They left the motorway, following the broad road to the city, passing through Swiss Cottage. Houses gave way to small blocks of flats and the small blocks to bigger blocks to high-rises to massive glass and steel offices. The clumsy bus rattled through the dark city, stopping at lights and rumbling across roundabouts. They pulled slowly into King's Cross, stopping by the great blind arches of St. Pancras. The Afroed driver spoke over the Tannoy, telling them they were in London, so get off and thank you.
The bus emptied quickly. A crowd gathered by the boot while the other driver pulled out the bags and sat them on the pavement. Maureen lit a well-deserved cigarette, enjoying the feel of Vik's chrome lighter in the palm of her hand. She took off her jersey and rolled it up, pulling her overcoat out of the plastic bag, unraveling it and slipping it on. It didn't seem very cold, a little frosty, but not like winter at all. She spotted her cycle bag being thrown onto the pavement and stepped over a couple of suitcases to get to it. She waited until everyone else had claimed their baggage before she cornered the driver again. "See, about that girl…"
The driver looked up at her. His eyes were red-rimmed and he looked exhausted. "Look," he said, slamming the boot shut and locking it, "I cannae mind the guy."
"You look knackered," she said, and offered him a fag. He took one and she lit it for him. "No, I just wanted to ask about her bag. Did she always have it with her? Could she have just had it with her on the way down?"
The tired man exhaled. "She put it in the boot sometimes."
"Was it when she was going home or coming here?"
The driver took a draw and looked at the tip, frowning and trying to remember. "Now ye say that, I think it was just the one way"-he looked up at her-"but I cannae remember which."
"Did ye have an unclaimed bag left in the boot in Glasgow," prompted Maureen, "the last time, the time she got left behind at the service station?"
The driver smiled at his fag and nodded. "On the way up," he said. "She kept it on her lap on the way up."
Chapter 27
It was half past seven in the morning and King's Cross was already gridlocked. Cars and buses on the Euston Road were jammed up close and exhaust fumes hovered over the stodgy traffic like smoke in a nightclub. Across the road the Underground entrance hoovered streams of pedestrians off the pavement. Maureen realized that, for the first time in months, she was walking with her head up because the weather was so mild and Michael wasn't here and Vik had come to see her off.
She crossed at the lights heading for the tube. At the foot of the stairs stood a filthy old man with one agate eye. He smiled beatifically up at the ferocious river of bad-tempered people, enjoying the warm stream of heat from the vents, peeling an orange with one hand, his other arm cramped into his waist, his hand puckered and paralyzed by a stroke. The torrent of commuters bustled past him, swinging to the far side of the tunnel to avoid even seeing him, rendering him invisible with their indifference.
It was oppressively warm downstairs. By the time Maureen arrived on the southbound platform the sweat was running down her back, soaking into her coat and ruining it. After a gentle back-draft, a welcome cool breeze whispered from the tunnel. The crush of people shifted, looking to the left as a train clattered into the station. The passengers clotted around the opening doors, pushing from the back, shoving onto the train before the disembarking passengers could get off. The doors shut behind her, skimming Maureen's bag, and the train took off with a jolt.
Inside the carriage the commuters and tourists pressed tightly against one another, valiantly defending the fiction of unconnected-ness. Those standing looked covetously at the seated. The seated looked relaxed and happy, reading books or staring contentedly into the crotch of the person standing in front of them. A Norwegian tourist shared an indignant observation with his companion, who agreed. Maureen wondered about Ann carrying up to Glasgow, wondering whether it meant anything. She couldn't think straight, her eyes burned hot and tired, and more than anything she wanted a wash and a sleep. Her coat was far too heavy – she was sweating into the gorgeous silky lining, straining a muscle on her side trying to reach the bar on the ceiling. The train stopped at a station and a fresh set of tired commuters, wearing their office best, clambered into the carriage.
The train was cooler than the Underground and brought her to Blackheath station. She followed the directions Sarah had given her, turning right out of the station, following the steep road up the hill and taking the left-hand fork. Blackheath was postcard pretty. The low shops had big bow windows with inappropriate red sale banners plastered across them. She walked on until she came to the corner of the heath. Restrained colonnades of high Georgian houses faced onto an extravaganza of empty land, which came to a little hill in the middle, like a pseudohorizon, as if the grassy land were as infinite as the empire. Sarah Simmons lived in Grote's Place, one street back from the heath.
Maureen trotted up the stairs to number three but couldn't find a doorbell. She knocked with the heavy brass knob, heard the clip-clop of court shoes on stone, and the door opened. Sarah was dressed for work in a white blouse, navy blue skirt and matching tights and shoes. She looked Maureen over, took in her expensive overcoat, her cheap trainers and her heavy bag. "Hello, hello, Maureen," said Sarah, drawing it out as if she'd have nothing to say when the greeting was over. "How are you?"
"Hi, Sarah, not bad," said Maureen, smiling. "How's yourself?" She noticed once again, as she had all the way through university, how rough her accent sounded.
Sarah stepped aside and invited her in. "Come." She smiled. "Come into the humble abode. Most welcome."
Maureen walked into the hall and looked up. "Oh, Sarah," she said, before she could stop herself.
"Nothing much," said Sarah, blushing with shame and pleasure. "Granny's old house."
The hall was fourteen feet high with black and white floor tiles, walls papered in textured fleur-de-lis, and hung with blue-black portraits of bearded men in naval uniforms. A high wooden staircase clung to the wall on the right with a black wood balustrade. The house was very still. Maureen pointed at the paintings. "Who are these fantastic men?" she said.
"Relatives," said Sarah. "Deceased. Mostly from syphilis. Look, I have to leave for work in half an hour. I'd leave you here but I don't have a set of spare keys." They looked at each other. Sarah smiled weakly and slid her gaze to the floor. "I can give you a lift into town if you'd like?"
Maureen nodded. Sarah didn't trust her. All she knew was that she and Maureen had had little in common at university and Maureen had been mentally ill since then. "That's fair enough," she said, neglecting convention and responding to the subtext.
Sarah steered her to the back door, turned her round and lifted her coat by the shoulders, helped her out of it and hung it on a coat peg. "Come"-she slipped her arm through Maureen's-"and have a little breakfast with me. Come and tell me everything that has happened to you. You must be famished. How's your hunky brother?"
The tentative pals walked into the Aga-warmed kitchen where Maureen sipped her tea and gave Sarah a disinfected summary of her past four years. Her time in hospital with mild depression, how Liam's business had done so well he could pay his way through uni, about her boyfriend, Douglas, who'd died of a heart attack, and how her mother didn't keep terribly well at all. Sarah was sad for her, happy for her and sad again, as the story dictated. She put on her makeup at the table as Maureen finished spinning a tattered web of half-truths, then took her turn.