Wait For Me

On the Northern line travelling to Charing Cross, nestled between two broke students engrossed in their equally incomprehensible books. Hair falling out of a tightly coiled bun, each strand making a desperate bid for freedom. Several irritated flicks of her fingers patted them back into place. Everything must be perfect, just in case he happened to cross her path. 

His image had flashed past on the Bakerloo line, nose buried in a newspaper, the back of his head barely recognisable with a full head of black hair. There for fractions of a second and then gone, leaving her alone once more. Time, then, to plan her new route.

Switching onto the Northern line gave the best odds of catching him, since he worked near Charing Cross for years. Without any delays they might even alight on the platform at the same time. Already her nostrils were filled with the lingering notes of his aftershave. Sandalwood and amber with a touch of citrus. 

The usual crush of bodies accompanied the announcement of their arrival at Charing Cross, every passenger desperate to disembark and make way for an entire train full of new travellers. Although ready for this inevitability, she was still lost amongst the suits, the summer dresses, bags and briefcases, sandals and boots, squeezed until she couldn’t draw a breath. By the time she emerged into the relative relief of the busy platform it was too late. The bottom of his coat flapped out of sight as he disappeared up the stairs. He was gone. 

No matter. Plans are easy to change, and the Bakerloo line was right there, ready to whisk her away towards Oxford Circus. 

An emptier carriage greeted her, yet still she found herself situated amongst a group of teenagers, all black leather and nose piercings. A cursory glance suggested Punk, or a similar vein of anti-establishment subcultures. She had never been much of a music connoisseur.

It was easy, she found, to melt into anonymity on these journeys. A fussy blouse and pleated skirt marked her for the most mundane type of mother. No one had time to waste on the likes of her.  

The journey was blessedly short, and in just two stops she was able to change onto the Victoria line. Business would often take him this way, when he moved from finance to insurance. Finance, he often complained with words sharpened by bitterness, was a young man’s game. Could he have kept up if not for the ever growing family back home, demanding ever increasing hours of his day? Possibly, yet he never laid any blame at her door. A large family was always on the horizon. It’s just the horizon always seemed so far away.

Springing out of her seat she raced onto the platform, whipping her skirt out of the way of the closing doors, careful not to lose her footing in the impractical kitten heels she’d bought on a whim. 

No one except the few late night stragglers were milling around the empty platform. There was no need to peer at the drunk faces, she knew he wasn’t among them. Though a single deep breath told her that she wasn’t far behind. His aftershave was easily detectable mingled with the more unsavory fumes of the Underground. 

The Central line. There was only one possible direction he could be heading, though she didn’t like to take it if she could avoid it. Instincts which guided her through motherhood warned her of something which could not be expressed in words. 

Heedless of the warnings, and with no time to come up with a safer plan, she threw herself onto the next train and took the plunge towards Bond Street. 

No one paid her an ounce of attention, most dozing in their seats propped up against handrails or windows. If she were being kind she’d say the stupor was due to long, exhausting days. If she were being realistic she would blame another cause entirely. 

Taking advantage of the lethargy encasing the carriage, she took a moment to appraise her appearance, patting the perfectly coiffed dark curls resting on her shoulders, wiping away a stray smudge of lipstick, pulling her blouse tight to remove the creases. Even in this distorted reflection she was satisfied with what she saw. It would all go to waste, of course. They never meet at Bond Street. Impossible, always impossible. And who knew what state she would be in by the time they finally managed to catch up?

A slight hesitation before she darted through the doors, feet slipping in too big loafers, newspaper stuffed in the toes, bought expressly so she could grow into them. 

Jostled left and right by impatient commuters, she clutched her cardigan closed over her pinafore, also too big, and tried to see over the suit-clad men towering above her, finally resorting to standing on the very tips of her toes. It turned out to be a mistake as one maliciously angled briefcase hit her squarely in the small of her back, sending her sprawling to the ground. Scrambling out of the way, giving up any idea of getting to her feet in the crush surrounding her, she watched the train pull up on the brand new Jubilee Line. 

