Rings
The silvery hiss and steam of a midnight sleeper under the swinging lights of the station platform, taking on new passengers and supplies, engines being shunted around, baggage carts on rubber wheels standing here and there – a quiet air because of the still sleeping passengers. The occasional soft voiced conversation amongst the muted busyness seeming to float from out the gloom. Clipboards ticked off and boxes counted. Dining car supplies of food and table linen and steaming silver urns wheeled up and carried on board. Packets of everything from chips to soup and silver moonlight on the tracks and the drip dripping of water from the train through the steam. People on the platform waiting for their turn to board, standing by their bags, holding tickets and sleeping children. The porters spirit them off to their carriages bit by bit. Men in blue kitchen uniforms leaning up against the gleaming sides of the train, smoking a quick cigarette before the next loading or unloading begins, pointing this way and that when asked where something is by a passenger carrying a coat or case. The occasional check of the clock by the guard to see that everything is running to schedule. A tannoy announces fifteen minutes to go. A man with dirty overalls and a torch makes his way down the side of the train, shining a light on this and that underneath, checking the pipes and couplings and the wheels and bearings.
Parcels and bags being passed through the lowered windows onto the train now. Even some small children hoisted up and handed through carefully as the porters begin to fold down the bunks and unroll the neat packages of bedding. Sheets blanket and pillow. The stowing of packets and cases in the shelves above the bed, searching for this and that in a bag. The handing of change to a porter and the time to spare when all is done to lean on the open window and relax and take in the scene, having to step back frequently as people sidle down the narrow corridor to get to their compartments. Finality in the actions of the station staff indicates an approaching departure. The sound of doors closing through the muted mist – more and louder voices finalizing procedures. Pipes unplugged, wires disconnected, last moment scrambles for something forgotten, the whole huge infrastructure in its last steps of a complicated choreography. A steam whistle from the engine shrills and some children awake to wonder, a few to cry. People lean excitedly out of windows to look down the track or to kiss a loved one goodbye. Whistles from the guards and the last door slams. A bump of the carriages and a squeak from the wheels, waves and whispered shouts of goodbye and the train begins rolling out of the station and away on its one thousand mile journey.
*
She loosened the strap of her leg brace and slid herself carefully down onto the leather seat. She would dearly have loved to take it off but there was another lady in the compartment with her. She looked at her and saw she was looking back. They smiled politely at each other.
“Can't be very comfortable wearing that all day long?” Said the elderly woman nodding at the brace.
“Not really.”
“Well, let me introduce myself. I'm Isobel Falcon. I'm a teacher.” She held out her hand.
“Maria Bellagamba.” Said the woman in the leg brace. “Pleased to meet you.” And shook her hand.
Mrs Falcon nearly smiled at the irony of the name. It meant Maria of the beautiful leg.
“You're Italian then?” asked Mrs Falcon.
“Sort of. My mother emigrated with her parents when she was a young girl. They're all dead now.”
“And no family in Italy ?”
“No. Not that I know of. They used to live in Sorrento so I thought I'd go and see what it was like there.” She wore a small carryall over her shoulder which she took off and put it on the seat next to her. She also had a black leather suitcase, rather new and well made, a new travelling outfit, black of course, she was still in mourning, and a new pair of patent leather boots, one adapted to fit her brace. She felt like a new woman.
“Like a snifter?” Asked Mrs Falcon flourishing a little pocket decanter and two tiny glasses. She started pouring almost before Maria could answer.
“I'm bound for Naples .” Said Mrs Falcon. “Got a job offer there as a primary school teacher. Cheers.”
She handed over a glass and the two ladies toasted her new Post.
Mrs Falcon was a well dressed, double breasted sort of woman who obviously took no nonsense from scoundrels. She had a personality with a wide berth that could shelter many underneath while she dealt with the vicissitudes of life single handedly, the other hand, either engaged in bringing out a pinch of snuff to her regal nostril, followed by a quick wipe with a khaki brown handkerchief ‘used to be the husbands. Lt Colonel in the army' or pinching a teeny glass of brandy between her unvarnished fingernails.
“I see you're in mourning. Lost my bill twenty years ago. Thank God. Don't mean I didn't love him. But you know what men are like. Difficult buggers at best. Been much nicer on my own, but I do miss him sometimes. Oh well.” She eyed her empty glass suspiciously. “I suppose we'd better turn in then.” She said with a sigh of disappointment. Maria sat back and thought about the father of the child she was carrying and looked out of the window at the darkness as the train surged through the night.
