The Stranger on the Train Read online

  Chapter Two

  “Ngg.”

  Ritchie wailed, arching his back and pushing Emma away with his fists. She was squashing him. His breath smelled of rusk, and orange lollipop. Emma’s arms were too weak to hold him. She needed to sit down. The sides of her vision were going dark.

  “Are you all right?” the woman asked. Her voice echoed from a long way away. “Shall I take him for you?”

  Emma felt Ritchie being lifted from her arms; she felt the seat behind her with her knees and sank into it. A tide sound rushed at her ears. She closed her eyes and leaned forward.

  After a minute, the rushing noise receded. The platform returned to normal around her.

  Emma sat up.

  “Thank you,” she said, and burst into tears.

  She didn’t know how long she cried. Probably no more than a few seconds, but when she looked up, Ritchie, sitting on the woman’s knee, was staring at her, open-mouthed. A long thread of drool hung from his lower lip, inches from the woman’s expensive-looking sleeve. It was that which made Emma get herself under control.

  “I’m sorry.” She pressed the bases of her hands to her eyes. “There’s only the two of us, my little boy and me. It’s so hard sometimes . . . I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “You don’t want to hear this. You must think I’m a terrible mother.”

  “Nonsense,” the woman murmured. “You’ve had a dreadful shock.”

  She was right. Emma longed to cuddle Ritchie, but her hands were trembling and her face was soaked with tears and mucus. There was blood on her lip as well. She must have bitten it. She looked around for something to wipe it with. This station was much busier than the last one. Where were they? She looked at the sign above the seats. Whitechapel. Another train was pulling into the platform. Two girls stood up to meet it.

  “Tissue?” The woman balanced Ritchie with one arm and rummaged in her bag. She did look the sort who would have a clean tissue with her at all times. Sensible, organized, like the headmistress of a school. She looked to be in her early forties, with blond hair cut in layers to just below her ears. Tweedy trousers. A short, fawn-colored jacket, with fur at the cuffs and collar.

  “Here we are,” the woman said.

  “Thank you.” Emma took the tissue and wiped her eyes and face. The woman watched her in a sympathetic sort of way. Close up, she had tiny, spidery veins on her cheeks. It was an outdoor face, despite the pearl earrings and coiffed hair. A horse rider’s or gardener’s face. Emma had seen plenty of women like her during her childhood in Bath. They were everywhere at Christmas, lunching in cozy tea shops with their daughters, surrounded by shopping bags. Emma had waited on them during her school holidays.

  “Let me take him.” Emma finished drying her eyes and reached for Ritchie. Immediately he shook his head, leaned back into the woman’s elbow and stuck his fist in his mouth.

  “What’s wrong?” Emma was upset. “Why won’t you come to me?”

  The woman gave a little laugh. “I think he must have got a fright when you squeezed him.”

  “I probably hurt him,” Emma worried. It wasn’t like Ritchie to be so manipulative. Normally he wouldn’t go to anyone except her.

  “It was the shock. And of course he doesn’t know he nearly went missing, do you, little manikin?” The woman jiggled Ritchie and leaned sideways to look at him. He gazed up at her, chewing his fist. “You had your mummy all worried, didn’t you, you naughty little man?” She looked back at Emma. “He’s adorable, isn’t he? Such blond hair. And you’re so dark. What’s his name?”

  “Richard. Ritchie.”

  “Ritchie. How sweet. Is that after his daddy?”

  “No.” Emma looked away.

  The woman didn’t push it. “Would you like another tissue?” she asked. She pronounced it tiss-yoo. “No, give that old one back to me. There aren’t any bins down here.”

  She took the sodden tissue from Emma and tucked it into her bag.

  “By the way.” She held out her hand. “I’m Antonia.”

  “Emma. Emma Turner.” Emma shook Antonia’s hand.

  “Where do you live, Emma? Are you near home?”

  “No,” Emma said. “I live in Fulham. Hammersmith, really, I suppose.”

  “Well, you are a long way from home. Shall I come some of the way with you on the train? You shouldn’t travel alone in this state.”

