Red is for Go

8/13/2019 Red is for Go

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Red is for Go

Suzanne Conboy-Hill

The seats are elegant, she said, stroking the

plush upholstery and leaning slightly forwards

to avoid creasing the cream lace antimacassar

draped behind. A proper lady would just lean

back, take it for granted, stretch her creamy

throat and tilt her chin upwards to look down on

the porters lugging heavy cases and bags into the

carriage. But she wasnt a proper lady, she was

pretending, masquerading, like everyone else who embarked at Brighton and

paid a little extra to feel posh. Although she could not quite remember actually getting on the

train. She hunched slightly, away from the lace fancy, and tried to look down her nose at the

shining plates resting on the starched linen that was draped over the mahogany and leather

dining table. She couldntsee the table but she could feel it there, humming with deep polish,

antique cigar smoke, and ladies lavender toilet water. A menu stood to attention in a silver

grip: Tea, per pot 1/3, coffee, per pot, per person 1/8, bacon (portion) 2/8, kippers

From the gentleman, madam, the waiter said, inclining his head a little and

proffering a small box on a silver tray.

The gentleman? Where? Where is he? she asked, startled by the intrusion and now

casting her eyes around the carriage for a sign.

He was on the platform, madam. He didnt have a ticket for this train, today.

Today? Was it him?

Perhaps, madam. The box? He edged the tray closer.


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Thank you. She took the box, put it on the table next to her coffee, and turned it

around to see each face. It was blue and it had a rose coloured ribbon neatly tied up the sides

and across the lid, so it looked as if it were held in a silk cage. There was a cream tag with

filigree edges tied to the ribbon: it said Victoria. She touched the ribbon with a reticent finger

tip, Do you think he might have been a parallel?

I really couldnt say, madam.

What year is it? she asked, pushing up the lid of the box a tiny fraction, as though a

ghost might bolt out suddenly and rattle around the carriage breaking the crystal lamps if she

opened it wider.

Nineteen sixty five, madam.

She nodded, tapped the lid closed and handed the box back to the waiter. Put it with

the others, please, she said, in date order.

Are you not going to open it? the waiter asked, hovering in a slight stoop, ready to

give the box back.

Its not time, she said.

Right you are, madam.The waiter turned, walking with measured steps accustomed

to the hitch and roll of a carriage in motion, to a stack of storage cupboards so deeply

burnished that the orange oil smelled of centuries, not decades. He opened one and began to

shuffle the line of boxes along the shelf a little to make room for the new one. She watched as

he moved them with reverence: the pink one, the seashell, green for a wet Spring morning,

umbersmoky evenings and garden bonfires, one black as night, and one glittering and

glowing with stars and sunbursts. The new box came chronologically after the sparkling one

and he eased it into place, but it was a squeeze, and he had to jostle it a little. As he did, from

the far end of the shelf came tumbling a deep red round box which jingled and chattered and


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thumped as it fell onto the carriage floor. Its lid came off and rolled over and over, dancing

along with the speeding diddley-dums of the train, and coming to a halt at her feet.

Oh, she said. When is this one?

The waiter picked up the red box. You should look inside, madam, he said, stepping

back.

I dont want this one.

Theres no choice, madam.

She curled her fingers about the box, held it up in front of her to examine the exterior.

It had a pattern; one of those that didnt quite resolve while you looked at it directly but hid in

the corner of your eye instead. Deep red, almost tactile, like flock. It was heavy, as though it

contained more than its size allowed, more than anyone could know. She brought it down

under her chin to peer inside; it was like looking down a telescope the wrong way. No, a

kaleidoscope with brass and candles, chandeliers and velvet. No, not even that. She felt dizzy.

***

Tickets please.

