Quotes / The Dandelion Tree
Chapter 1 : Night is Coming
The glow of the terminal bled into the sky to light the wings of vagrant seagulls. White rain fell and splattered over the train as it left the protection of arced plastic like a pig leaving its sty to forage for truffles. Isaac looked out of the window as the station pulled back, then glanced at his Rolex watch. 5:17: five minutes late. Around him, businessmen sat with paper drawbridges waiting for the track to lead them to supper, children, wives, mistresses. The train picked up speed and with a sigh the driver picked up his evening standard. Behind him the length of the day brought fatigue across evening faces like Marmite spread across dry toast.
Isaac opened his book. It was The Bible Revisited by D.B Night that he had bought from the station shop. Beside him, an old man’s head bobbed with the rhythm of the train; his newspaper coming close to his eyes then receding again with each nod, like waves breaking on granite.
A chapter in, the train slowed and stopped at a station. Isaac put his book down.
The carriage spat out a few morsels, then ate whole those waiting to board. Doors shut behind them like the toothless gums of an old woman. The train pulled away from its concrete harbour leaving cars tethered in the carpark like a flotilla, each marked by their captain with a printed sticker claiming his mooring site.
Isaac checked his watch again.
The stale smell of sweat pushed out of the impregnated seats by the overfed buttocks of businessmen and seeped around the carriage. Above their heads the electric arms of the train rose like grasshopper feet to connect with the overhead cables. The train danced along the track following the line of the wires. A puppet to the routine.
Isaac glanced at the woman sat opposite. She had a self-help book clasped in her hand and held it close to her lips as if she was kissing a holy relic.
‘Pop Noodles for the brain,’ thought Isaac looking at the book. ‘Hearts ripped from stories and presented as shopping lists.’
The woman lowered her book and for a brief moment their eyes met. Isaac looked away, then up again. She had returned to her Pop Noodles.
‘Tickets please.’
Isaac put his hand inside his jacket pocket and produced his monthly pass. The conductor clipped it and handed it back. Isaac watched the woman pull her ticket from her book. He glanced at her left finger. No ring. He was forty-two, ‘Perhaps in her early thirties?’ he thought.
‘Thank you,’ said the conductor handing back the bookmark.
Isaac looked around; papers became barbed wire, suitcases rabid dogs, overcoats: vultures flapping in the overhead storage rack waiting to dine on flesh.
‘Hmm,’ thought Isaac. He sucked in his imagination, inhaling it as if nicotine to his soul. He lifted up his laptop, powered it up and breathed out. Heads nodded, vultures snapped, dogs barked and the old man of granite fell asleep.
The woman opposite glanced at him again. The dying light streamed through the window. It played over the gaps between her buttons on her blouse and caressed her face.
Isaac opened his e-mail and scanned the subject headings. One caught his eye. The woman turned a page, then coughed.
Isaac read the proposal: an alarm clock made out of sheets of paper. One sheet for each day of the year. Write the time you wish to wake on the page, when the alarm sounds, rip the page from the others, crumple it up to stop the noise, then throw it away.
‘Hmm,’ thought Isaac. ‘Crumple Clocks? I’ll sleep on it.’
A ruffle of paper distracted him from his thoughts. A man next to the woman had dropped his paper and fallen asleep with his head pressed against her chest. Isaac looked at the saliva flowing from the man’s open mouth. The woman pushed him upright. He flopped back like a rag doll.
Isaac set his laptop down on the empty seat beside him, ‘Let me help you.’
The woman nodded and smiled. Isaac leant over and tipped the man towards the cold comfort of the window. The sleeper grunted and sucked up his dribble like a man slurping froth from a beer. Isaac turned to the woman, realised that he now commanded a view down the curve of her cleavage and sat back.
‘Thank you,’ said the woman.
‘No problem,’ said Isaac. The woman continued to smile at him. Isaac shifted in his seat.
‘What is your book about?’ he said.
‘How to manage your emotions.’
‘God we’re talking,’ thought Isaac. ‘People aren’t supposed to talk to each other on the train.’
