Waiting.

Blush_01

Please be nice, I haven't written in ages and I'm as rusty as a razor left in a damp bathroom. That said, I put it here for opinion and critique, so please feel free.











Huffing, I took a seat in the stark waiting room. My bag, an ugly and ostentatious pink monstrosity on wheels, chugged after me and slumped beside my seat. Deep at the bottom of my handbag I located my current reading material and half a Snickers. Chewing the chocolate from the caramel, I hoped both book and bar would last long enough for me to avoid the lonely moments between the train’s departure and my father’s arrival.
“Good book?”
His obviously elderly voice startled me a little. It’s rare these days that someone strikes up a conversation with those who are obviously young.
“Yes, but I’ve read better.”
I looked up and smiled, not quite knowing what to say. The delicate balance between engaging with a stranger and making small chit-chat, versus a life story worthy of Kleenex sponsorship was tottering, and I had no idea which side it would land on. Notwithstanding my hopes that my family would arrive soon, I had actually quite looked forward to discovering who was behind the secret hate mail a group of teenagers had been receiving, despite knowing that what I was reading was the literary definition of trash. Now that I had been denied this cheap thrill, I was mildly irritated. However the face that peered back at mine from under the same style of flat, peaked cap my father wore when working outside was charming and heartbreaking. The scales had landed firmly on the side of life story, and I was caught.
“So, what’s a lovely young lady like you doing sitting in this creaky old place?”
He was right. The waiting room at Limerick Junction train station left a lot to be desired. With such lavish features as chipped floor tiles, a humming soft drink vending machine and a snack dispenser devoid of snacks, it truly discouraged much waiting. However, obliged as I was to answer him, I offered my book back to the greedily waiting mouth of my cavernous handbag.
“Just waiting to be collected. They’re running late, had to pick some things up in town. They didn’t expect the train to be in quite so soon. What about yourself?” I hoped my irritation at my darling family’s tardiness didn’t show.
“Oh, I’m just on a day trip. Something to break the routine, you know, prove that today isn’t just an ordinary week day. I had hoped to go to Limerick, but the connecting train isn’t running today, they’re taking people by bus instead. I can’t use those buses with my bad leg.” He tapped his right shin gently with his walking stick and smiled.
“That’s awful, did they not even make an announcement before you left Heuston?”
“Oh no, they didn’t say anything until we got here. I was a bit disappointed you know, I used to come to Limerick regularly with my wife, until she died seven years ago. Brain haemorrhage, we didn’t see it coming. She was only 59. I get a bit lonely on my own, so I make day trips now. I used to love Galway, but it’s just a bit too far away. Limerick is nice though. Everything is near the station, and it’s interesting to see the changes they’ve made over time.”
In him I began to see echoes of my grandfather, who had sat in an old wardrobe, discarded in one of the sheds in our yard and smoked his pipe, to escape my siblings and me when we were small. I used to love wandering in, watching the smoke curl upwards in delicate wisps, and smell the fragrant rising aroma as he slowly puffed on the pipe’s stem. If I was especially good he let me fill the bowl with flakes of tobacco and watch him as his large flat thumb compressed it down. He too had lost my grandmother when she was young, also 59, and had never really recovered from that loss. Beads of sorrow curled in my gut.
“I’m very sorry to hear about your wife. I’m sure she was a wonderful woman.”
“She was, wonderful and kind. I think you would have liked her. We had a son too, but he died as a baby. We tried to adopt, but I was in my late 50s and she was almost 37, and they said that I was too old. We could have had a little child and given them lots of love, but they said I was too old. And now I’m here, alone in my 80s, with no wife and no family. But I have my travel pass, and I go where I please. It’s not so bad.”
His loneliness curled around him, a blanket of possibilities lost. My phone began to vibrate in my pocket, and as I removed it I saw my mother’s number flash on the screen before it stopped and dimmed again.
“I don’t understand those newfound contraptions at all. I have a mobile telephone myself, but I don’t really know how to use it. My brother is a priest in Mayo, I use it to call him when I’m out and about, but I’m not sure what happened, it won’t work now.”
