Chapter Text
Checking it again, I tutted at my own uncertainty. What could I do if the contents of the letter magically changed? I was already on the train. There was absolutely no way I could have possibly misread it anyway; the prematurely worn creases on the paper blatantly betrayed the number of times I had opened it, folded it, opened it again. James’ handwriting is awfully distinctive – sharp and precise, just like him, I suppose. I find the stiff peaks of the ascenders, slight flicks on the descenders and the strict angles on the apexes oddly intimate, like a picture drawn just for me. Nobody I have ever met writes quite like James, and it gives me something special to keep and cherish when we can’t be together.
We had corresponded regularly since May 1945, but James’ letters had slowed, then stopped altogether three months ago. Somebody must have been getting suspicious, and we had both agreed to err on the side of caution when it came to anything that could be used as proof for a conviction.
Grinding to a halt, the train waited outside Bishop’s Stortford station and the elderly woman in the green felt hat who had been eyeing both me and my letter for the duration of the journey from Cambridge thankfully departed the carriage, taking her eagle eyes and leather handbag with her. I discreetly opened the folds of my wallet and stole a glance at the photograph tucked behind that of my sister. James’ soulful eyes looked up at me, and I realised I could hardly wait to see the sparkle in them once again; the first time we will have seen each other in four long months. The carriage shuddered and we began moving again, the white wooden crenulated canopy gilding the station roof getting smaller and less defined by the second. With no-one else in the carriage, I allowed myself to fully open the letter and read it slightly aloud, just as I thought James would say it:
Anthony,
I hope you have been well in this month past, and I apologise for any upset caused by my inability to write. It was the circumstance you suspect, I am sure.
I have booked two tickets for a concert in London on the 24th of July to celebrate your birthday. You told me six years ago that you were particularly fond of Elgar, so we will listen to his Enigma Variations at the Royal Albert Hall. The concert begins at 7 o’clock.
Yours,
James.
Short, to the point, not a hint of affection visible to an outsider eye, but I could see it plain as day between the lines. Not a single one of James’ letters exceeded one hundred words, and not one of those words would ever be even closely associated with any type of love, unless you happened to know both me and James very well indeed. For him, memory was a form of love, and I welcomed that with an open heart. Elgar is one of my favourite composers, and I remember telling James that very fact only once. His love for me is written all over the page, and it fills me with some sort of indescribable elation. This man loves me.
With no unnerving strangers or beady eyes, the gentle rhythmic jolts of the train quickly tempted me into a light slumber, the landscape passing by unnoticed, village by village, sheep by sheep, each moment getting closer to London, closer to James.
***
Awake all of a sudden from a dream I couldn’t quite remember, I noticed that a stranger had entered the carriage as I slept. The man, in his mid-sixties and balding, had been leant close to me, reading something. The letter.
Scrambling up to a better sitting position, I reached for the letter that had slipped from my hand somewhere between Bishop’s Stortford and wherever we are now, forgetting for a moment that the incriminating emotion in the letter was only visible to myself.
‘Good evening! I hope I didn’t wake you,’ the gentleman said apologetically, smiling warmly and extending his arm.
I shook it, still bleary eyed from sleep and reeling from the momentary panic. ‘Good evening. You didn’t wake me at all, sir. Could you tell me where we are?’
‘Somewhere just south of Clapton, I think,’ the stranger replied, looking out of the window at the built up landscape that had definitely not been there when I had fallen asleep. ‘Elgar,’ he stated, gesturing now at the letter still in my hand. ‘I didn’t mean to pry, but I saw the name and couldn’t help myself. He was one of the world’s greatest musicians, I think. I have his entire Symphony No.1 on record, listen to it on repeat. I take it you’re also fond?’
‘Very much so,’ I replied, remembering to smile politely, whilst simultaneously trying my best to fend off a yawn.
South of Clapton means Liverpool Street Station is minutes away, I thought.
‘Of course his Enigma Variations are something different altogether,’ the gentleman continued. ‘But I imagine you know that already, and you also know that your station is very close – you don’t have to be so discreet about collecting your belongings, I shan’t take offence!’ he chuckled.
I smiled nervously in response. I had been caught unawares by this man, and had briefly forgotten any conversational skills I previously possessed.
‘I’m carrying on to Clapham Junction myself,’ the stranger continued. ‘Off to see my son and daughter-in-law. She’s just had a baby: a girl called Charlotte.’
‘I see,’ I replied, praying that the station would come into view at any moment. The tightness of my chest and sweat on my palms warned me that this conversation with a stranger must come to an end. ‘It sounds like a very special visit, and I wish you all the best for it, sir.’
I gave myself a pat on the back for that rather excellent closing statement, and rose from the hard backed moquette seat, picking up my small bag and tipping my hat to the gentleman, bidding him good evening.
‘And a good evening to you too, sir! Enjoy Elgar!’ the stranger replied, leaning back further in his seat.
I nodded and opened the door to the compartment, exiting and allowing it to roll back into place with a clack.
As I loitered by the door, I allowed myself to imagine briefly what it could be like, if things were not as they were. I would exit the train, stepping gingerly onto the platform, looking around for a familiar face in the crowd, spying James a mile off. We would lock eyes and come towards each other, embracing tightly. I would gently peck James on the cheek, causing him to turn beet red, and the pair of us would laugh before turning (James having offered to take my bag) and walking hand in hand out of the station, towards an evening of music, drinks, then home.
I would usually only allow these fantasies to take root in my mind in that strange melancholy hour of the night, when the edges of the room are fuzzy and undefined, the ticking of the clock the only thing keeping me from slipping away into a land all of my own – really the place I’d prefer to be. I would never let these thoughts stray out of their allocated time on a regular day, but today was different. Today I wished more than ever for my make-believe world to be real. How difficult it would be to keep myself from holding James’ hand, let alone from kissing him in broad daylight. Taking a deep breath, I put the thoughts away in a box and stood taller, bracing for the sudden lurch of the train coming to a halt.
The doors opened and I stepped carefully onto the platform, scanning the crowd for a face I recognised. Immediately my eyes found James. He saw me and started to walk forwards, pushing through the crowd until he was mere feet away. Then I stepped forward and kissed my beautiful James, letting my bag fall to the floor on my left side. James had his hands around my waist, and I smiled through the kiss. Grinning, we took each other’s hands, and—
The doors opened. Passengers milled passively by, the grey concrete tapping beneath their feet. A quick glance across the station confirmed that nobody was waiting for me, and I alighted the train alone. Past the big red pillars, the clock telling me the train had arrived three minutes late, the pigeon sat on the eaves looking down through its beady eyes at the Londoners below, down to the Underground for the next leg of my journey.