  “I’ll be fine. Honestly.” It was almost true. She was still shaky, but she was starting to recover. She just wanted to be alone now, to get her bearings and get herself and Ritchie back to the flat. And then she remembered. “Oh. My bag. I left it at the other station.”

  “My goodness,” Antonia said. “You have got yourself in a mess.”

  “I’ll be all right.” Emma stood up. She’d sort something out. What was a lost bag? A few minutes ago, she thought she’d lost her son. “Ritchie and I will go back there and ask. See if anyone’s handed it in.”

  “Well,” said Antonia, “I think the chances of you finding that bag at this stage are really very small. Perhaps I should wait to see if you need some money to get home?”

  “Oh, no.” Emma was horrified. She hadn’t meant to sound like she was asking for money.

  “I insist. I’m going to make sure you get home safely. You’ve had a very nasty shock.” Antonia put a hand on Emma’s arm. “Won’t you come for a cup of coffee? My treat.”

  “I couldn’t ask you to do that. You’ve done enough.” Emma felt her barriers going up. She knew she must look awful, streaky with tears, her hair all over the place. The sleeve of her jacket was ripped from where she’d fallen on the platform, and the front of one of her trainers was lifting off its sole. Antonia seemed kind, but Emma just wanted to be left in peace. Just to get back to herself again, have another little cry, even, if she wanted to. She found it hard enough to talk to people these days, never mind someone like Antonia who was being very tactful but must be wondering how anyone could be so stupid as to leave their baby on a train.

  “Just one coffee.” Antonia was watching her. “Look, I have an idea. I’ve been visiting a friend of mine, and I was supposed to meet my husband in town, but why don’t I call him and ask him to collect me here instead? He has a car. Let us take you home.”

  Emma wanted to say no. She really did, but she felt beaten, weary, unexpectedly overwhelmed at the idea of someone being kind to her. Her shoulders were heavy, as though someone had put a blanket over them.

  “Okay,” she said. Her eyes prickled. “Thank you.”

  While she was blowing her nose again, Antonia stood up with Ritchie in her arms.

  “I’ll get this young man settled,” she said.

  “He won’t let—” Emma began, but Antonia was already loading Ritchie into his pushchair. He didn’t protest at all. His head nodded, his eyelids drooped. Antonia fastened him in with the straps. She seemed to know exactly what she was doing.

  “There.” She patted Ritchie’s head. “You need a sleep, don’t you? Poor little man.”

  Emma went to take the buggy, but Antonia had the handles in her grasp. She took off at a brisk pace, steering Ritchie towards the stairs. Emma had nothing to do but follow them, empty-handed. The platform was open at both ends; a chill breeze blew over their heads. Emma’s knees stung beneath her jeans. It felt strange to have nothing to carry, no Ritchie, no bag. She felt out of control. Vulnerable. She would have preferred to carry Rich, to take him out of the buggy and hold him; but Antonia had been so kind, it would be rude to wake him up. She settled for watching him as they walked. My God, my God.

  She helped Antonia to lift the buggy up the stairs. At the turnstile, Antonia turned to her and said: “You’ve lost your ticket, haven’t you? You’ll need to report your missing bag to the guard. Ask him to let you through.”

  Emma hesitated.

  “Go on.” Antoni
a gave her an encouraging smile. “Don’t worry about Ritchie and me. We’ll wait for you at the entrance.”

  Wanting to hurry, Emma didn’t mention anything to the cheerful orange-jacketed guard about Ritchie getting caught on the train. She just said that she’d lost her bag at the previous station, Stepney Green, and asked if anyone had handed it in. The guard went into a room at the side to use the phone. Emma glanced through the turnstiles, towards the entrance to the station. It was dark now outside. Raining, it looked like. The pavements were shiny with light. A couple of people stood inside the doors, sheltering from the rain, or queuing for the little newspaper and sweet kiosk at the side. More people pushed through the barriers: a man wearing a woolen hat, a woman in a hijab holding the hand of a little girl. Then they were gone, and there were just their footsteps on the wet floor. Emma looked again at the entrance. Then she froze. She took a jerky half step towards the barrier.

  Where had Antonia gone?

