now. They didn’t have much in common, though. Pauline was a widow, all alone now her daughter was in New Zealand. Barbara wondered how well her sister coped, living in the sticks so far from civilisation.
It was a shame about Douglas. Barbara was not sure how happy their marriage had been, but at least Pauline had married. She’d had a child, Jessica, who had completely enveloped her for eighteen years. Then Jessica looked for a new opportunity and found it with her husband and young family, working with horses abroad. Barbara remembered Pauline and Douglas, first married, a white wedding, Pauline in a stiff ivory dress. The memory dissolved and she recalled herself as a young woman, brisk and slim, attractive in her uniform, remembering the warm feeling that came from the first hesitant glances of admiration from a dashing young officer.
But that was behind her now. Her heart had hardened and that was all for the best. Pauline would have to do the same now she had no one left to love apart from a daughter who lived abroad. Barbara knew that her sister wasn’t the type to jet off to New Zealand twice a year; she’d have to be resilient, on her own for most of the time, contented with phone calls on a Sunday. Barbara thought her sister was far too sensitive for her own good.
On the platform, Barbara placed her case on the ground and stared at the sign which hung down from the iron rafters of the station. The train would arrive in forty-five minutes at platform seven. When she had bought her ticket and chosen to go via Reading, she’d noticed that the change of trains did not include a wait. A female voice over the speakers announced that there were unforeseeable circumstances and the connection would be delayed. There was no apology, no regretful tone, just a flat statement of facts. She inhaled, breathed out sharply. She wouldn’t be in Taunton until after half past two. Pauline would be kept waiting.
Barbara had invested in one of those mobile phones that young people carried all the time, but she rarely used it. She’d rather talk to people directly. Besides, they were complicated things with small buttons, and she didn’t have the patience to mess about with it. It was at the bottom of her handbag. Barbara wondered if she should use it now. Pauline had one: she could ring her and say she’d been delayed at Reading.
A slim man in a high-visibility jacket walked past, ginger hair sticking out like sprigs of hay from his cap. Barbara accosted him as he drew level.
‘Excuse me. Are you a railway man?’
He was pale faced, a few red dots of acne on his nose. Barbara decided he must be a teenager. His mouth had an unpleasant sneer.
‘I’m a customer service assistant, madam.’
Barbara extended herself to her full height, easily five feet ten inches. ‘Well I’m a customer. And I’d like to know what’s holding up the service. Why is the train to Taunton delayed for so long?’
‘Problems on the line, madam.’
Barbara sniffed. ‘I didn’t think it was Santa Claus. What problems?’
The young man seemed to notice her for the first time. His eyes were expressionless, like those of a cod in a fish shop window.
‘I think there’s a body on the line, madam.’
Barbara gasped. ‘What? A dead one? That’s a thoughtless thing to do. Can’t someone just take it away?’
The young man shrugged. ‘Matter for the police, madam. And forensics. I expect the front of the train will need cleaning.’
Barbara’s eyes widened. ‘But what about my journey to Taunton? I am being met at the station.’
‘I expect there will be an announcement there, to tell people the train is delayed.’
‘That’s really not good enough.’
A smirk played around his thin lips, below the beginnings of ginger facial hair. ‘It’s the best I can do, madam.’
Barbara watched him walk away. She shook her head briskly. Pauline would be fretful by herself at the station in Taunton. A stiff gust of wind whipped around the corner and buffeted her full-on, making her catch her breath. It was icy cold. Barbara wondered if she should find customer services and lodge a complaint. Instead, she took out her phone and squinted at the buttons.
Pauline hauled up the engine cover at the back of the ancient Volkswagen, checking the oil, wiping the dipstick carefully with a paper towel. The journey to Taunton was fifteen miles, and she didn’t want the engine to seize up because she’d run out of lubricant. She walked around the yellow car and inspected the tyres. They seemed all right: they weren’t flat. She had enough petrol. The journey would take her twenty-five minutes, so she had plenty of time, especially now Barbara’s train was running late. She hugged her jacket around herself; there was ice in the wind this morning. Her fingers were cold as she took the car keys from her pocket.
‘Yoo-hoo, Pauline.’
Down by the gate, a woman was waving through the open window of a white Fiesta. She stopped the car by the gate and wriggled out. The woman was very slim, with short red hair in a pixie cut, bright green jacket and red skirt, orange tights, clumpy heeled shoes, in her late thirties or early forties.
‘Are you all right, Pauline? Has the car broken down? Do you need a hand?’
Pauline grinned. ‘No, I’m fine. Dizzy. Just—’
The woman bounded over, her face creased in a huge smile, her legs fast and flexible as a Labrador’s.
‘I wondered if your car wouldn’t start. I have jump leads in the Fiesta. Mind you, I have no idea how to use them.’ Dizzy pushed a hand through her long layered fringe, three shades of red, orange and burgundy. ‘I only carry them so that I can pretend to break down occasionally and ask a handsome strapping man to help me. Of course, it hasn’t worked yet. I either get crabby pensioners or hearty women from the WI who tell me I should learn to do things for myself.’ Dizzy chuckled, oblivious to the fact that Pauline had been receiving a pension for well over ten years.
Pauline shrugged. ‘Well, maybe they are right, Dizzy. Maybe it’s good to be able to do things for ourselves. I wish I’d been brought up to be a bit more practical at basic tasks.’ For a moment her face was sad. ‘I’ve learned to be independent and do a bit more for myself nowadays.’
Dizzy’s forehead creased. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. Pauline, I didn’t mean to…’ She grabbed Pauline’s arm, patted the coat sleeve and grinned. ‘I’m