The number 8 tram

For Clementine, it was a morning like any other. She woke up, sauntered to her gramophone, and put on some Ella Fitzgerald to grace her morning. Lost in thought, she looked out of her kitchen window onto the breathtaking view. The whistling of her kettle awoke her from her daydream, and she promptly prepared her jasmine tea. The jazz washed over her as she sipped away, feeling the nectar warm her stomach. Clementine took pleasure in her mornings of jazz and jasmine tea, they prepared her for the day ahead. She anyhow preferred the company of Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Duke Ellington, and Ornette Coleman over that of those in the flesh.

A meow escaped from the kitchen as she drank the last of her tea. It was Ra, her deaf Egyptian Mau as lovable as ever. Even though he was deemed deaf at a young age, Ra heard everything Clementine said. He was a good listener and a fine companion. Better than most humans. All you had to do was feed him, love him, and he was yours. Ra gave a loving purr while circling his owner. These minutes were the most precious to Ra. He sat in Clem's lap and purred to his heart's content whilst she gorged herself on Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Poetry always prepared her well for the day. The clock chimed from outside, meaning it was time for her to depart. She peeled Ra off her lap, embracing him one last time. Stopping briefly to put on her favourite brown oxfords, she reached for her bag, umbrella, and opened the door. Her silhouette floated through the wooden frame and into the drizzle.  

The number 22 tram clicked along the lines and sounded its bell as it reached her stop. She watched the people clamber on, just what she would do in a few minutes when her tram arrived. Every morning, she caught the number 8 tram, which arrived three minutes after the 22, she rode it until it reached the Museum, her workplace. Every morning, she found an empty seat at the back, next to the window, and watched the world unfold before her. The seconds on her watch seemed to tick particularly slowly today. Two minutes, she thought. Looking out at all the wonders of the city, Clementine never ceased to be amazed at what others overlooked. The wonders came in the forms of old ladies carrying fresh fruits and vegetables in paper bags, teenagers laughing as they made their way across the city in groups, and pigeons seated on building ledges with their wonderfully absent-minded expressions. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the number 8 in the distance. Even from afar, she searched the inside with her eyes to find her spot at the back. However, as she stepped forward, prepared to board the tram, she was abruptly knocked to the side by a young man in a hurry. In his haste, he tripped on a cobblestone, dropping a large pile of papers on the wet ground, and tumbled into a large puddle. In a rush to get on the tram, Clementine clambered onto the first stair of the entrance, but as she glanced back, she noticed something that piqued her interest. In a split second, this curiosity dragged her off the step and back onto the pavement. The bell rang and the tram set off, and there she was running towards the wet pages on the ground. It was a manuscript, weaved together with string and made of an early wood-based paper. She could make out that the words has been typed on a typewriter, and she had questions. As she began studying part of the manuscript that she had fished out of a small puddle, the man jumped to the ground to salvage the rest. 

“Thank you!” He exclaimed. “It isn’t ready for reading though,” he said while grabbing the paper from her hand and attempting to bundle it back into the manuscript.

“Sorry, you must think me so rude. I do apologise, it’s just...oh, nothing.” She sighed. 

“What is it? You were about to say something?” The man inquired.

“Well, it’s just, this paper isn’t very common and you’ve typed the words using a typewriter. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say it is quite old as well based on the distance between the words and the pigment of the ink.” she blurted, immediately embarrassed. 

He smiled. “Yes. That’s right, very well observed. Are you some kind of paper expert?”

She let out a giggle but stopped herself with her hand. Rarely did she giggle around others. 

“Not really, but my grandfather used to be a little bit of an enthusiast. Typewriters, parchment, etc. Even now, he wouldn’t dare use a computer keyboard to write.” Clementine confessed. 

As she ranted on, she looked at the man and spied his soaked shirt and coat, having dived into the puddle to save his pages.

“Oh, how daft I am. You’re all wet and here you are standing in the cold listening to my boring anecdotes.”

“It’s no problem, I liked your anecdote,” he said gently. “I think I’ll head over to that cafe on the corner into the dry and warm. Wait there for my clothes to dry a little.” 

He thanked her profusely and bade her farewell. 

