Frontwards

Friday November 4th, 2005

I fell in love today. Real, sudden, head-over-heels love. The kind of love we all feel sometimes for a complete stranger; a transient, wonderful sort of love that you might feel for somebody you pass in the street, or who comes to fix your boiler on a cold winter’s night, or who you serve cigarettes to in the supermarket where you work. In this instance, it was a man on the train.

I’ve always considered trains to be terribly romantic anyway. I’m not sure why, but it probably has something to do with all those black and white films from the good old days, where everybody took the train and everybody fell in love on the train. If it weren’t for all the sexism and war, I’d probably prefer to have lived in such a time compared to now, where everybody is just worried about everything and Cosmo tells me that I should be investing in anti-wrinkle creams at 23 years old.

Anyway, I digress. You should get used to that. I did it all the time back then and I still do it all the time now. I feel like I should probably warn you before we get stuck into things about my tendency to let my mind wander. It happens all the time. Once, in the middle of an English exam at school, I began to write about how the shoes I was wearing at the time were kind of similar to how I imagined Anne Frank’s shoes would have been. Somehow I still passed that exam, but Christ alone knows how...

You see! I just did it again! Always getting distracted with my train of thought. Haha, train. Get it? Because I was on a train? Oh, never mind. My hilarity is clearly wasted in the office.

So I got on the train at Sheffield, which is in the north of England for those of you who don’t know. I don’t want to be condescending or anything, but some people don’t know these things and so I feel I should explain just in case one of these people happens to be reading this. So I got on the train at Sheffield, where I work, with my pre-ordered ticket to Nottingham, where I live, and my briefcase in my hand and I was only wincing slightly at the pain in my feet caused by five consecutive days wearing four-inch heels. My flatmate advised me that if I wanted success, I had to dress to impress, and clearly this meant bunions. She also told me I’d get used to the pain, but I’m not so sure.

As I tottered and cringed along the carriage, I noticed that something was amiss. For the past five days, I have been on this exact same train at the exact same time every evening, and I have always sat in the exact same seat. Coach C, seat 35A. It’s one of those seats around a little table. There’s the window to my left and the tuna sandwich guy to my right and the Mulberry bag woman opposite me. Today, however, the tuna sandwich guy was nowhere to be seen, and seat 35A appeared to be occupied as I approached. I could see a mass of dark hair just peeking over the headrest as I made my way towards my seat. My seat, you bastard. Thankfully the Mulberry bag woman was in position, otherwise I probably would have assumed I was going crazy and thrown myself off the platform.

As humans, we are creatures of habit. I, for example, have a Sainsbury’s meal deal every day for lunch, and watch CSI religiously, and always sit in the same seat on the train, goddammit. So as I made my way up to the person who was occupying my seat – despite the fact that there was clearly a reserved ticket slotted into the top of the headrest – I began to involuntarily clench my fists and buttocks. I’m not great with conflict. Hell, I’m not great with any level of human interaction, but confrontation is definitely up there with flirting and large groups as one of my top weaknesses.

Finally, with shaking hands and an astonishingly quick heart rate, I arrived at the plastic table. Mulberry glanced up at me with a faint familiarity but then looked straight back down at her newspaper. The man opposite her, in seat 35A, was wearing a leather jacket and had his head down because he was reading a book. I couldn’t see what book it was, but I guessed that it was a good one because he seemed engrossed.

“Um,” I said in a tiny, pathetic voice as I stared from my ticket, to the seat number above me, to the man in my seat, “I think you’re in my seat.”

He glanced up from his book and that was it. Bam. That was the moment I fell in love.

He was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, and I am not normally one for superlatives. But he was really incredible looking. Like magical. Well, you can probably see for yourself. He took my breath away and sped my heartbeat up to near-dangerous levels and made my bones resort to jelly. I’m sure you all know what he looks like so I won’t waste my breath or stretch my unextensive descriptive skills here. He had dark hair (as I previously mentioned, only a thousand times more gorgeous than I originally had construed) and a lip ring and a smile which made all of my internal organs spasm a little bit and I’m sure I was openly gawping but he was nice enough not to draw attention to it.