  She saw her then, just beside the kiosk. She was kneeling by Ritchie’s buggy, adjusting the zip of his fleece; that must be why she’d missed her at first. Emma let out a shaky breath. It just went to show how jumpy she was. Ritchie was asleep. She watched him hungrily. His head was on his chest, making him look as if he had three chins. His wispy hair was brushed straight down on his forehead. The smiley blue elephant on his front moved up and down as he breathed. Antonia looked up just then and saw Emma watching. She gave a little wave.

  The guard came back.

  “No bag, I’m afraid,” he said. “There’s a number for Lost Property if you—”

  “It’s okay.” Emma was anxious to be back with Ritchie. She gestured to the barrier. “Is it all right if I go on through? My ticket was in my bag.”

  The guard was in a good mood. He tipped his hand to his forehead and released the turnstile for her. Once through it, Emma headed straight for Ritchie. She reached for the handles of the pushchair and instead found Antonia pressing a twenty-pound note into her hand.

  “You must take it,” Antonia insisted as Emma began to protest. “There’s a café open down that way, look.” She pointed down a side street to where a sign on a lighted window read: “Mr. Bap’s.”

  “We’ll go there to wait for my husband,” Antonia said. “You can buy the coffees. You might want to get something for Ritchie too, and I wouldn’t know what to buy.”

  “I . . . oh, okay.” Emma gave in. Antonia had a point. Ritchie would be hungry soon. She’d buy something for him to eat, but as soon as she was at the table she’d wake him up and take him onto her knee and have him back to herself again.

  Mr. Bap’s turned out to be more of a fast-food restaurant than a café. Inside, the damp air of the street gave way to a strong smell of vinegar and chips. Rows of brown plastic tables and benches took up the front half of the restaurant. Most of the tables were in need of a wipe. At the back of the shop was the counter, lined with giant bottles of brown sauce and mustard. The only other customer, an elderly bearded man with a beige jacket zipped up to his neck, sat at a table by the wall, staring into a cup in his hand.

  “Not very nice, is it?” Antonia wrinkled her nose. “Still, it’s warm. And we won’t be here for very long.”

  She wheeled the buggy to a table by the window. Ritchie was still asleep. Emma went to order the drinks.

  “Two coffees, please,” she said quickly to the gray-haired, stubble-faced man behind the counter. “And one of those chocolate buns. And a carton of milk.”

  “Large or small coffees?”

  “Any one. It doesn’t matter.”

  Emma fidgeted, gazing around her as the man poked through a tall steel fridge. The wall beside the counter was smeared with something red, darkened and crusted into the paint. Ketchup, Emma hoped. She shuddered. What a dreary place to work on a Sunday evening. Over by the window, Antonia had her mobile phone to her ear. She was talking in a low voice, probably so as not to wake Ritchie. Her hand covered her mouth as she spoke.

  “Anything else?” the man behind the counter asked.

  “Oh.” Emma looked back at the tray. “No, thank you. Just what’s there.”

  The man couldn’t seem to work the cash register. The drawer kept springing open at the wrong time. Every time it did, the man tutted and slammed it shut again. Emma wished he’d just hand over the change. Ritchie had moved in his sleep. Now his head was tipped back, his mouth open, his two white top teeth showing. Antonia was still on the phone. She had her back to Emma, but her head was turned to the side and her hand had moved away from her mouth. Emma could see the movements of her lips as she spoke.

  Bird rack, Antonia seemed to be saying. Or at least that was what her lips made it look like.

  For no reason at all, a vivid image popped into Emma’s head. Her mum, sitting, watching the telly in their terraced house in Bath. Emma was at the corner table, doing her homework. The curtains were drawn; the flames of the gas fire flickered. Emma could see her mum, sitting as usual in her brown-and-red flowery armchair by the fire. The half-drunk mug of tea beside her on the coffee table. The fixed, rather sad expression on her face as she concentrated on her program.

  Emma frowned. How many times had she seen her mum watching the telly like that when she was young? What had made her suddenly think of it now? She looked again at Ritchie and shook her head.