Clementine turned to watch him leave and gave a small wave of acknowledgment. 

Sighing, she turned to look at the arrival board to see when the next number 8 was scheduled. She had never missed the tram before to know how far apart the trams came. A brisk wind brushed past her, and Clementine shivered a little. But if I’m cold, what about that man? She thought. 

Milton eyed the door of the cafe as he neared the corner. A warm tea sounds exquisite right about now, he thought. As he escalated the stairs to the entrance of the cafe, he felt a hand on his shoulder. Then, a voice chimed, “Wait!” It was Clementine. 

He turned to face her with a quizzical look. 

“You don’t have to go into the cafe. I don’t think your shirt will dry well enough in there anyway.”

“Well, what do you suggest I do? I’m soaked, ” he shivered. “I’m freezing. I have an important appointment with my publisher and my place is on the other side of town.”

She gestured down the road. “I live just here actually. My apartment is warm, you could come up and dry your clothes, and I can make you some tea that you don’t need to pay for.” 

“But don’t you have somewhere to be? I saw you get on that tram.”

“Yes, I was going to work. But I don’t need to be there at a certain time, I just like going every day at the same time. It is my routine.”

“Won’t I interrupt your routine then?”

“I think your health takes precedence over my silly little routine. Come on, follow me.”

Over the next few hundred metres, they exchanged names. Milton was his name. After the short walk, they reached her front door and were greeted by a slightly confused Ra. This is very strange indeed, she only just left. Oh, a person! What on earth has gone on? Ra thought to himself. Clementine looked at Ra and is if she could read his mind, she offered an answer:

“I know what you’re thinking.” She said.

“Pardon?” Milton interjected. 

“Sorry, I was talking to my cat. I don’t keep company very often so he has taken on the role of my protector. His name is Ra. There he is.” She nodded in his direction and Ra posed stoically. 

“Ra, like the King of the Egyptian gods?” Milton asked.

“Yes, exactly! My goodness, You know about Amun-Ra?!” Clementine said, impressed.

“Well yes. I like mythology, all kinds…Egyptian, Greek, Roman.” Replied Milton.

They headed upstairs to the living room, and Clementine very kindly fetched a shirt for Milton to change into while she hung his shirt and coat over the radiator to dry. 

“Thank you so very much, Clementine. This is extremely kind of you.”

“It’s my pleasure,” she blushed. Ra meowed, he sensed that she was warming up to this young man. 

So why did you choose Ra specifically?” Asked Milton.

“I’m an Egyptologist, actually. When I got Ra since he is an Egyptian Mau, I wanted to name him after an Egyptian deity, and he embodies Ra like any other.”

“What a wonderfully interesting job! As I young boy, I had an unshakable desire to become an archaeologist,” he recalled nostalgically. 

“And?” Clementine probed.

“What can I say, I was a boy with big dreams. I became a writer instead, as you may have already guessed,” he laughed. 

“Which genre do you write?” asked Clementine.

Milton and Clementine spoke of his writing career, his style. Clementine confessed that she loved murder mysteries, her favourite one being ‘Death on the Nile’, by Agatha Christie, for the obvious reason that it was set in Egypt. 

“So, if I can’t read your manuscript, then can you at least tell me a little about it?” Clementine queried cheekily. 

“Okay,” Milton began…

Milton told her all about his in-progress novel. He shared that he had been experiencing a crisis regarding the ending of his novel. 

“I just can’t seem to reach a satisfying conclusion to my novel.” He lamented.  

A feeling that he hadn’t yet shared with even his publisher. 

Clementine pledged to help him solve it, and they began a wonderful flow of conversation. They spoke of life, all its trials and tribulations. Clementine spoke of her great passion for Egyptology. 

Their conversation continued for what seemed like hours. Ra even began to feel a little hungry, yet refrained from interrupting. The room was filled and joy and laughter. 

But one thing was missing. What was it?

“Ah!” Clementine exclaimed epiphanically. 

“What’s wrong?” Milton worried. 

“Oh nothing, I just realised that I promised you a cup of tea. Jasmin?”

“My favourite,” Milton replied, and they both looked at each other and smiled.