The man in tweed

The great clock that hung in the station had been telling the wrong time for weeks. Its vast hands jerked forward with a tired stiffness, its fixings sometimes groaning a little, but no one seemed particularly troubled by it. Commuters continued to glance up at its face with a sort of resigned irritation, then check their watches to be sure. The station master had promised it would be ‘sorted out’ in due course, but nothing ever seemed to happen.

Inside the station cafe, the smaller brass clock above the counter was no better, always five minutes slow, as if in sympathy with its larger cousin outside. The cafe itself smelled of fried bacon and damp wool coats, and its tables were arranged a little too close together, so that you could not help but overhear the business and conversations of others.

Mabel and Joanie sat at their usual place that lunchtime, in the corner near the window. The table that afforded the most privacy, whilst giving a view of what was going on both in the cafe and outside on the station concourse. Mabel, who wore a blue felt hat that had gone somewhat limp in the rain, stirred her tea with vigour as though trying to summon a whirlpool in her cup. Joanie, who prided herself on keeping her gloves spotless, had arranged them and her handbag neatly in front of her, as though they formed part of the table setting.

“I’ll tell you what,” Mabel said, inspecting the contents of her plate. “They’re getting a bit stingy with the butter here. This bread roll’s got barely a trace on it. Just the hint of some butter that someone wafted over it.”

Joanie shook her head. “You expect generosity in here? You’ll be waiting forever. Remember that man who marched out when they only gave him one sachet of sugar?”

“I do,” Mabel said, smiling faintly. “He was quite handsome too if I recall…”

As they spoke, their eyes were drawn, simultaneously, to a young man who was sitting by the window.

He sat very straight in his chair, a tweed suit neatly buttoned and brown polished brogues though a little scuffed at the toes. His hair was neat, though a stubborn curl lifted at the crown as if it refused to be tamed. Before him rested a pot of tea, a plate of toast, a folded newspaper and his hat.

“Now I know that face,” Joanie whispered, lowering her voice just enough to avoid being overheard.

“Yes,” Mabel said, tilting her head. “He’s familiar, isn’t he?”

The man buttered his toast with meticulous care, spreading the butter all the way to the crust and laying the knife back on the plate with military precision. He poured tea into his cup slowly, so that not a drop spilled, then struck a match and lit a cigarette, with an old fashioned sense of gentility.

“Could be Mrs Lennox’s son,” Joanie suggested. “The one who works in the bank on the high street.”

“Her boy’s going bald already, poor lad. This one’s got a good head of hair.”

“Well then, perhaps he’s from the solicitors’ office. A tweed suit means a solicitor in my book.”

Mabel peered. “Or a schoolmaster. Though possibly a bit young… I’m sure I know that face though…”

The young man quietly turned a page of his paper, his attention deep in whatever it was he was reading.

“You’d think he would look up and say hello, if we knew him,” Joanie said.

“Perhaps he’s shy.”

“Or too good for us types,” Joanie muttered.

They both fell silent and sipped their tea in unison, when suddenly outside, a great commotion erupted. On the platform, a young woman with a pram cried out, clinging to her handbag while a man in a shabby coat tried to snatch it from her. After a brief struggle, he succeeded in tugging it away and sprinted off down the platform. A few bystanders shouted and waved their fists, but no one chased after the assailant.

The young man by the window looked up. He raised his eyes from his paper, glanced toward the scuffle, then checked his watch. With a small shrug, he returned to his toast.

“Well, would you believe it,” Joanie said, sharply. “A fit looking young man like him, and he won’t so much as stir himself.”

“Perhaps he didn’t see,” Mabel responded, giving the man the benefit of the doubt.

“He saw. He watched it all as it was happening.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t like to get involved.”

“Well, it’s a damn shame if you ask me. Fancy not helping a woman with a baby when her bag’s been nicked,” Joanie said, adjusting her gloves.

They returned to their tea, though their eyes lingered on the tweeded man in the window with a mixture of judgement and curiosity.

The cafe grew noisier as the lunchtime hour wore on. Mabel complained about the lack of filling as well as the lack of butter in her sandwich. Joanie remarked on the poor choice of gloves in the shops this season and how pride in appearance was becoming a thing of the past. The man by the window continued, at a leisurely pace, with his tea and cigarettes, as though relishing each small part.

It was just after one o’clock when it happened. An unexpected sound came from outside the cafe. A long, deep groan of metal, followed by a screech and then a thunderous crash that shook the windowpanes. Chairs scraped, voices cried out. Everyone rushed to the window.

On the platform outside, the great station clock, that of the unreliable timekeeping, had broken free of its gigantic hanging bracket and had come crashing down onto the concrete below. Beneath it lay a guard, pinned under its huge weight, still and unmoving.

Mabel gasped and clutched at Joanie’s hand.

Before anyone else had even the chance to contemplate any action, the man in tweed sprang from his seat. His newspaper slid to the floor and then in three strides he had flung open the cafe door and was running towards the wrecked clock and trapped guard.

Through the window, Joanie and Mabel watched in awe as the man bent over, and braced his shoulders. His arms strained, his face grim, and with unfathomable strength, he heaved the great big clock off the body of the stricken guard. Others rushed forward to help but he raised a hand to hold them back. Having moved the clock to one side, he then dropped to his knees, placed his hands on the guard’s chest, and began pressing, steady and controlled, counting under his breath.

The cafe had fallen silent. Mabel realised she had been holding her breath.

It was then she noticed the holdall by the man’s abandoned chair. A brown leather bag, bulging at the seams. From one corner of the zipper poked a scrap of bright red silk, gleaming in the dim light.

“Do you see that?” Mabel whispered, nudging her friend and nodding towards the bag.

“I see.”

They stared at it, minds racing, trying to piece the events of the hour together.

Outside, as a man shouted frantically into the payphone that an ambulance was urgently needed, the guard coughed and stirred. The crowd let out a cheer. The tweeded young man rolled him onto his side, gave instructions to a woman in a grey mackintosh who was holding the guard’s hand, then stood up and brushed the dust from his suit.

A few people clapped him on the shoulder, tried to speak to him, find out his name, but he hastened away from the buzz of attention and returned to the cafe.

The bell above the door jingled as he entered. Without a word, he lifted the holdall, neatly tucked the red silk back inside, and placed a few coins on the table.

Mabel, flushed with excitement from the whole episode, could not help herself. “Excuse me, young man.”

He turned politely, eyebrows raised.

“You were very brave, out there,” she said, her voice full of praise.

“Extraordinary…” Joanie added in a less convivial tone. “Though I wonder… why didn’t you help when that poor woman’s handbag was stolen earlier on?”

For a heartbeat, his expression flickered. Then he smiled, a small, weary smile, courteous and faintly amused.

“Even superheroes,” he said, “require a lunch break.”

He nodded a civil farewell, threw his bag over his shoulder, and disappeared out of the door and into the crowd.

Outside, medical people from an ambulance rushed across the station to attend to the guard who was now sitting on the floor sipping a cup of tea, attended to by the woman in the grey mackintosh. The chatter of the cafe resumed as though nothing unusual had happened. Mabel and Joanie sat in silence, crumbs from their sandwiches scattered across their plates.

“Well,” Joanie said finally, with a sniff. “If he isn’t Mrs Lennox’s boy, then I don’t know who he is.”

Mabel laughed softly, though her eyes remained on the door long after the man had vanished.