The Day the Leader Died
A stone’s throw from the house and George Stringer turned around and went back. Had he left the gas on, the fridge door ajar, the upstairs’ window open? He could never throw off this lurking fear of disaster waiting to occur the instant he departed. A premonition of extinction following on from separation, he faintly recognised the underlying anxiety symptoms but couldn’t change old habits. After a careful check, he found all in order and started out again. He had enough time, about half an hour, to walk to the station. Good to take regular exercise, the doctor told him, but not to overdo it. A perfect spring day in May, he snapped along briskly, shadows lifting off the pavements in bright sunlight. People looked contented, one or two familiar faces, heads nodding as they passed by. Checking his watch, he decided there was no need to change the walking pace. Shouldn’t have wasted time, though, returning to the house. When he was some four hundred yards from the station, he began to trot, arriving breathless three minutes before the train was due.
Third in the queue at the ticket office, he held a twenty pound note in one hand, his senior citizen’s card in the other. A foreign lady with limited English was having difficulty explaining to the clerk about her travel requirements. The bored official behind the glass screen waited impatiently for the woman to state her precise requirements. Eventually, she slid some money into the tray, the clerk on the other side turning the table and then giving it another spin with ticket and change included. George heard the swelling sound of a train pulling into the platform. On time, it was the one he’d hoped to catch, missing it meaning an hour’s wait. He breathed out noisily.
“You go next, I’m in no hurry,” the man in front said.
“Thanks a lot,” he replied. “Day-return, London, please,” he said to the clerk.
The ticket clenched between his teeth, fingers gripping loose change, a carrier bag containing a book and some sandwiches in the other hand, he dashed for the train. Still waiting but with the doors closed he expected it to draw away. Instead, when a guard opened a door for him, he stumbled in. He felt grateful to the fellow as the train pulled out of the station and he slumped into the first available seat.
A lady, about his own age and sitting opposite, smiled. He made a gasping sound, shaking his head from side to side in exasperation. She nodded, still smiling. A trickle of sweat running down his neck and when he stroked the hair on the back of his head it felt warm and extremely damp. He patted his face with a handkerchief, still sweating. As the train picked up speed, the sensation of acceleration comforted him, a thumping inside his chest rhythmically uneven. Gazing out of the window, he caught a glimpse of glittering sea before the train entered a tunnel.
The coach rattled violently, cool air rushing through an open window taking his breath away. Old rolling stock, all the upholstery looked stained and worn, graffiti marking every carriage wall. Someone, a youth no doubt, had succeeded in scratching a message on the window. It read, “no dope, no hope”. George ran his fingernail across the lettering, thinking a special tool must have been used to make such deep incisions. The train emerged from the tunnel, sand dunes and sea on one side, high cliffs on the other. Breathing in and out steadily, feeling more relaxed, he read his book.
They clattered through miles of rural Kent, oast houses and thatched barns scattering the landscape, before pulling into a main-line junction. A few people got out and a few got on, plenty of vacant seats. The wait seemed interminable, the train silently still along the platform. Finally, a voice crackled over the tannoy, “All change, please. This train is terminating here. All change. Make sure you leave no possessions behind.”
“What the hell’s going on?” George said. The lady opposite began to collect her things together, apparently quite unperturbed. “Are you going to London?” he asked.
“Not today,” she said gently, smiling. He picked up his carrier bag and followed her out. The passengers, hardly more than a couple of dozen, waited listlessly on the platform. A rather scruffy railway official turned up. He wore a braided cap but that apart might well have been one of the cleaners. “There’s been a points failure further down the line,” he explained, wearily. “For how long?” George asked. “About two hours, I think,” the man replied. “Two hours! Why didn’t they tell us before we got on?” “I dunno,” he said.
They had to proceed to Platform 3 for the next train, which would stop at all stations before reaching London. The line of passengers trailed up a steep set of stairs, across a bridge and descended to an empty platform the other side, a further wait of fifteen minutes in store. When the train arrived, it proved to be even more ancient than the first one, rattling into the station like a huge bag of loose metal parts. It was already three-quarters full.
George found a spare seat in a single compartment near the guard’s van. Two other seats remained vacant until an elderly couple arrived. The man, supporting himself with walking sticks, was accompanied by a lady, who looked almost as frail. She asked if the places were free. A West Indian woman leaped to her feet and moved position so that the incomers could sit side by side.
