Train In Vain

It was beyond those bluish hills to the east with their rolling undulating hues of daydreaming haze that Abigail was looking with her pale blue eyes (she had blue eyes even though the hair was a deep brown) as the train swayed drunkenly through the glens of East Anglia. The hills were fine with their spruce and ash trees and there were beautiful sights to see in them but they weren’t what she was looking at, or even thinking about now that the train was careening through the pastel greens and browns and greys of the English countryside. Further beyond those postcard views from the hazy ridges with pearl clouds hanging motionless, further beyond the horizon that shimmered mysteriously like an Arab desert; further even than the Channel and its whitecaps forever swelling and breaking in the north wind. Beyond all these things was where Abigail was looking, to where the Continent was gloomy and dreary with the constant beat of war drums and the anger of a million German people at herself and her family.

               Abigail did not like to be called “Abby”- it was something adults did to make her demure and meek, her name was not “Abby” … she had not been brought into the world with the name “Abby” and she did not respond to it except when she did, for the sake of simplicity though it made her bristle internally as if suffering an injustice in silence. Eight-year-old girls from Hartlepool were called “Abby,” and she was a fifteen-year-old lady of Manchester. She could see her reflection in the window and admired her splendid travel hat and her white satin gloves which were much too large for her hands but she wore anyway – she constantly tugged them up her wrists. The frustration of constantly pulling on them was offset by the thought of seeming so mature and responsible among such small and helpless children who filled the train car.

               It was a sea of small bent heads and flailing arms and legs between the rows of train seats – the sun stretched across wet combed hair and boys staring at the children behind them, bits of dust floating with a glint through the warm yellow light. There would sometimes be a “clack” which rang out loudly through the car as the train crossed a joint in the tracks, and the children would laugh gleefully at the noise, while a few would have no reaction either way. Abigail tuned it out as she smoothed the creases from her dress with her hands and shrugged discreetly, as though disagreeing with the whole scene.

               Two rows up sat a stoic and narrow silhouette of a woman with a rigid posture and disposition that hung sullenly over the whole car – a lone cactus casting a shadow across the desert plain, or perhaps a rusty and weathered lighthouse which didn’t work, looming over a playful beach of sunbathers. The corners of her eyes were lined and dour, her brow pale against a matronly pile of auburn hair with a plain face to boot. While everything around her moved, she sat firmly upright, never swaying with the train car; while her face looked of fifty-nine she was in reality only thirty-seven, a thirty-seven of country life and daily toil which she had known since she was only Abigail’s age.

               This was Mrs. Hartly; Canadian by birth, English by marriage, entirely unmoved by the shuffle and rustle of children all around her, some laughing, some sighing, some sleeping, but all moving with the train in the same direction – London.

               The brown porcelain mug in Mrs. Hartly’s lap steamed like a chimney at winter dawn in East Anglia and she had been holding her teacup for almost as long as the train had been moving, though she had barely drunk any of it. Had she been at home that morning she would have done the same thing, as Abigail had seen her do morning after morning, carrying a teacup with her to every chore she set to do, and almost never drinking any of it. Abigail had watched with some curiosity the first several days she had stayed with the Hartlys, but it soon had become routine and almost boring in how queer it was.

               On her first night at the Hartlys after arriving from London by train: “Well Abigail, James and I shall call you Abigail unless you prefer otherwise?”

               Abigail shook her head no, wanting to agree verbally but too intimidated.

               “Very good, then. After all, a girl of thirteen is almost a lady and Abigail suites a lady much more than…Abby,” Mrs. Hartly let the name stumble drunkenly from her mouth as to ensure that Abigail knew she was against it, and very quickly Abigail came to see her as something of a reluctant heroine. Mrs. Hartly pruned and weeded the victory garden in the morning as her teacup steamed on the windowsill of the kitchen with its smell of jam and oatmeal; she tended the chickens and the sheep during the day while Mr. Hartly fixed the RAF bombers up the road at Deopham Green, and she tended to one thousand and one other matters that Abigail could never remember her own parents tending to.

               The train clamored onward into the drowsy East Anglia afternoon as bulbous clouds of brilliant white floated effortlessly above, and between her own reflection and the view of the countryside whizzing past, Abigail caught the murmur of a voice she didn’t recognize from behind her.

               “Hello,” the voice said over the grumble of the train.

               Turning with some surprise, Abigail noticed the face of another girl, a little younger than herself with pigtails of blonde hair framing a round fleshy face, acne and all. The face smiled something quaint and modest though not altogether disinteresting, the eyes bright and bold with an impish quality to them that felt familiar to Abigail.

               “Hello,” she responded with a lilt of her voice which surprised herself. The girl just stared.

