The Woman Opposite

Something about the woman seated opposite me in the waiting room at the coach station makes me uneasy. I instinctively reject the word nervous. She is an innocuous little woman, wearing a slightly old-fashioned coat that certainly isn’t ragged, and not even shabby, not really, but has a “seen better days” air to it. Just like its wearer. She is as grey as her coat. But that, in itself, is a glib, false thought. Her hair is mouse-brown, her face certainly sallow, but not grey. Her eyes are grey, though. At one and the same time, they seem to be staring at me with an intensity that would be downright rude if there were not something lost about it, and to be looking right past and through me to the chipped tiles on the wall.

     Perhaps it’s the coach station itself that has this effect on me. It certainly doesn’t help. That’s one of life’s minor mysteries. Railway station waiting rooms, even shabby ones on dull suburban lines bridging the space between dull suburban towns, have a certain atmosphere, even a certain romance. 

     Well, maybe there are some wonderful and atmospheric waiting rooms in coach stations. But this isn’t one of them. It is, broadly speaking, clean, and there is even a faint whiff of disinfectant, but tired grime seems to have seeped into it. There is a vending machine, but a large, hand-written notice on it proclaims Out of Service. I wonder when it was last in service. 

     Given any realistic option, I would have preferred to travel by train. Well, frankly, even though I know it’s bad for the environment, I would have preferred to travel by car, but the arm I broke in a stupid accident falling off a chair arm whilst replacing a light bulb still isn’t properly healed. But as concerns trains; the network in this country has been decimated so much, both by Beeching and since, that it would have been three times as expensive and taken twice as long. 

     There is a large clock on the wall that both the woman opposite and I can see. It is working, because the second hand is turning and it agrees with the time on my phone, but it almost seems as if it isn’t, and as if the minute, and especially the hour hand are sluggish and reluctant to edge there way across the moon-face dial and think it isn’t really worth the effort.

     It’s ten past nine. The coach isn’t due until half past. I can’t concentrate on my book. I would buy a newspaper from the kiosk, but it’s closed. I wonder if it ever opens. The faded blue shutters have missed the attentions of whoever did the cleaning. 

     Surprisingly, the electronic display about when the next arrivals and departures are, is working. A disjointed voice reminds us not to smoke anywhere on the coach station and that we are being watched by Closed Circuit Television.

     But otherwise, there is silence. I like to think of myself as someone who doesn’t mind the silence, but it is starting to oppress me. The pre-recorded message doesn’t count, but gives me an excuse to make a banal comment, the kind you do in coach stations. “Drives you mad, doesn’t it?” I ask. 

     The woman opposite remains expressionless. I half expect her to not reply, but she says, “I’ve heard worse.” 

     After being tired of my arm being the subject of conversation I am now almost sorry that I no longer need a sling and my cast is covered by the sleeves of my coat. If there’s one thing people like talking about almost as much as their own ailments, then it’s other people’s. 

     Though she deigned to reply, she could not have made it clearer that she was not in the mood for conversation. I somehow doubt she is ever in the mood for conversation and think better of making remarks about the weather (which is utterly nondescript anyway) or hoping that the coach will be on time. 

     I get out my book again. But you can’t hide behind a book the way you can behind a newspaper, even a tabloid one. Not, I tell myself, that I have any reason to try to hide, but I don’t want to see those leaden grey eyes, both looking and not looking at me. 

     I have turned several pages, and read what was on them, but if anyone asked me to tell them what happened, then I would be unable to. 

     It will be worth it, of course. There’s no way I could turn down the invitation to Great Aunt Louisa’s 80^th birthday celebrations. I suddenly feel a great impatient longing to see her eyes, that have never dimmed with age, and that still sparkle with intelligence and humour. Eyes that have life in them. 

     Oh, please let there be other people on the coach! But it’s stupid to get so het up about this. It’s not exactly as if the woman opposite is going to bother me, is it!

     She departs briefly, to use the ladies’ toilet. I don’t know what to do about it myself, as I know from experience that using the minuscule, claustrophobic “facilities” on a coach, feeling as if your backside is tap-dancing on the road, is not a pleasant experience, particularly when hindered by an injured arm. 

     Thinking it’s the triumph of hope over experience, when she returns to the room, I ask her, “Was it awful?”

     “I’ve known worse,” she replies. In the end I decide against it.

     At last, the coach is here. It lumbers along the pot-holed surface of the parking space like a great cream caterpillar condemned never to be a butterfly.

     It has arrived a little early, and the driver says we must wait until the appointed time to see if anyone else wants to board. I don’t think there’s any chance of that, but suppose he has to obey the rules. He has put the radio on, and I am glad of the sound, even though the host is irritating me and the music isn’t necessarily to my liking.

     After arriving early, it looks as if it will depart a little late, as the driver has decided to brave the gents’ “facilities”. He has left the radio running, and it segues to the half past nine news. 

     A Premier League manager has been sacked. Well, anyone could have seen that coming; the chairman only said a couple of days ago he had complete faith in him. The Prime Minister has announced a new initiative. Where would Prime Ministers be without the word “initiative”? 

     And they want to keep us up to date with the news story that broke at half past eight. The one about the serial killer, Olwen McGuire, who escaped from the high security women’s prison. They say where she has been sighted, and describe her clothing and appearance – an old-fashioned grey coat, brown hair, grey eyes. Then that warning not to approach her, as if we would all stampede to shake her hand if we were not thus warned. 

     I feel cold and clammy and slightly sick. I try to think of the right thing to do – if I try to alert the driver before he gets back on, then I am putting myself in danger, and I’m afraid I’m not one of life’s heroines. 

     “Oh – this is a last minute news flash coming in as I speak,” the newsreader says. “We have heard from Lincolnshire Police that Olwen McGuire took a member of the public hostage at around 8 am, and that she was threatening to turn a knife on her. An armed police unit were standing by, and when she refused to surrender her weapon, they shot and killed her.”