‘Would you like to look?’ said the woman.
‘Er, thanks but no.’
‘She’s still looking at me,’ he thought. His heart rate increased, adrenaline ran like blood from an open wound. He smiled and picked up his book. A snatched image of her thighs pushed back the words.
‘What is yours about?’ said the woman.
‘It’s The Bible Revisited by D.B Night,’ said Isaac trying not to look at her breasts.
‘Is it funny?’
‘Yes.’
‘Read a bit to me.’
‘Er, okay …’ Isaac flipped pages in his book. ‘Um …In the beginning God said, ‘Let
there be light,’ and lo roads were dug up and electricity piped to every house. And man planted the garden of Eden to reduce God’s carbon footprint.’
The woman laughed; as she did her face lit up like a Christmas Tree in a bleak December. A man on the other side of the train straightened his paper and tutted.
Isaac smiled, her laughter calmed him. His heart rate reduced.
‘Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself,’ he said extending his hand, ‘I’m Isaac Steward.’
The woman looked at his hand, then clasped it, ‘Jane, Jane Peter.’
The evening disappeared as the train went through a tunnel. Isaac became aware of the throb of wheels over tracks underneath him.
‘I work for Tamarisk,’ said the woman. ‘You might of heard of it, we did the advertising campaign for the Conservatives at the last election.’
Isaac nodded.
‘What do you do?’ asked the woman.
‘I’m the managing director of Tamarisk,’ said Isaac.
‘Shit,’ said the woman. ‘Really?’
Isaac laughed, ‘yes.’
‘So, what shall we talk about?’ said Jane.
‘We are talking then?’ said Isaac. ‘You know that’s against British Rail regulations. I think there is some bylaw somewhere.’
‘We are talking,’ said Jane smiling.
‘What sort of things do you like?’
‘I like my work-’
‘This isn’t an interview.’
‘Okay,’ said Jane, ‘I hate my job, I hate sitting on this crap old train surrounded by the living dead, I hate the way my toaster makes me jump every morning.’
‘You hate a lot of things.’
‘What do you hate?’
‘Well,’ said Isaac, ‘I dislike-’
‘Hate, go for the hatred, it brings things into focus.’
‘Okay, I hate getting up in the morning, I hate Sunday supplements, I hate being held in a queue, soap operas, dishes, arguments, DIY and sometimes,’ Isaac looked at Jane. ‘Sometimes I hate people.’
‘Like?’
‘I’m not going to name names.’
‘You are.’
Isaac smiled, ‘Do you know John Trench?’
‘No.’
‘Good, then I hate him.’
‘There you go. Now what do you love?’
‘I love …I love …’
Jane looked at Isaac’s book, ‘You love reading.’
‘I suppose. And you?’
‘I love sitting in the fading light overlooking an azure lake, with a drink in my hand, laughter inside my head, a flutter in my heart, birdsong to serenade me, good food on the table, and-’
A pause.
‘And?’
Jane looked at Isaac for a moment, then said, ‘Good company.’
‘Sounds like you love poetry as well,’ said Isaac.
‘Yes.’
‘So why are you reading a self help book? I hate them, they’re like life squeezed through a bloody spell checker.’
‘We’ve finished the hate stuff.’
‘Sorry, it’s just-’
‘I have my reasons,’ said Jane.
A judder went through the carriage; Isaac looked at the sign on the station as the train pulled up to the platform.
‘This is my stop,’ he said.
‘Mine too,’ said Jane.
‘Fancy a drink?’ said Isaac.
Jane flicked a strand of hair away from her face, looked down at her feet then into Isaac’s eyes again, ‘Okay.’
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Very, very nice! I liked the way you personafied the carriage with its spitting and eating of the passengers departing and boarding the train. It was very clear in your writing that there was an instant attraction between the two main characters. The dialogue is engaging and the story has a definite flow to it. I really appreciate your description of the setting. I felt as though I was sitting on the train myself. You really know how to pull the reader in and make them feel as though they are an observing character in the story. Good job!!!
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