“Am I? I’m so sorry,” he replied sincerely, in a wonderful American drawl which, on anybody else in the carriage may have irritated me, but seemed to suit him perfectly. I thought possibly he looked like a James. It’s one of those names which is kind of regal, but common enough for it to not be pretentious. Yeah, I think James would have suited him well.

Possibly-James closed his book and the train began to move. I’m pretty sure these two events were unrelated, although as it were I would not have been so surprised if possibly-James was God himself.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I found myself saying, without any interaction between brain and mouth. I waved a hand arbitrarily around to let him know that I didn’t really care, even though I really did care because 35A is a really good seat. You’re facing the right way, you’re by the window, you don’t get your elbow bashed by the catering trolley every three minutes, there’s a heater beneath your feet to keep your toes warm on a wintery evening such as this (although my toes were numb from my stupid shoes so I guess it wouldn’t have mattered anyway) and, most importantly, I was just used to sitting there. It is by all measures far superior to 35B, which I was currently sliding into.

“I’m really sorry,” possibly-James repeated. “I didn’t check.”

“That’s okay,” I lied, and gave him the nicest smile that I could muster in a situation such as this. A situation where you are in love with a perfect stranger and sacrifice something you really like just for him. It’s probably not a situation many people find themselves in on a regular basis, to be honest, but for me it was especially daunting because I had never really been in love before. I am just the kind of person whom love seems to overlook, and I never thought I minded that until now. Because now I could see that I was missing out on quite a lot. My whole being ached with longing for this strange American man whose arm was brushing mine ever so slightly and making me tingle from head to toe. I had visions of cuddling up to him in silk sheets on a Sunday morning and doing sudokus together and watching crappy films but making out the whole way through. Quite weird, for a person I had spoken all of ten words to (that is if you count “um” and “oh” as words, which I do, just to make up the numbers).

There was a silence for a while, as all I could hear was the smooth rattling of the train along the track and the gentle thudding of my heartbeat. All I could think was, if I make it out of this train alive, it will be a miracle. I was sure my heart was going to burst through my cardiac wall at any second and I’d be a goner, but it was kind of exhilarating in a terrifying way.

“I’m Frank, by the way,” said a voice to my left, and I turned very startled to realise that it was possibly-James who had said it. Frank. Of course it was Frank. Frank was perfect. I now could not fathom ever believing it had been anything else.

“I’m Daisy,” I replied, giving what I hoped was a beaming smile that could match Frank’s, but which probably appeared to be a grimace.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Daisy,” Frank grinned, and my heart went BANGBANGBANG against my ribcage. Dear God he’s attractive.

Mulberry was peering over the top of her newspaper as a voyeur of all this but that didn’t even bother me because of the love. Plus I knew that she’d be getting off in approximately seven minutes because she always does. For a second I thought she was going to pitch in and tell us her name, but she didn’t, and so she will always be known as Mulberry.

“So, where’s your stop?” a small voice asked, and you can only imagine my shock when I deduced that it was my voice. I had initiated a conversation. Score one for Daisy.

“London,” he told me, and then he opened his mouth to say something else but I had to interrupt him.

“You’re on the wrong train,” is what I said to him, and he blinked back at me dumbly for a while, so I elaborated with; “This train ends in Nottingham.”

His face crumpled but it looked incredibly sweet. “Are you serious? I’m on the wrong train?”

“I’m afraid so,” I replied, stifling a little smile. “Do you need to be somewhere?”

He heaved a great sigh and threw his head back against the back of his chair. “Yeah, I have a gig tonight,” he groaned, and then began to draw circles in droplets of water spilt on the table. “I can’t believe this.”

