Slipping

Despite her name, or perhaps because of it, Joy Donaldson was never likely to be mistaken for Pollyanna, nor to be recruited into Jesus’ army of sunbeams, and she thought that positive thinking was decidedly overrated. But all the same, she had (so she told herself) a certain stoicism (or was it pragmatism?) in her nature that thought there was at least a soupcon of truth in that proverb about crying and spilt milk. Or the lachrymal glands and the lactose, as she thought in her more pretentious moments. 

     To be sure, she sighed when the crackly, nasal voice came through the sound system in the station waiting room, informing them that the train she planned to catch was delayed because of a landslip on the line. But a landslip was an acceptable excuse. She supposed that in insurance terms it might count as an act of God. It was not like the wrong kind of snow, or leaves on the tracks. And she had ascertained from the friendly, if somewhat robotic, representative of Eastern Area Train Services or EATS, that so far as she knew, nobody had been hurt.  That was what mattered, if you had your perspectives in order! And if you had to be stuck somewhere, she would take a waiting room, which even had a drinks vending machine and was only a few metres from a kiosk selling magazines and snacks, over a railway line in the middle of nowhere. 

     She did, however, soon find herself wishing that either she were the only person in the waiting room, or that there were safety in numbers, and not because she was especially solitary or especially sociable. There was something about there being two people in such a situation that was, well, awkward.

     Joy realised, with a stab of guilt that she didn’t feel a stab of guilt, that she had paid virtually no heed to the other person in the waiting room. Now she paid at least enough notice to realise that it was a woman, an old woman, old enough (or worn down enough) to not be described as sprightly, but not obviously physically frail or doddery. She wore an anaemic coloured anorak that was ever so slightly too long and too baggy, grey slacks, and laced-up brown shoes. 

     It took Joy by surprise when the other woman spoke first. Or if she had spoken, she would have expected it to just be a remark along the lines of, “Well, here we go again,” or “At least we can get a drink.” Joy quite liked writing people’s scripts for them, but she was (so she told herself) quite pleased when they didn’t necessarily keep to them. One day she really must send in one of her own screenplays, but for the time being she was quite happy working at the bank and being a member of the local Writers’ Group. Anorak Lady didn’t keep to the script. “Oh no!” she exclaimed, “That won’t do – that’s not acceptable!” 

     At this point, Joy began to be irritated. Despite half-heartedly telling herself not to jump to conclusions, she could not imagine that Anorak Lady had anything of pressing importance to attend to. She was planning to meet up with an old friend for a chat, but a quick text would fix that. And anyway, even if people did have something more urgent or significant planned, as she supposed they might, further back or further down the line, how on earth (appropriate expression, perhaps!) could anyone have done anything about a landslip? Joy already determined that if the amiable pseudo-Android came back to have a word, and Anorak Lady was snittish, then she would provide a contrast. Now that’s being smug, she thought, and making the effort, said, “I’m getting a drink – would you like one?”

     “Perhaps a tea – milk, no sugar, please.” She fiddled in her purse to get out the requisite change, and Joy wondered if she should say it was fine, her treat (though given previous experience of waiting room vending machines, she was by no means sure of the word treat, still, it was warm and wet and passed the time) but then remembered how stubborn and proud old ladies can be.

     She fetched herself a cappuccino, and Anorak Lady a tea, and though they had the strange aftertaste that always seems to come with plastic cups, they were surprisingly palatable.   “Oh, I do wonder how long it will be!” Anorak Lady fretted.

     “As long as it takes, I suppose,” Joy said. “Is there anyone I can phone?” For the first time she thought a hint of a half-smile reluctantly crossed the older woman’s face. “Not really!” They exchanged names and she found out her companion was called Christina. She introduced herself with her first name, and not as Mrs whatever, but Joy suspected she wouldn’t have cared to be addressed as Chrissie or Tina! 

     “It’s Salty …..” she said.

     “Er – I do beg your pardon?” Her drink was not remotely salty, and she couldn’t imagine the tea was either. Did Anorak Lady – did Christina – have something wrong with her sense of taste? And that could be a symptom of – well, what they thought was finally over and done with, but there was still an odd case here and there. That’s all I need if I get infected, she thought. But Christina went on, “Salty – my little white West Highland terrier. Michael always said he had the look of an old sea dog, but I think it was just on account of him being white. We kept meaning to get a companion for him called Pepper, but we never did. That was when Michael’s health was starting to fail. Salty was the last present he gave to me – a rescue dog. At first he was so shy and nervous, I don’t think he’d been actually ill-treated, but had been neglected, and then he turned clingy, but now he’s okay being left alone for a couple of hours as long as he has the radio on. But more than that and – I’m sure he’ll start panicking and think I’ve deserted him, just like his other owner did. Oh dear …..” she blinked back her tears, struggling to smile again as she said, “If I carry on like this, then my tea will be salty!”

     Joy put an arm on her shoulder. This did rather put a different complexion on things. She didn’t have a pet at the moment, and was marginally more of a cat person, but she understood how this could be distressing. Especially as Salty (and she had a soft spot for Westies herself) was, Christina had told her, the last gift from her husband. 

     “Well, is there anyone I can phone who – who has a key, and who can go in and keep him company?” she asked.

     “I have my own mobile,” there was no hint of reproach in her voice, but Joy knew she had leapt to conclusions again. “But – I live out in the country. And – even my nearest neighbour is on holiday at the moment.”

     “Do you have a picture of him?”

     Though Christina did have a phone, the photo was of the old-fashioned kind, and she took it out of her purse. “That’s Salty.” 

     “Oh, he’s sweet!” Joy exclaimed, admiring the little white dog with one ear that went up and one ear that went down. 

     “So sweet natured, too. Even when he first came and was nervy, he never snapped or growled. Mind you, as he’s grown in confidence, he most certainly knows what he wants – and generally ends up getting it! Do you have a pet, my dear?”

     “Not at the moment – I did have a cat, Dolly, but I had to have her put to sleep last year – she had cancer ….” Now she was the one blinking.

     “Oh, how sad! I hope and pray I will never have to do that, but sometimes you do have to, and it’s brave and loving.” Joy got out her phone and showed Christina a picture of Dolly, who despite her name was not a Ragdoll, but a black cat with one white ear. “Lovely girl,” Joy said, approvingly. “And – we both seem to have a taste for odd ears!” They laughed, though Christina’s face was still etched with worry. 

     It had started to rain. Not a raging storm, but, Joy supposed, enough to hinder the attempts to clear the landslip. “Salty – will be happy to be inside, at least – I hope so – when it’s raining like this,” Joy said. “He hates the rain as much as a cat! He digs his paws in and refuses to go out for a walk if it’s raining, and if it’s out when he starts, then – well, he might not growl, but then he can most certainly howl.”

     “He sounds a real little character.”

     They sat exchanging stories about Salty and Dolly, and it got round to their families, and their interests (it transpired they both were avid readers and had a weakness for property shows on TV but hated reality shows, and both loved lemon drizzle cake). 

     “Shall we keep in touch?” Joy asked, thinking that she never imagined she’d have said that half an hour ago.

     As she spoke, the amiable robot, who wasn’t really that robotic at all, came back into the waiting room with a lovely smile, and said, “You’ll be glad to hear the block on the line has been cleared, and the train should be here in about fifteen minutes.”

     “Oh, that is good news!” Joy exclaimed, turning to Christina.

     But Christina wasn’t there, and beside Joy, on the bench in the waiting room, was a little white West Highland terrier, with one ear going up, and one ear going down.