Ginger Biscuits

Waterloo Train station at 3:30 pm on a Tuesday is as glamorous as it sounds. The evening rush hasn’t started, so it is busy with tourists, lost souls, homeless people seeking respite from the cold Spring rain, and people like me whose schedules placed them here against their will. Two distinct, loud chimes sound from the intercom, followed by an automated voice announcing, “The 3:45 pm train to Portsmouth is. Delayed.” “Yes, dear,” I think. “We have already seen that from the messages on the antiquated wooden schedule boards.”

I sigh, dragging my suitcase behind me, clutching The London Evening Standard newspaper under the other arm, precariously balancing a Starbucks dark roast and a packet of Ginger Biscuits in my free hand.

As with most train stations, there is a vast expanse of room to rush and run for your train, but scarce seating for someone like me, who just needs to take a moment. I scour the few open and partially open tables for a spot. I am hungry and more than a little weary from the last two days' events. My tiny packet of biscuits promise little relief, but I couldn’t turn them down. They had been Morris’ favorite. I’ll eat a proper meal when I get home. If I get home, I correct myself. You never know with British Railway services.

The only available seat is at one of those small round bistro tables, opposite a businessman. He is the epitome of the upper-class snot. Tweed 3-piece suit, aging brown leather briefcase, grey hair, and wire-rimmed spectacles that look quizzically over the papers in front of his eyes at me as I mumble, “Is this seat taken?”

“Nmm-hmmm,” is his reply, along with a nonchalant wave of his hand. He has the decency to remove some of his papers from the table while I carefully avoid looking too hard at them or him. I drop both the biscuit packet and paper onto the table. My black suit fits poorly, making me feel slovenly compared to his polish. It has been a few years since I bought the suit at Marks and Spencer, and one of us has changed shape during the intervening time.

I pull out my aging Samsung phone and flick through the photos stored there. Our family has never been much for photos, so apart from the usual collection of dodgy-looking moles and skin rashes, DIY projects, and the occasional vacation shot, only three mean anything this afternoon: Two of Morris and one of Morris and me. We are brothers but failed to stay close as adults. Or, rather, we were brothers.

I reach out and tear open the packet of Ginger biscuits on the table, nibbling at one as I murmur “too young” to myself.

You know that feeling when you know you are being watched? I have that tingly sense running up my spine, so I look up to see the businessman glaring past his papers at me. Perhaps I am eating too loud, or he thinks my comment was directed at him. Although I don’t think anyone would say that he was too young. He looks close to retirement if you ask me. Unable to hold his gaze, I look down at my phone to check messages, even though I can see I have no new ones to read.

Then, with utter shock, I see him reach over and brazenly take one of the biscuits. Of course, I respond in the only way an Englishman can, by pointedly ignoring him.

I realize with mounting indignation that this represents twenty-five percent of my complete biscuit packet, which only contained four before this rather dreadful situation started.

This is like the twenty-five percent of Morris’ estate he gifted to his mysterious lover, Bill Smithson. None of us has ever met the man, and he didn’t even have the decency to attend the funeral. Or, if he did, he didn’t introduce himself to me.

Yes. It had been busy at the funeral. There were lots of people I didn’t know. Bill’s friends from London Community Theater. His colleagues from the City Office. It was nice to see that he was liked and respected. I hope as many people come to my funeral. Although not for a few years yet. But it would have been nice to meet the person he loved so much that he included them in his will.

I finish consuming my first biscuit and make a confrontational clearing of my throat before taking the third biscuit, clearly establishing my dominance and rights in the situation. As I take it, I shift the packet closer to my side of the table, adding a slight glare back for good measure.

The businessman lays his papers on the table and retrieves his shiny new iPhone from his inside jacket pocket. He starts furiously typing into it. He is probably being rude to his poor assistant or something. I feel sorry for him or her, whoever they are. What a tool.

He glares at me one last time before sweeping his papers off the table and into his leather briefcase. As he does so, I stand my ground. “We will fight them on the beaches,” Churchill had said. Well, a train station takes people to the beach, so who am I to back down?

Rather than making it too awkward and looking at him directly, I stare at his papers as he moves them. “The Last Will and Testament of Morris Sotheby” is on the front of one. Shit. And then I notice Morris’s handwritten scrawl on the pages behind that one. There’s only one other person who could have those papers. And those are letters from Morris. Bill!

Do I introduce myself? After exchanging glares, it is now going to be super awkward. But even though he is a biscuit stealer, it is the right thing to do.

“Hello.”

“Nmm-hmmm,” comes his reply as he dares to sweep up the packet containing the remaining biscuit and storm off towards the trains.

I slump back into my chair. “Well, that went well. Nice to meet you as well, Bill.”

Resigned to wait for my train with a mess of thoughts swirling through my mind, I pick up my newspaper.

Underneath it is my unopened packet of ginger biscuits.