Cricklewood

We got to Cricklewood. The train was already fairly full, but I had a seat beside a window and near the door, so I saw the whole drama unfold. The two of them were there on the platform as the train drew in, a man and a woman, older people but not elderly – perhaps the kindest word would be “mature”. Probably about my age, in other words.  The man climbed on, and dragged a suitcase behind him, but there was nowhere for him to sit and so he was left standing beside the door. He was already wearing a backpack. I was expecting the woman to follow him on, but she didn’t. She had a bright, kind, intelligent face. They were saying their goodbyes and she was clearly telling him to take care, waving, smiling, as the doors closed and the train started to move. 

It was really only then that I looked at his face. It was a bit like hers – perhaps they were brother and sister, it seemed more likely than that they were partners – but his face was soft, blurred and flushed. I thought he was red in the face from the exertion of manhandling the luggage, but when I looked again I thought perhaps he was upset. 

So I started to wonder what the story was. Why was he upset? Had he been to stay with his sister and then, the visit over, was facing a return to a lonely life on his own? Or was he returning to an unhappy marriage, or to the duty of care for an elderly and cantankerous parent? Was his sister’s kind attentiveness genuine or was it a mask – was she pleased to see him go and was he aware of that? For her part, did she go home relieved that, duty done, she wouldn’t have to see him again for a while? Where was his journey going to end and would be back home by nightfall?

And I shall never know.

The tortoise and the hare, by Elizabeth Jenkins

This is not a book I would have been likely to pick up just on a whim, but it was recommended to me by a friend – it is a novel originally written in the 1950s but republished in the 1980s by Virago and championed by several notable writers. I will be honest and admit that I had never heard of Elizabeth Jenkins and was sceptical that it would be the overlooked jewel that it was claimed to be. I  was doubtful that I would enjoy it. But I did. 

It is a domestic drama, on a small scale, nothing epic about it. It doesn’t flash and burn. The style is impeccable and elegant and for that reason unremarkable (except that impeccably and elegantly written books are hard to find). The characters in the love triangle – for that is what it is about – are none of them totally sympathetic, none of them totally unforgivable. Not much happens, but it is minutely observed and riveting to read.

And that was the interesting thing.  Just recently I have not been reading much. I have rather got out of the habit. Given the opportunity to read, I have often chosen not to, preferring to do something else or to do nothing at all. I have enjoyed many of the books that I have read, but it has taken me a while to finish them and I found that I would have lost the thread each time I went back. This is the first book in more than a year that I have actively wanted to read and have become totally engaged with. I do not know whether this is because of the book itself or because my mood has changed again. It will be interesting to find out how I get on with the next book on the list.