coat from the seat, makes one foot move in front of the other step step step along the foetid carriage way, past the faces and the eyes, through the intensifying stink to the sliding door at the end. He pushes the handle, watches it open, steps through into cleaner air. He leans against the partition facing outwards, watching the sodden countryside streaming past. He has left his case in the luggage rack at the other end. But it can stay there till he gets off. It would be good to wait here, instead of ploughing through another carriage-full of upturned, inquisitive faces. Instead of helpfully walking towards her, wherever she is sitting, waiting with the sinister knowledge that he will be unable to prevent himself from offering himself up to her.
There is no seat here and he will attract attention if he sits on the floor. The carriage door shushes and thunks open, someone passes behind his back. Thatâs the problem: if she walks through the train, he is easier to find here than tucked away in a seat.
Nevertheless he stays; there is something compelling in the rain that streams diagonally across the window, in the authenticity of the dull grey light outside. There is a normality to daylight which restores sense at the most basic level, he thinks. Paulâs incredulous rage: âThe monkeys never even see daylight in their whole lives!â Why couldnât he listen to Paul earlier? He did listen, but what he heard was a betrayed child, who has discovered that his parent is imperfect. Not a serious argument for the monkeys. Maddy is punishment for that. But Paul. Might Paul even be connected? A new thought, paranoid but plausible. Paul is politically active, he is capable of joining a group campaigning against the use of animals in research. In fact he is highly likely to. And to set someone like Maddy onto his father? Con is unsure if this is plausible or not. Everything is fluid, things which were unlikely even a day ago are now developing, and Conâs own previous view of Paul as distant, contemptuous, absorbed in the intricacies of his own life shifts now into a view of Paul as potentially aggressive; determined to make a stand against the old man. Paul is committed to his principles; why shouldnât he try to make Con denounce the cruelties inflicted by his own research? Suddenly Con sees that it is crazy not to have told Paul about Maddy. Either he is a moving force behind her action, in which case Con can work out with him precisely how to do the right thing about the animal house, and ask him to call off Maddyâs reign of terror. Or, if heâs not involved, Con can at least ask his advice. Paul will understand.
Con has no sooner articulated this thought than he dismisses it. Understanding necessarily entails a desire to do so. Why should Paul desire to understand his father? His biological need, as older son, is to reject and replace his father. This is what is happening, thinks Con. All I need to do is let nature take its course. Which it will do anyway, with or without my permission.
He presses his forehead against the cold window and watches it mist up with his breath. Is this an agreement to allow himself to play the victim? Is he back to square one? He can twist, he can turn, but thereâs nothing to be done.
When his back starts to ache he moves into the next carriage in search of a seat. But the few empty seats are beside people who are now properly entrenched in their journey, with bags and books and chattels wedged around them. His arrival in search of a seat when the train has not stopped to admit new passengers will reveal him as a malcontent, a seat-swapper. He pauses again at a carriage end, looking at the same view of diagonally teeming rain. He could go back to the buffet car. He could wait until the train stops and then look for a seat as if he is a new passenger. But the train never stops. Does it? Is it non-stop to Rome? Non-stop for nine hours? Surely not. That would
There is no seat here and he will attract attention if he sits on the floor. The carriage door shushes and thunks open, someone passes behind his back. Thatâs the problem: if she walks through the train, he is easier to find here than tucked away in a seat.
Nevertheless he stays; there is something compelling in the rain that streams diagonally across the window, in the authenticity of the dull grey light outside. There is a normality to daylight which restores sense at the most basic level, he thinks. Paulâs incredulous rage: âThe monkeys never even see daylight in their whole lives!â Why couldnât he listen to Paul earlier? He did listen, but what he heard was a betrayed child, who has discovered that his parent is imperfect. Not a serious argument for the monkeys. Maddy is punishment for that. But Paul. Might Paul even be connected? A new thought, paranoid but plausible. Paul is politically active, he is capable of joining a group campaigning against the use of animals in research. In fact he is highly likely to. And to set someone like Maddy onto his father? Con is unsure if this is plausible or not. Everything is fluid, things which were unlikely even a day ago are now developing, and Conâs own previous view of Paul as distant, contemptuous, absorbed in the intricacies of his own life shifts now into a view of Paul as potentially aggressive; determined to make a stand against the old man. Paul is committed to his principles; why shouldnât he try to make Con denounce the cruelties inflicted by his own research? Suddenly Con sees that it is crazy not to have told Paul about Maddy. Either he is a moving force behind her action, in which case Con can work out with him precisely how to do the right thing about the animal house, and ask him to call off Maddyâs reign of terror. Or, if heâs not involved, Con can at least ask his advice. Paul will understand.
Con has no sooner articulated this thought than he dismisses it. Understanding necessarily entails a desire to do so. Why should Paul desire to understand his father? His biological need, as older son, is to reject and replace his father. This is what is happening, thinks Con. All I need to do is let nature take its course. Which it will do anyway, with or without my permission.
He presses his forehead against the cold window and watches it mist up with his breath. Is this an agreement to allow himself to play the victim? Is he back to square one? He can twist, he can turn, but thereâs nothing to be done.
When his back starts to ache he moves into the next carriage in search of a seat. But the few empty seats are beside people who are now properly entrenched in their journey, with bags and books and chattels wedged around them. His arrival in search of a seat when the train has not stopped to admit new passengers will reveal him as a malcontent, a seat-swapper. He pauses again at a carriage end, looking at the same view of diagonally teeming rain. He could go back to the buffet car. He could wait until the train stops and then look for a seat as if he is a new passenger. But the train never stops. Does it? Is it non-stop to Rome? Non-stop for nine hours? Surely not. That would
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