  Finally the man managed to get the drawer to work, and handed Emma her change. Emma took the coffees and bun over to the window. Antonia was still talking into her mobile phone. Emma slid the tray onto the table.

  “Sorry for the delay,” she began.

  Antonia jumped and spun around. Then she lifted her finger and smiled.

  “I have to go now,” she said into the phone. “I’ll see you soon.”

  She helped Emma to unload the tray.

  “That was my husband,” she said. “He’s on his way.”

  Emma sat down thankfully and pulled Ritchie’s buggy towards her.

  “That young man’s out for the count,” Antonia said.

  “He’ll wake up soon.” Emma peeled the wrapper off the chocolate bun. “He’s due his dinner.”

  “I don’t think he looks like he’s interested in eating anything, do you?”

  “He will soon,” Emma said, more sharply than she’d intended.

  Antonia didn’t reply. She drew her cup of coffee towards her, picked up the tiny stainless-steel milk jug from the table and began to pour. Immediately, Emma regretted her tone. What on earth was wrong with her? Antonia was only trying to be nice.

  In a politer voice, she asked: “Do you have children?”

  The steel jug stopped pouring. Antonia held it in the air for a moment before she answered.

  “Yes, we do,” she said. “We have a little boy.”

  She tipped the jug again and went on pouring. Emma was surprised. For some reason, she’d have thought that if Antonia had children they’d be grown by now. Teenagers at least. Antonia looked much too groomed to be the mother of a young child. Maybe she had a nanny. Before she could ask her where the child was, Antonia put down the jug and nodded at Ritchie’s pushchair.

  She said: “I gather from what you mentioned about it just being the two of you that this little chap’s father isn’t around?”

  “No,” Emma said. “We split up before he was born.”

  “But your family helps out?”

  “I don’t have any family. My parents are dead.”

  “I see,” said Antonia. “Alone in the world.”

  Emma stirred her coffee.

  “Money must be tight, I imagine,” Antonia said, eyeing Emma’s bobbly woolen jumper and faded jeans. “How on earth do you cope?”

  “We manage.”

  “But it isn’t an ideal environment for a child, is it? No money, no family support. Hardly fair on him, I would have thought.”

 
Emma felt uncomfortable. She really didn’t want to discuss this any more. She went to undo the straps of Ritchie’s pushchair. He stiffened at once and scrunched up his face. Emma knew she was forcing him out of sleep and he’d be cross, but she wanted to wake him, to have him back to herself.

  “Shh,” she soothed him, tugging on the straps. He pushed against them, tightening the buckle.

  “Still tired,” Antonia remarked. “Perhaps you should leave him.”

  “Rich, look.” Abruptly, Emma turned to the table. “Do you want some bun?” She steadied her hands by breaking a piece off the muffin on her plate.

  When she turned back, Antonia had Ritchie out of the pushchair and on her knee.

  Emma didn’t know what to say.

  “You shouldn’t let him eat sweets,” Antonia said. Ritchie sat on her knee, rubbing his eyes. “Should she, little man?”

  Emma’s heart was hammering. She was thinking: I won’t take the lift. We’ll just go.

  “Oh, look,” Antonia said. “Your lip’s started bleeding again.”

  Emma put her hand up to her mouth. Wetness on her lower lip. She took away her fingers and saw that the tips were red.

  “Oh dear.” Antonia’s face creased with concern. “And I’m afraid I don’t have any tissues left.”

  Emma jumped up to get a paper towel from the counter. But she couldn’t see any. The man behind the counter had disappeared, presumably through a doorway beside the fridge hung with colored plastic strips.

  “Hello?” Emma called to the plastic strips. “Hello?”

  Antonia’s voice: “You might find something down there.”

  Emma turned. Antonia was pointing at a gap between the counter and the wall. Through the gap, a narrow passage led to a brown door marked: “Toilets.”

  Without speaking, Emma marched to the gap and down the passage. She was going to get some tissues, wipe off the blood, take Ritchie and go. Just as she reached the brown door, she looked back. She could see all the way to the front of the shop, where Ritchie was sitting on Antonia’s knee, still rubbing his eyes. Then he saw Emma and his face lit up. He gave a heartbreaking smile and held up his arms.