There is a tiny fist curling around the faded-blue seat in front of me on the train to Blackburn.
~
I will reach out my hand to touch the sticky, pink fingers, and they will retreat so quickly, it will make me laugh. A head tufted with soft baby hair will appear from behind the seat. The baby’s eyes will be a heart-breaking blue. It will wrinkle its nose in an attempt to smile then contort its entire body so that it can reach its arm over to me.
‘Sam!’ a broad Lancashire accent will squeal, ‘You’re going to wriggle off the seat, stop it!’
Sam will disappear without volition, and the speaker will pop her head up and say, ‘Sorry, love – he’s just really nosy.’
‘He’s so lovely, and you’re taking such good care of him,’ I will say and I will mean it. Sam’s mum will smile at me and duck back down behind her seat. The rest of the journey will be quiet, but my heart will sing along with Sam when he gurgles a lullaby into his mother’s embrace.
I have never given a single penny to the homeless but when I walk out of Blackburn Station towards town, I will give every penny I have to every human being I see sitting on the cold, hard streets with their hands outstretched or a paper cup beside them with the word ‘hungry’ daubed on its side.
‘Have you somewhere to stay tonight?’ I will say to a girl wrapped in a stained sleeping bag. She will tell me she’s sixteen. Her hair will be blue and there will still be the traces of make-up trailing her skin.
‘I have now,’ she will say looking at the two twenties I will put into her hand.
When I get home, I will ring my sister. She will be surprised at first, and angry, until I say sorry, that everything was my fault and that, honestly, if I could take it back I would. I will tell her I love her, over and over again. She will cry a lot, shout a little and then invite Mike and I over for tea at the weekend. It will be the first invite we’ve had for months.
In the lounge, Mike will be sprawled on the sofa watching Jeremy Vine. He will look up with concern, ‘You’ve not been gone long, is everything okay?’
‘Oh yes, everything is fine. In fact, it’s better than fine. I have everything I need. Why did I need a white jacket anyway?’
‘You said you needed a new jacket for your job interview,’ Mike will prompt.
‘Oh yes. You know what I’ve been thinking?’ I will say. ‘Why do I want the job? We’ve both got great pensions – why do I need a job? You know, the HR woman said there were more than 500 applicants for this job. Why don’t I leave it for someone who really needs it?’
‘You said you were bored. Are you sure you’re okay, love?’
I will walk over to my husband of forty-three years, and I will touch his craggy, tired-looking face, and I will say, ‘I love you, Mike.’ He won’t reciprocate, but I won’t want him to. I will tell him that I am grateful for the love and care he’s shown our children over the years. I will tell him that he is a good man and then I will smile at his puzzled look. I will ask him to make a coffee for us both, and when he goes to the kitchen, I will walk to the window and look out at the street where we have lived for almost forty years.
Over the road, I will see Mr and Mrs Johnson playing with their grandchildren in their front garden. They will look over and wave and, for the first time in years, I will wave back. We stopped speaking to the Johnsons for reasons I’ve forgotten, but they are decent people who love their children and grandchildren. Just as we all do.
A little further down the street, I will see Tom Shackleton. He will be struggling to walk. He must be nearly a hundred years old; he was an old man when we moved here. I will walk out of the house to help Tom with his shopping. I will carry his bags into his house, make him something to eat and clean his kitchen.
‘If you need anything else, please let me know,’ I will say as I’m leaving. Tom will look as puzzled as Mike did earlier. This will be the first time I’ve spoken to him in thirty years. I always thought he was a bit odd.
Back home, I will sit on the sofa and spend a long time looking at my hands. I will pinch the skin on top of my left hand and marvel at how it remains puckered and upright.
~
My hands are the hands of an old lady. Only moments ago, I was slim and young and newlywed, ready for a family and a new career, and in the blink of an eye it has all gone. The end of the journey is so much closer than the start.
‘I’m really sorry, love,’ says the woman in front. ‘He’s just really nosy.’
I look down at my hands once again and think about those dirty baby fingers poking through the seat on the train.
‘Well, just keep him under control,’ I say. ‘I’ve got a white jacket hanging on this seat – I don’t want his grubby mitts all over it.’ I turn to look out of the window, trying to ignore the child’s tuneless lullaby.
‘I was taken by the way the story encapsulates a lifetime of possibility in one concentrated moment. The writer doesn’t let us forget what might be opened up by different choices and, despite the word ‘could’ in the title, keeps our hope for some sort of redemption alive right up to the devastating end.
JC Niala
This is a very confident flash story, taking the reader straight into the scene without equivocation. Themes of consumerism, morality and community—how we choose to live our lives—are powerful in this work. Without a hint of hyperbole, and with skill and restraint, this writer takes us on an emotional journey through everyday challenges, and the consequences of our actions.
Amanda O’Callaghan
Donna L. Greenwood is a writer from Lancashire, UK. She’s had short stories and flash fiction published in various anthologies and literary magazines. Her current project is a semi-biographical novel about mental illness and class.