It was dead silent. Maria rolled over and pulled down the window. A slight some of hissing come to her ear mixed with the faint chirrup a crickets, but for the rest it was as still as the grave. They weren't in any station or town. It seemed to be the middle of nowhere. There were some lights in the distance and the occasional voice drifting out of the darkness. Someone walked past the window, shining a torch in front of them. She heard a few creaks as the carriages settled on the rails but the stillness of the night was absolute. She sat and stared at the stars in the immense dark dome of sky. She breathed the night in deeply and hugged herself in her bed.
She thought of waking Mrs Falcon to share it with her, but when she looked over at the lady she was already awake in the silent wonder of it all and together they watched the night.
The sound of the dinner gong going down the corridor woke them up.
“Good.” Said Mrs Falcon. “I'm starved.”
Maria hoped there'd be some plain and simple toast and tea. Her stomach was quite used to the fancy fare she'd been eating lately.
“Kippers and poached eggs is what I fancy.” Said Mrs Falcon. “I could kill for a kipper right now.”
The ladies quickly dressed and laced up and adjusted bits of attire and soon they were on their way to the dining car.
Maria was however hungrier than she thought and nearly outdid Mrs Falcon in the dispatch of various items on the menu. They had coffee instead of tea as a treat and watched the countryside scoot happily past the window. Occasionally their eyes would meet and they'd smile at each other, but mostly they'd just sit and stare and catch up with themselves again.
“More coffee?” asked Mrs Falcon, pouring her third cup. She had a large engine to fuel.
“No thanks.” Answered Maria. The train swayed and clinked and clucked and the coffee swirled precariously in Mrs Falcon's cup.
“What do you teach?” Asked Maria by way of small talk.
“Everything dear. Everything. English, maths, history, Latin and several subjects I daresay I am not even aware of yet. I'm not really talented; I just have one of those tedious minds that remember everything.”
“Can you speak Italian?”
“I can speak it dear. Whether they can understand it is another matter.” She took a sniff of snuff, holding the other nostril closed.
“There.” She said after giving it a wipe and tucking the handkerchief into her sleeve.
“I must say I like Naples , even though it's so poor and run down. Weeds everywhere, even on the main Piazza's. Street urchins all over the place so you got to keep a sharp eye on your belongings. I like the people and I like the food. There's also a small English enclave that knows the ins and outs so there's always help near to hand.” She eyed Maria quite sharply.
“And you. Can you speak the language?”
“No.”
“So how are you going to cope on your own?”
“Well, I didn't think it would be so much of an issue?”
“Not in Naples . Quite a lot of people speak English there. But I don't think it'll be so easy in Sorrento .”
Maria seemed to ponder the problem but there was obviously nothing she could do about it.
“Why don't you come to Naples with me? You can always take a look around Sorrento at a later date. We could keep each other company, and I must say I've grown rather attached to you now. I feel that we're actually becoming friends.”
“I don't know,” said Maria. “I've also enjoyed being with you but it feels like I'd be imposing.”
“Nonsense. We're both in the same boat really. What do you say?”
Mrs Falcon was already setting out the thimble glasses and filling them to the brim in anticipation of the coming toast.
She handed one the Maria as she waited for her answer with a quizzical eyebrow raised on high.
“I suppose I could,” she said and smiled at her friend.
“Good. It's settled then. To Naples ,” she said, throwing back the drink in one go.
“To Naples ,” said Maria, sipping hers very cautiously. “Oh,” she said, suddenly remembering herself.
“There's something I need to tell you though.”
Mrs Falcon waited quietly.
“I'm pregnant.”
Mrs Falcon looked at Maria and her eyes filled with tears.
“That's wonderful,” she said, smiling and wiping her noise and patting Maria's hand.
“Oh My. My precious girl. That IS wonderful. When is it due?”
“About six months.” Maria sighed happily at the thought. She didn't know whether it was the relief of not having to worry about the future, or whether it was Mrs Falcons brandy, but she began to relax and start enjoying the adventure. She was beginning to feel that she was going somewhere and not just running away from something.
“And is it the father that you're in mourning for?”
“Yes. We…didn't know each other very long. He…” and it was at this point that she realized that the story she told now was the one she and the child would have to live with for the rest of their lives. The truth never came into it. That he was executed for murdering an old lady. No one would understand because some stories are just too hard to tell and everyone would judge them. She knew she would have to be careful and consistent.
“He had a heart attack,” she explained. “He ran for a bus one day and his heart just stopped beating.” She paused to give herself time to think up the next bit. “He left us well off so there's no problem there.”
She looked absentmindedly out at the Alps as the train ploughed on through the snowy landscape.