He passed the old Nokia to me, and smiled an apologetic plea for me to take a look at it. I checked his credit, flicked through the menus and found the problem. He’d simply forgotten the prefix when dialling his brother’s number. I wanted to hug him and explain that he needed to put it in every time when calling a number from a mobile phone, but that would have been invasion of his privacy.
“Just make sure you put the area code before the number every time and it’ll be fine. Here, I’ll add it to your address book, and then when you want to call him you press this button here, and the address book opens. His is the first number in it.” Smiling, I handed it back to him. My phone once again buzzed violently against my thigh. Part of me was delighted to let my family stew a little, after their small neglect of me. I tried to wind up my conversation with the elderly man.
“How soon is your train due?”
“I’m getting the 3:20 back to Heuston. I’ll be home in time for winning streak and a nice cup of tea in front of the fire. You’ll be going out dancing, I suppose. You young people love to dance. We used to love dancing too, although it was very different when I was young.”
3:20. That was still almost two and a half hours away. This poor guy, with a mobile phone he couldn’t use and an injured leg, was stuck because someone in Irish Rail thought a bus was just as good as a train to someone who wanted to reach their destination. I felt anger towards whoever had neglected to let the passengers know that their connection was not as described. He continued to talk, trying to draw me in further, and I tried not to become more involved in his story.
“I hurt my leg in the war, you know. I was only a young lad, I fought for Britain, although many people didn’t thank me for it. But the injustice that was being done proved me right in the end I suppose.” I was baffled, I had no response for him. I, now older than he had been heading off to war, could barely manage to entertain myself while waiting for a lift home from the train station. And he had fought Hitler! My dumb expression egged him on further. He told me of his wife, how happy they had been and how sad the loss of their son had made them. He explained how he loved being his age, because it meant he could be honest about everything, including his emotions, without having to worry what people thought. Mid-tale of how he and his wife had decorated a room especially for the child they were told he was too old to have, my mother popped her head around the door.
“Hello, are you coming home, or should we go on without you?”
“Hi Mum. Mum, this is…” I realised I didn’t know his name. I had spent all this time talking to him, hearing his life story, and had neglected to get his name.
“Jim.” He extended his hand, took hers and kissed it. “A pleasure to meet you, and congratulations on raising such a fine daughter.”
I blushed, and I could see he enjoyed it. My mother chatted briefly to him, before excusing us and telling me to hurry, Dad was due to meet someone at home. She took my bag, trundling it unevenly along the repaired tarmac and tiling that covered the concourse leading to the carpark.
“Jim, have a wonderful journey home. I’m sorry, I have to go, my Dad will go mad!”
“Don’t worry pet, if I had a daughter like you, I’d never let you out of my sight myself. You’re a great girl, don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise. Off you go, I don’t want you getting into trouble because of me. But before you head off child, at least let me know your name. You have mine, consider it a trade.”
“Úna. It’s Úna.” As I passed the last window of the waiting room, I turned to him and waved. Climbing into the back of the car, my Dad turned to scold me for the delay, but turned instead and started the engine, as tears rolled down my cheeks.

the raven

i liked this very much. i'm very annoyed that i'm sh1t at criticising prose and have nothing constructive to add...
one thing i'll say is that your descriptive powers are strong but i think you need to work on dialogue; maybe even layout edit would be a massive aid.

BenjAii

Hiya Blush, as a quick sketch I think that's very good. You've managed to paint a picture in my mind of both setting and characters that's vivid.

Black Swan

Blush_01 wrote:

His loneliness curled around him, a blanket of possibilities lost.

If I was the publisher of your short story, I would box and bold face this to draw the reader into your story. It's outstanding!

dj_quinn

Very good, its a good study of how quickly and easily people that pass through our lives briefly and casually can touch our hearts in unexplainable ways.

Morpheus

i felt .... quite emotional at the end...

made me think of my own passed granddads.

thanks for such a nice story. Very well written.

busted flush

ba mhaith liom!