“Sorry,” I said, for no good reason because obviously none of this was my fault. He gave me a weak smile and sighed a couple more times. I felt pretty bad for the guy, being lost in a foreign country and all. “Do you need to call anybody?” I found myself asking, once more surprising myself with my forwardness as I dug around in my bag for my phone. Finally I gripped it and held it out to him.

He stared at the phone in my hand for a good three and a half seconds before smiling back up at me. “Really?” I nodded. As if anybody would ask and then say No, not really, I was just screwing with you, loser. “That would be awesome, thank you.” I cringed a little at the word awesome as it has always irked me, but I let him take my phone anyway and he tapped out a number that he had seemingly written on his hand. I watched him squint as he tried to decipher the faded biro digits but I looked away before he saw me doing so. He then put the phone to his ear and waited, flashing me a grateful smile as he did so that made my insides go all wobbly again. Mulberry watched on.

“Gerard,” Frank said, after four rings. “I’m on the wrong fucking train.”

I heard some distorted mutterings coming from the phone. I couldn’t tell exactly what ‘Gerard’ was saying, but he sure sounded angry about it.

“Man, I don’t think I’m going to make it,” Frank sighed. There was a pause for eleven seconds. Then he said, “Hang on, I’ll ask.” He then held the phone down, with his hand covering the mouthpiece. “How long will it take me to get a train to London?” he asked me, his eyes wide with desperation. I had a feeling my answer would not satisfy him.

“From the next stop, about two hours, but the trains are pretty infrequent at this time of night.”

“Shit,” he whispered. Then, raising the phone back to his ear; “There’s no way I can be there by eight, man,” he told his friend. “You’ll have to do it without me.”

This time the noises from the phone were definitely angry sounding, and I even managed to catch a few words this time, but they were all expletives. As you can imagine.

Sighing once more, I watched Frank hang up on Gerard and he handed the phone back to me. “Thanks,” he said again, but his smile was sad now.

“No problem,” I smiled weakly back, reaching for my phone and tingling all over as our fingers brushed. There was another short pause. “What are you going to do?” I asked him, shooting Mulberry a distasteful glare as I caught her ogling us once more. She ducked back behind her newspaper, reminding me slightly of a really bad spy movie.

He began to shrug, but then froze as if he had forgotten something. The announcer announced that the train would be arriving into Mansfield station shortly, and Mulberry folded up her newspaper and shuffled out of our table and into the aisle. I shot her another glance as she walked away, before turning back to Frank.

“What is it?” I asked, laughing slightly at my own discomfort and the situation I had found myself in generally. This was certainly not the sort of thing that happens to Daisy Montague every day. Most days I go without extensive interaction with anybody at all. I guess you could say I’m not a social creature. I am solitary, kind of like a dying cat. Gosh, how morbid. Okay, more like a shrew or something. Timid and edgy and small, just scampering through life. Or waddling, in my case, with these fucking shoes. Next week I am wearing my flats and I don’t care what stupid Kate says.

Frank gave a little groan and I turned to look at him, my eyes scanning his form all the way up. Yum. He is yum.

He then shook his head. “No, it’s nothing. It’s just...” He exhaled and a few hairs fell around his eyes. Oh yum. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to afford a hotel,” he eventually said, pulling out a wallet from his jeans. He flicked through and pulled out a five pound note, then smiled up at me sheepishly. “Gerard has all of our money,” he explained, replacing the money in the wallet and the wallet in his trousers. He nibbled on his lip ring a little. Did I mention yum?

“You could stay at my house if you like,” I said, with no control to stop myself. It was as if the regular, meek Daisy had floated off and I was staring down at some kind of normal-person Daisy, with no social awkwardness or boundaries or, apparently, sense.

His head shot up. “Oh, no, I’m sorry, I wasn’t hinting at anything, I didn’t mean it to sound like that...”

“No really, it’s fine,” I said. Why was I persisting? What is wrong with me? “I have a spare sofa and I don’t have to be up for work in the morning, and I don’t want to think you’ll have to spend the night on the streets.”