“Come on, darlin’,” she ordered him, “this way.” Putting an arm around the invalid’s shoulders, she manoeuvred the gentleman into position. They thanked her. “Weren’t nothin’,” she said. “I’m forty-three and still pretty young. You gotta ‘elp the old folk, haven’t you.”
“We’re not that old,” the elderly lady said grimly. She stared in front of her, watery eyes, deep creases down the side of her face, much loose skin beneath the chin. Their tweedy clothes hung about the old pair like the cerements of the dead, apparel waiting final interment with the corpses.
“You gotta ‘elp the old folk,” the Jamaican lady repeated, turning her head and nodding at each one in turn inside the carriage. Her voice rich and throaty, she wore dark glasses that gave her face both anonymity and authority. A row of dark beads hung down a purple jumper, revealed by an open, very worn black topcoat. The ebony skin, the crimped inky hair with the odd grey streak, the large rings and bracelets on her fingers and wrists created a smouldering presence. The coolest thing about her was her gleaming white teeth.
“The trouble today,” she now announced, “is that the young people don’t do nutthin’ for the old folk. I was always taught to respect my mum and dad. They don’t anymore, do they?” George nodded, convinced the eyes behind the sunglasses were staring directly at him. “I’ve always looked after my old dad but he’s gone back to Jamaica. If he was still here I’d be taking care of ‘im. Young people should. I’m forty-three but I can still ‘elp the old.”
Apart from a shuffling of shoulders and an almost imperceptible tremor of lips and twitching of cheek muscles here and there, no one in the carriage made further response. The invalid looked the most impassive, his very wide mouth with thin pink lips fixed in a kind of smile, except he wasn’t smiling. He wore a sporting cap, pulled well down across his forehead, just above a pair of spectacles with thick lenses. Gnarled and arthritic, he sat very still, clutching the sticks between his knees. His trousers were pulled up high and not far short of his armpits, held there by a strong pair of braces. The drama of the
one-sided conversation ending, a somnolent silence took over, the train’s lullaby rocking everyone to drowsiness.
*****
Despite all the delays, by the time George Stringer arrived in London he still had over an hour to spare before his appointment at the hospital. He decided to visit the National Gallery, a habit he’d formed whenever coming up to town, and always to look at the same picture, Georges-Pierre Seurat’s Bathing at Asnieres. Coming out of Charing Cross Station, he made straight for Trafalgar Square.
On the way, his eye caught a newspaper placard with three words in large letters on display. He read John Smith Dead and couldn’t help thinking of his school days, about a friend with the same name, the most familiar one in the country. The last word, too, was one of the most common in the English language. Later, he decided, he would buy a ‘paper and read about it.
The airless gallery rooms were full of visitors as he hurried through. When he came to the Seurat, the crowds had thinned. He stood and stared at the painting for about ten minutes and then left. Twenty-five years had passed since his son’s death. At the time, he’d grieved heavily but now had to make an effort to recall what he’d once felt. That was the point about coming to see Bathing at Asieres, to keep the boy’s memory alive. It was easy to be shocked and saddened by someone in the public eye dying. More difficult to mourn for your own kith and kin as the years rolled by.
The red-haired boy in Seurat’s picture looked about fifteen years old, the same age as…….. It had been his idea to give him a bike for his birthday. The accident happened on the way to school. George’s wife, who had not approved of such a present, worried about the traffic, never forgave him. She herself died not long afterwards. One daughter remained, now living in Australia. George had spent a few weeks with her last winter, enjoying a sunny spell on the other side of the globe.
The boy in the picture looked so thoughtful, the weight of youthful concerns heavy on his bowed shoulders. Yet he appeared determined, the future his, the portrait keenly truthful. If only George could meet Seurat and ask how he came to know things that were too deep for ordinary mortals to fathom. The painter had created life in its daily flux of common appearance. The boy in the frame lived on and looked remarkably like his son, that red hair, the blade-like nose, a sullen adolescent, the whole posture exactly right
Out in the street again, a lovely day in May, he watched the people hurrying by. Again, he saw the fatal news headlines and bought a newspaper. Many others must have done the same and everyone by now would know. Why, then, did they carry on as if nothing has happened? What are they all rushing about for? Why no mourning? Why no protests? There it was, the writing on the wall, and no one took any notice.
