Extract from.... The Tank Room - Martin Craig-Downer
Sitting opposite him, the only other occupants of the carriage were a pasty, overweight, dull looking woman, probably in her mid-thirties, with a preschool age boy who didn't want to stay put in his seat. The child had a halo of mousy, lustreless curls, a snotty running nose and a grimy face. Every time he fidgeted or whined, or did something else that annoyed her, the woman would scold the child coarsely.
'Stop that you little bugger.' Then she'd slap him on the leg. This only served to unleash more wailing and whining.
As the train pulled out of Chester, a gaunt, middle aged man in dark, crease-less trousers and a shabby black overcoat with a dusting of dandruff on the shoulders, peered in the carriage. He immediately went for the vacant seat next to Matt. He didn't so much smile, as leer at Matt as he sat down.
The snotty nosed kid stared at the new arrival in wonderment. 'Look at that funny man, mum.'
'Shut up you little sod.' Another slap. More howling and tears.
The man leaned close to Matt, who was fleetingly preoccupied considering whether or not the woman's behaviour amounted to child abuse. He sensed the new arrival was going to try and start up a conversation. 'What long fingers,' the man trilled, taking Matt by complete surprise. 'Musician? A violinist perhaps, or a pianist?'
His breath stank of damp rotting hay and Matt recoiled nearer to the window. He looked out at the passing landscape. It couldn't make up its mind if it was dull, featureless countryside or dreary monotonous suburbia.
The pasty woman looked alert for the first time. Her eyes followed Matt and the man. Inwardly, Matt squirmed with embarrassment. 'No. I'm not a musician.' He turned back to the window and wished he'd thought of some totally boring, unlikely or outrageous occupation he could have laid claim to: Funeral director's clerk? Goldfish sexer? Nude trapeze artist? But it would probably only have encouraged the inquisitor and sent him into a fit of the giggles.
Matt raised the newspaper and buried his head in it. 'I'm a musician.' The man went on sibilantly, 'I'm an organist at Chester Cathedral.'
God protect the choir boys Matt thought. He excused himself and went out into the corridor. Moving a little way down, he slid open the top of a window and lit a cigarette. Fortunately he'd not been followed although he realised belatedly that his move could have been misinterpreted.
He remained there smoking as the train rattled on, rickety tick, and approached the outer Merseyside urban sprawl. They were coming into Rock Ferry where he'd been told to change trains. As the brakes squealed, he went back to the carriage and retrieved his belongings. He was pleased to note the dandruff garnished overcoat was evidently not getting off. Once again though he gave Matt a sly smile.
The train jolted to a stop. Matt heaved his old leather case down the corridor, unhooked the strap to drop the carriage door window and reached out for the door handle. He stepped down and dumped his case on the platform for a moment. The locomotive started up again, hissing and chuffing, clouds of dark smoke billowing from its funnel and steam jetting forcefully out of the pistons. The warm, comfortable carriages started to recede from view towards the train's final destination in Birkenhead, taking the organist, the pasty woman and the snotty child with it.
Martin Craig-Downer. The Tank Room (Kindle Locations 157-196). mardibooks.