               Abigail counted to five in her head, still staring the other girl in the eyes, and was about to turn away when she said, “where you from?”

               Abigail sat on her answer for a heartbeat, scratching the end of her nose with a satin-gloved finger and then tugged on the wrist once more.

               “I come from Manchester,” she said matter-of-factly, as though coming from Manchester was only reserved for the very elite and well-to-do, and she switched her purse from one shoulder to the other and smoothed out the wrinkles of her dress as she gave the girl a sidelong glance. She only stared back at Abigail with her mouth agape as if she was about to say something but had decided against it or was too lost in her own thoughts to reply. Abigail turned around in her seat to look at the girl closer.

               “I’m Eileen,” the girl said with a decidedly southern accent. Her breath smelled like black licorice.

               “My name is Abigail.”

               “Ah, I like the name Abby.”

               The howl of the train whistle blotted out Abigail’s stern correction and with obvious frustration Abigail collected herself to say it again so that it was clear, but Eileen had already moved on.

               “How long were you living with your minders?” she interrupted Abigail, “I was with mine for nine months, prolly the longest nine months I’ve ever remembered.

               Eileen came around the row and sat beside Abigail, whose seat was empty.

               “Nine months doesn’t seem so bad, then,” she replied. “I was with mine for two years.”

               Eileen’s face twisted into a bizarre look of apprehension which made her look decidedly less attractive than she already was, thought Abigail, and she glanced away for a moment.

               “Two years, then? That’s unbelievable. You must be desperate to get home.”

               Abigail’s shoulders flopped up and down. “I was at first, but now I feel a bit sad about it all. I mean, the war isn’t even over yet.

               “I was ready after the first week,” Eileen retorted with an emphatic crossing of her arms. “My lot was nothing but a headache. ‘You can’t do this, Eileen, you can’t do that, Eileen,’” she said in a mocking tone. “Mother finally said I could come back home once school was done for the summer. I’d much rather take me chances with the German bombs than spend another day with them,” she gestured behind her to nobody in particular.

               Abigail had been only partialy listening, watching as Mrs. Hartly sat gazing silently out the window.

               “That’s mine, there,” she said to Eileen, nodding toward Mrs. Hartly; she peaked over the top of the seat with an obvious curiosity.

               “The sourpuss with the reading glasses?” asked Eileen incredulously. “I saw her get on the train back at Northampton. Doesn’t seem like a nice sort. How come she’s way up there?”

               “Well, I don’t need a minder now, I am fifteen after all,” said Abigail with a smug glance. Eileen only stared at her.       

               The train was beginning to smell sour and Abigail’s feet felt almost numb from the hours of vibration as the London skyline came into view. The boys in the train car pressed their faces to the glass when someone shouted that three Spitfires were flying over the station. By now the rows were filled with antsy children, standing, jittering, pushing, yelling, aching to be off the boring train and back home.

               For Abigail, the ride was not over, though. She would continue to Manchester while Mrs. Hartly left the train to visit her sister in London.

               She came back to Abigail’s row as the train was pulling up to the platform and she took the empty seat beside Abigail, since Eileen had left earlier to round up her belongings.

               “Well, you’re almost home, Abigail” she remarked with a bit of a frown. “Seems like only yesterday you came to stay with us. It has been a wonderful couple years, and you’ve become such a lady.”

               Abigail smiled lightly. “Do you think I’ll see you again?” she asked, tugging on the wrists of the gloves.

               “Oh, I can’t say. I guess maybe one day, once this dreadful war business is over, Mrs. Hartly sighed. She brushed a lock of hair from her forehead with a flick of her wrist and her face seemed long and forlorn. She realized now that she was not good with saying goodbye, or at least not good with saying goodbye to Abigail. She had found Mr. Hartly’s stoic indifference about Abigail’s leaving to be disappointing the night before; she had laid awake into the early morning hours thinking and he had slept soundly. While the bombing of British cities had been terrible, it had not been nearly as bad as initially predicted and Abigail’s parents had decided she would likely be alright back at home. Now hundreds of children were returning to their hometowns, Abigail among them.

               “Mind your parents, dear,” Mrs. Hartly said as she slowly rose to her feet. Abigail nodded but then rose to her own feet and the two hugged formally and Mrs. Hartly smiled quickly and then hurried away, off the train and onto the platform, surrounded by people moving in all different directions. Abigail watched her wade into the tide of travelers and move off toward the long shadows of the station in the late afternoon, and as she glanced at her reflection in the glass again, she failed to notice Mrs. Hartly turn quickly and look back to her, eyes utterly sad and despondent. And then she was gone.