*****
He arrived well in time for his appointment and didn’t have to wait long. If he hadn’t collapsed, in the first place, on a London bus, he wouldn’t have had to travel all this way. The hospital they’d taken him to insisted, after discharge, that he return for further checks. Really, they were very nice and he trusted them. This time he got a good report, the specialist saying it was unlikely that he’d need a by-pass. Just watch the diet and take plenty of exercise, that’s all.
A little later, in Soho Square, in the gardens, he sat on a park bench to eat his sandwiches. A group of winos sat on the grass, a bottle wrapped in brown paper passed around, each taking a swig in turn. A young woman with them, she had so much metal inserted into her scalp, lips, nose and ears a strong magnet might easily have forcibly dragged her out from the throng. She didn’t look well. None of them did yet they talked animatedly, like friends sharing the intimate knowledge of arcane matters.
George liked the little garden, didn’t even mind the tramps, who did him no harm. It was comforting to be among people who appeared to be in no hurry to go anywhere, just relax. Even the traffic seemed distant in this quiet oasis right at the heart of busy London. As pigeons jerked around, inches from his feet, he threw them a few crumbs. His lunch eaten, he closed his eyes, lifting his head to feel the warm sun against his face. When he looked again across the patch of grass, the winos had left. The Colley Cibber statue now in view, it reminded him that an artistic colony once gathered here. Then the idea came to him that he might go to the theatre.
Having checked his newspaper, he saw that there was a matinee show at a theatre nearby. He managed to purchase a cheap concessionary ticket and get in just before the play began. A seat in the stalls gave him an excellent view of the stage and the actors. During the interval, a handsome woman beside him, wearing a bright red silk scarf around her neck, asked if he were enjoying the performance. Very much, he told her. She then confided that this was her third visit because she so much admired the male lead. After writing to him, he’d sent her a signed postcard, which she kept at home, on the mantelpiece.
The play was really very good. A drama based on a tale by the writer, Turgenev, it told a simple but sad story of the family lives of upper class Russians living in the nineteenth century. The unfulfilled desires of even the most mighty and richest in society were shown to be pitifully human and, therefore, quite recognisable by poor mortals like George Stringer. He left the theatre feeling very contented, having thoroughly enjoyed the drama. Talking to the handsome lady had been nice, too.
*****
At the main line terminus, he only had a few minutes to wait before catching the train home. Then he noticed a group of people staring at the electronic notice board. A message flashed on and off saying there had been a points failure. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Another bloody points failure! The weather perfect, what the hell was going on! No one else seemed the least put out, unlike him all hardened travellers. Instead, everyone waited and watched. Soon, a message on screen told them to go to London Bridge.
One stop up the line, they arrived there shortly, plenty of trains. At London Bridge, confusion reigned, hundreds of passengers in search of direction. No announcements, no officials around to ask, the crowds swelled first in one direction, then in another, George propelled along with the mob. Finally, when it turned out that the coastal train would leave from Platform 8, a silent and hurrying procession took itself off in the general direction.
A packed platform, passengers waiting three deep, an empty train slowly pulled in. George, finding himself being buffeted forward, managed to get in and take a seat. Catching the eye of another passenger sitting opposite, he said, “I thank God I don’t have to do this journey every day.” The gentleman, a commuter type with a small black travelling case, murmured that it could be very tiresome. Then he added, “Perhaps we shouldn’t complain about trivial matters, today of all days,” before reading his evening newspaper.
George took the man’s comment as a mild form of rebuke, but didn’t mind. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the open pages of the commuter’s ‘paper displaying a large, recent photograph of the political leader who had died so suddenly that very morning. Then, observing the face of the reader, he was startled into realising that his features were remarkably similar to the picture of the deceased leader of Her Majesty’s opposition in Parliament. The same pale skin, dimple cheeks, moon-shaped spectacles, owlish face, high domed forehead, perhaps the gentleman belonged to the identical political party.
Left to his own meandering reflections, he looked out of the window as the train picked up speed, taking him home. Soon green fields, rows of trees and little running streams came into view. George loved the light evenings, the prospects of more to come and lots of fine summer weather. He was doing well, they’d told him at the hospital. He felt very contented and glad to be alive. The day had gone well, for him.