Tickets. Did she have a ticket? Her hands were grappling with a ham sandwich that

felt like cardboard and smelled of nothing, which was probably fortunate. No grease to wipe

off, at least, she thought, as she patted at the pockets of her raincoat. The woman next to her

was doing the same while juggling a large shopping bag on her knee and heaving in massive

mouth-breaths so she sounded like an over-worked vacuum cleaner. The bag fell off and

dropped onto the feet of the man opposite, who apologised in that peculiar way the British

have of conveying affront. He fluffed up his newspaper and poked his ticket over the top

between two casual fingers, as if to say this is how to do it. She thought it looked like a Punch

and Judy show. Maybe he had a crocodile behind that paper


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Ticketsplease. Have your tickets ready. The inspector was coming closer and she

had still not found her ticket. Did she have a bag? A wallet? She cast about for a clue, hitched

sideways to check under the seat.

This your bag, lady? A man with small round glasses, a wet anorak, and two missing

front teeth shoved at something with his foot. You want to keep that out of the aisle,

someone could break their neck tripping over that. He was holding a beer can in one hand

and a plastic carrier bag in the other, and he seemed to have nowhere else he wanted to go.

Oh, yes. Yes, she said, and leaned down to pull in the bag. It was brown with fake

leather straps, a bit frayed, and a broken zip. Maybe the ticket was in there. She tugged the

strap to bring the bag under the bench seat, folding herself over sideways to reach down

without touching the pair of American Tan knees opposite that tapered down to the pair of

neatly aligned navy shoes with stubby heels. Just behind the shoes was a heater that had been

clicking and clacking and belching fumes but had not yet belched out any heat. Perhaps as

well, she thought, or this place would smell like wet dogs in a workhouse laundry.

She leaned further and pulled harderhere it came, another inch. Ah! She heaved it

up onto her knee next to the ham sandwich.

Open it then.

What?

Open it, what do you think its there for? The man with the beer and the missing

teeth had gone. Instead, the ticket inspector loomed. He peered down at her from under his

peaked cap. Look sharp.

Oh. She pulled on the broken zip to open up the top. Is my ticket in here?

Nope. One of the others, on the top. He flicked a glance at the overhead racks where

briefcases, boxes wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, small scuffed suitcases, and a


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few coats juddered against the nicotined paintwork of the carriage as it creaked and clattered

over points and sleepers on its way to

Whats our destination? she asked.

Same as always, Miss. Now look in thebag.

She withdrew her gaze from the man with the peaked cap and let it fall towards the

open bag. There were some small items within; an embroidered pursegreen, a cosmetics

bag with gold tassels and stars on it, a pencil caseblue fake fur, and a jewellery box made

of black plastic.

Its the black one, isnt it? Do I have to open the black one?

Up to you. But Id go for the pencil case, if I were you.

The pencil case. She stroked the pale fluffy material, thenpicked it up. Itsempty,

she said. No pencils. She turned it over to look at the other side. This side was different

because someone had used a fluorescent pink marker all over it and dotted bright pink hearts

into the blue acrylic fabric. They had given it a label too, across the top by the zipVictoria.

Look inside then, or well never make it.

She probed the opening and slid her fingers through to the interior. Werethere ghosts?

Probing a little deeper, she found the edge of a scrap of paper and pulled it out. It was lined,

ink blotted, with doodles all over it and a heart with an arrow through it at the top. There

were initials inside the heart, blurry due to someone having spilled something over it. In the

centre though, and just clear of the tidal edge of the inky water mark, were some numbers

221020121330 221019821230

What are these? What do they mean?

Do I look like Sherlock Holmes? Your guess is as good as mine.

So theyre not important?

Didnt say that.


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It might help if you were a little more helpful. She cast a critical eye at the

inspector and then examined the scrap of paper again. Were the initials important? And the

numbers? The train jumped and jiggled, swung this way and that, screeched and whoooed,

and thundered into a tunnel. Noise crowded the air so that speech retreated and fell silent. A

small bag also fell and tumbled onto her shoulder, then into her lap. Deep red patent leather

with a gold fastener and a velvet strip running under the clasp.

Thats the one, the inspector said, mouthing exaggerated syllables and nodding at it.

