The Train by Sarah Bourne (fiction books to read txt) 📕

understand it. One minute she’d be all happy and helpful and the next she’d fly off the handle or storm out in tears. It wasn’t as if she wanted for anything; she had a good husband, a nice house, she was managing a chemist shop in Milton Keynes where she’d moved when she got married. They had a holiday abroad every year, and were planning to have children. And then these silly moods.

What hurt the most was that they used to be close but Laura stopped talking to her about anything that mattered, wouldn’t tell her what was going on. Iris wondered if she was depressed and suggested seeing her doctor. That was a bad argument. Laura fair flew at her, saying that if she was depressed it was because of her and her prying. Iris clutched her stomach remembering the pain she’d felt at those words. She popped another mint in her mouth and sucked hard.

Over the years they’d found their way back to each other again. Laura had been a pillar of strength when Reg died. She’d loved her dad and felt his loss deeply, but she was there for Iris. That’s the term they used these days, thought Iris. She was there for me. I wasn’t there for her or Barry. I tried to be but I couldn’t do it. She shifted in her seat. Was that the moment when the balance in the family altered – when they had to help her because she couldn’t help them?

‘My children see me as a useless old woman,’ she said, and Mei-Ling looked appropriately shocked.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said.

Iris felt on the edge of tears. Nobody respected her now that Reg was gone; and her recent visit to her daughter had confirmed that Laura didn’t think she was wise. In fact, she seemed to think she was on the verge of dementia. Or perhaps only hoped she was. For a moment Iris almost wished her memory was going so she could forget the last few days.

‘Oh, for a forgettery,’ she murmured too softly for anyone else to hear.

At Euston, Mei-Ling helped Iris gather her belongings and step down from the train.

‘I’m so pleased to have met you, Iris.’

‘Me too,’ said Iris. ‘And now you run along to your meeting. I hope you’re not too late.’

She wanted to say more, to assure her that her parents would love her no matter what, but she didn’t know that, and her idea of parents loving their children unconditionally had been shaken over the last few days. She wasn’t sure she even liked Laura anymore, let alone loved her. She put a hand to her cheek, wincing at the tenderness of the bruise, and sighed. Watching Mei-Ling trot off, she lifted her bag, fished for her ticket in her coat pocket, and headed for the barrier. A crush of people tried to get through, rushing now the train had finally arrived, all going in their different directions – to work, or shopping, to visit a loved one, or to go home, like her.

No, she decided not to go home immediately; she wasn’t in town very often these days, and Charlie would be all right for a little longer. She’d go to one of her favourite places, one she and Reg had found quite by accident years ago when they’d started cycling, the children having grown up and left, leaving a gap in their time as well as their home. So at weekends they cycled into the city, or took a train into the countryside and pedalled along the lanes until they found a pub. That was all before they discovered Reg’s heart probably wasn’t up to riding bikes, or, indeed, keeping him alive. She bit her lip, remembering her husband’s first heart attack. The fear. Their lives had changed after that. Iris threw the salt out, and cooked low-fat meals, and encouraged Reg to do a little careful exercise each day. Yet still he died. Five years, it had been. Five long years.

From Euston it required a train and a bus to get there, but she’d do it; she could take it slowly, and have a cup of tea in the lovely café once she arrived.

She lifted her chin and smiled. She was going on an adventure. She was an independent woman taking herself off for a day out. When had she last done that? Too often her hip hurt when she walked long distances, and her doctor had told her that when older people like her were stressed they were more prone to accidents. She’d taken his advice to heart; these days if she felt in the least emotional, she stayed indoors. She couldn’t risk falling in the street again at her age. Her friend Betty had fallen coming out of Lidl and broken her hip and never left the hospital. An infection set in and she was gone. Iris sighed. She missed Betty. But today, even though she was feeling a bit wobbly – not physically, but emotionally – after what Laura had done, she would throw caution to the wind and treat herself to an outing. It would make her feel better to be out and about.

The Chelsea Physic Garden always delighted her. Small enough and flat enough to walk round easily, it hid away behind houses and a high wall so it felt like visiting a secret place. The medicinal trees and shrubs from all over the world had been collected over the centuries.

After Reg died, she’d had a brass plaque inscribed and paid a donation to have it screwed to their favourite bench on the patio outside the café.

Reg Worthington, My Medicine. 1934-2011

It was better to remember him here than in the awful cemetery overlooking the motorway. He’d have wanted her to keep coming to the garden, to sit on their bench and enjoy a cup of tea and a bit of sun. And there were always other people who were willing to stop