She knew what was coming, unwilling to watch but unable to look away as he walked towards the opening doors, his leather jacket sleek and shining, acquired merely days before, his hand resting on the small of another girl’s back, hair tightly curled just the way he liked, pink lipstick smeared on thin lips, the colour doing nothing for that pallid complexion. Funny how the age difference, a mere five years, never bothered her until these fleeting moments, watching him walk out with a fully fledged woman whilst she was still clad in oversized loafers and a pinafore. 

Gallant instincts already firmly ingrained, he took this intruder’s hand to help her into the carriage, receiving a tight pink smile in return. There was no need to gloat over the cracks already starting to show. It was only a matter of time before their paths would cross, him already single, and herself…

Well, the details didn’t matter all that much. Never think back to the mistakes made on the path to your future. 

Slowly they decided on their seats, turning so they were facing the doors. He always did that, an impulse he carried through his entire life. It took everything within her not to wave, to shout, to get his attention any way she could. Instead she stayed rooted to the spot whilst the words she could not let loose reverberated through her mind. 

Wait for me!

Was it coincidence, or some other force before which either of them were helpless? For at that very moment, as she pushed herself up against the grimy wall, his careless glance travelled through the still open doors and met her own. 

There was not a trace of recognition, yet something imperceptible passed between them. Like lightning rushing through a cable. A memory of something only hinted at, waiting to come to pass. 

It was enough to spur her into action. Despite the foolishness of the decision, despite the danger ahead of her, despite the very stern warnings against such behaviours, just as the doors started closing she bolted forward, elbowing her way through the stream of unsympathetic businessmen, praising her momentarily youthful lungs and legs, and tumbled into the adjoining carriage. 

Straightening up, she found herself pressed against the window, watching him too engrossed in the slip of a thing next to him to be interested in the gangly schoolgirl yearning for the touch of his hand, his hot breath in her ear whispering sweet words, the sandalwood and amber with a touch of citrus. Does he smell like that now, she wondered, or is it a scent reserved solely for me?

Her hand slid down the window, smaller now, her skinny arm raised high above her head, the carriage growing larger all the time. Overhead the metal creaked and rattled, screaming as the train warped, climbing to impossible speeds, the darkness outside crackling with golden sparks. 1979, three years after she was born. That made the Jubilee the most dangerous line. If she went back any further, a babe in arms clutched by her harried mother, where would they find themselves? Lost and alone to wander the cavernous underbelly of Londinium, never permitted to find their way home. 

The carriage shuddered, wind whipping around her, buffeting her into the wall, the door, the other passengers who grumbled without looking up from their papers and phones. Someone offered her their seat, she couldn’t make out who, the carriage now filled with a murky fog. At least, she thought it was fog. 

Waterloo meant all change, and yet more buffeting and muttering as she shuffled onto the platform. 

The futile thought of waiting for him lingered in her mind for just a moment, but she knew he was never going to appear. That young man clad in the leather jacket with the uninterested girl hanging on his arm, he was gone. And she was left with nothing more than an aching back, failing eyesight, a head full of fuzzy memories, and the fading smell of sandalwood. 

Sometimes she thought she heard his step behind her, expecting to see the flaking leather of his jacket on, black hair now grey and receding, stooping low with his bowed back. The moment always passed without her bothering to turn around. She had no time to waste on memories.  

With enough wits left to locate the exit, she made her final journey to the adjoining platform. The Northern line, heading towards Camden Town. 

Early morning trains were always a delight, so long as the rush hour could be avoided. The only time she was guaranteed a peaceful journey with the small handful of bleary eyed strangers who were never awake enough to cause trouble. And the abundance of seats meant she often enjoyed an entire side to herself. 

No one glanced over as she lowered her weary body into what she deemed would be the comfiest seat, her bones rattling with every jolt and turn of the track. 

These were the moments she cherished, the jaunts into a world dawning anew, when it felt like anything that could happen would happen if she were patient enough. 

She smiled at her reflection, admiring the perfect finish of her makeup, her raven hair coiled into a tight bun, and a silk dress merely hinting at modesty. She made quite the attractive image if any cared to look, the scruffy school girl drowning in a pinafore and too big loafers long forgotten.   

The carriage slowed, then jolted to a halt, a rush of hot air stirring the loose strands of her bun. And, as always, she smelt his presence before he entered. The sandalwood and amber with a touch of citrus. 

“Is this seat taken?”

She suppressed a smile as she shook her head. The waiting was finally over.