Time to open that one, were nearly there.He tipped his cap at her, straightened up, Next

stop, London Victoria, thirteen thirtythats half past one in old money, and moved off

down the carriage. Next stop, London Victoria,thirteen thirtythats half past one

***

The train hurtled along, thrumming and tilting and righting itself so that styrofoam cups slid

back and forth along shiny tables to bump into the laptops, tablets, netbooks, and iPads

people were pretending to work on while they tapped on links to videos and updated their

status -- were on the train, LOL!She gathered her Tesco backpack to her and stuffed it under

her arm to keep it out of range of the man whose girth threatened to escape his shirt and

assimilate everything within reach.

What year is this? she said to her phone.

NOW, it said, in large font, and pinged a text message into her notifications: See you

at Victoria


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Red.

Hm. The man inclined his head side to side and pulled the corners of his mouth

downwards. Might be a bridge, might not be. Have you checked the others?

No, where are they in this, this?

Segment? Here. The man pushed his tablet over to her and swiped the display to

show the apps loaded onto it. There were more than before; along with the blue one that shed

opened earlier, didnt understand, and closed again, the glittery silvery one, and that black

one. She shuddered. The black one opened once at a bridge and she had tried to get rid of it

by throwing it out of the window, but it was re-delivered at the next stop. It was here still,

innocuous, innocent, velvet black, night black. She wanted the glittery one again. The

dancing dizzying headiness of meeting him and everything else standing still around them.

The red ones updating, better get to the doors, the man said, huffing his legs

towards the aisle to let her by.

There was a bridge in 1985, she said, hovering over the glittery silvery icon. That

was our time. It looked like our time

Time? Relativeha ha!No going back, up you get.

Hellbe there this time, wont he? At the next stop?

Maybe, maybe not. What do you have?

He sent a text.It said, See you at Victoria.

One of him sent a text to one of you. Might not be the you thats here, if you get me.

But I haventchanged.

Tracks change. Points change. Sometimes you get shunted into a siding or your

schedule is delayed or re-jigged. Sometimes your train crashes, or arrives at the terminus.

She stopped at that. Ive looked in all the boxes, the files, theyre always the same.

For this you, not for all the others.


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She watched the red icon; its update was nearly loaded, she should go to the door.

Does he have a black box too?

Have you looked in yours, checked the contents?

No, she lied. She had been half standing to move out of her seat but the thought of

that box brought fear to her knees and she sat again. Do you know whats in there? she

asked, wondering if the man had seen what she had tried not to see. Do the others all have

black boxes too?

Some do but the contents are different, depending on their choices.

But mine will always be mine? She realised that she had neverreally looked, only

tried to destroy.

Yes.

Which one of us died?

He did.Back then.

And now? She looked up at the ceiling, at the bright carriage lights that cast

unforgiving shadows under the sleep deprived eyes of its hot-desking passengers. She looked

down again; the red icon was updated and ready to be opened. It seemed to pulse like a slow

heart beat and she hovered her finger over it.

Tell me about the blue box,the man said. What was in it?

She pulled her finger back and curled it lightly, out of danger. Just a card with some

numbers. They didnt make any sense.

And where did it come from, this box?

I dontknowthey always just appear on a table, under a chair, in the middle of a

drinks trolley, or on aah, this one was delivered, the waiter said it was from the

gentleman.Her handsmemory made her pat the prickly velour of the train seat. Not plush

this time, but a train seat nonetheless.


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Well then, lets take a look at the card. The man tapped on the blue box and brought

up the splash screen. Here we are, 221020121330, he said, Any ideas?

Well no, its nonsense, she said.

Not if you look at yourphone. Date, time?

She studied the digital display; nearly half past one, October 22nd. Oh.

And Victoria station is what?

Its the terminus, the end of the line.

Where all the lines converge.

Parallels dont converge.

They dont, do they? Mustnt be parallels, then.He winked, dabbed at the digital

display with both thumbs - swished and dabbed, swished and dabbed - then handed her the

tablet. Better get a move on. The red icon sat on its own at the top left of the screen. It

pulsed, and with each pulse extended out a little over new wallpaper that looked silvery in the

darkness of the dimmed carriage lights. Everything you need in there,the man said. He

winked again, Mind how you go, madam.

First published in Roadside Attractions 22/10/12

Conboy-Hill

Red is for Go

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