ISSN 1758-6488
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Extract from Spontaneous You Fiction |
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“But at least you have something to lose, Rod – you have memory and tradition. You have Stratford and Covent Garden and the BBC. I’m from middle America – a place where we’re too dumb even to read subtitles.”
“You think America’s even worse?”
“Much, much worse.”
“Memories are all we have,” he said. “We’re one vast museum.”
“You have some wonderful young poets.”
“Do we?” Rod felt a twang of pride, then a blush of ignorance. “I don’t read much poetry.”
“Oh you should.” She mentioned several names Rod had never heard before. “They’re all terrific. I’ll lend you some of their books.”
Their train was pulling into Victoria: the tittle-tattle of rain was replaced by the elasticated doing of station announcements. A blue-grey twilight filled the carriage, and a minute later they were standing together in front of the ticket barrier. Barb had just paid the guard, and was now rifling through her shopping bag. She came out with a purple filofax stuffed to bursting with postcards, newspaper clippings and post-it notes “Let me have your phone number.”
“I beg your pardon.” Rod’s vague imaginings had not extended beyond bumping into each other again on the 10.35.
“So I can arrange to get you those books.”
“I don’t have a phone I’m afraid.”
“It doesn’t have to be a mobile.”
“No, I don’t have any phone at all.”
She looked at him.
“TV?”
He shook his head.
“She really took everything didn’t she?” Barb wrinkled her nose in concern and touched him gaily on the elbow. Despite her good looks, Rod, remembering the post-Janet desolation in which he now lived, felt suddenly intruded on and patronised.
“I still have my Bach,” he said sternly
“Ah.” She nodded not noticing his change of tone. “You, Rod Winkle, are clearly a man of principle. Address?”
After a pause Rod told her.
“Then I shall send you a note.”
They shook hands, and she walked off past the baked potato franchise and the self-serve ticket machines, and out into the grey-brown froth of London. Rod looked up at the fluorescent digits of the station clock – 10.54 – if he walked slowly enough, he realised, he could still be almost late.