His mouth stretched up into the widest smile I think I have ever seen, and his hazel eyes lit up like Christmas lanterns and fuck all the similes and superlatives because he actually made my heart flutter just a tiny bit and it’s all terribly clichéd and I know nothing about Frank but I couldn’t give a fuck because it is love love love.

“Are you sure?” he asked carefully, but we both knew there was no going back now so I gave a small nod and a nervous laugh. “That would be amazing. Thank you so much.”

“That’s okay,” I said nervously.

We were silent for thirty-seven seconds, but kept catching each other’s eye and giving little smiles. Little parts of the country passed us by. Old buildings, and a river, and several fields. This all might sound quite picturesque to you, and if it does then you have almost definitely never been to Nottingham. Perhaps I should add some modifiers for clarification. Dilapidated old industrial buildings, and a heavily polluted river, and several neglected fields (one of which had a body found scattered around it last month). This train route does not display my fine country at its greatest, to be fair.

“So,” Frank eventually said, and I realised that I had been holding a breath in for a little while. “Where are we going, anyway?”

He asked it in such a casual way that it made me giggle. GIGGLE. I don’t remember ever giggling since I was about three years old, but honest to God I let out a giggle. It just kind of broke the tension, I think. “Nottingham,” I told him.

“Ah, like Robin Hood?” he asked, and I smiled.

“Yeah, I guess so.” Even though there is no historical evidence to support that Robin Hood was, in fact, based in Nottingham. Records indicate that Sheffield is a much more likely conclusion. But nobody wants to be friends with a pedant, so I kept that to myself. “So, Frank, what brings you to England anyway?” I asked, feeling myself ease up by the moment. I felt astonishingly comfortable around Frank. It was almost quite scary, allowing myself to open up to another human being. The only other person who ever actually got this close was Kate.

“I’m in a band,” he said, and the jelly-bones feeling came back. “We’re on tour.”

“Impressive,” I nodded, and he laughed a beautiful laugh.

“I guess. So, Daisy, tell me about you. What do you do?”

“I’m an accountant,” I blushed. “I just started work for a law company in Sheffield last week. I’m pretty much straight out of uni.”

“Oh, that’s cool,” he said, and this time I laughed because he was pulling of those sarcastic faces. Everybody tends to do that when I tell them what I do. “So, where did you study? Where were you born? What’s your starsign? What’s your favourite ice-cream flavour? What’s your favourite cartoon? Who is your favourite Batman villain? Do you prefer ketchup or mayo? Dogs or cats? Pepsi or Coke? All of this needs to be addressed before I can sleep on your couch.”

I let out another giggle and took a deep breath. “Cambridge, Calais, Taurus, strawberry, Spongebob, Penguin, mayo, cats, and I really don’t care.” We shared another smile.

“I approve,” he nodded. “Except on the cats thing. I’m way more of a dog person myself.”

“Well then you might want to be wary of Atticus,” I laughed. “He’s a little protective of me and doesn’t tend to like guys too much.”

“Atticus is a cat, right? Not like a huge marine older brother or something?” He looked genuinely concerned.

“Atticus is a cat,” I confirmed, with a smirk.

“I ain’t afraid of no cat,” Frank muttered, and the announcer announced that we would shortly be arriving into Nottingham.

“This is our stop,” I said, rising to my aching feet and pretending like I didn’t want to cry out in pain. Frank followed me to the carriage door and we waited for the train to rumble to a stop. I pulled my coat closer around me, anticipating the cold air that I have yet to grow accustomed to, and Frank kept nibbling at his lower lip, eyes on the ground.

He could have been a murderer. He could have been one of those mental gun-toting schizophrenics that you see on CSI all the time. He could have slit my throat while I was asleep and nobody would even have known that it was him. Of course, he wasn't, but I had no way of knowing that and still I insisted that he come to my house and sleep on my sofa and we’d probably open a bottle of wine and it would go straight to my head and that would be that. In the span of seventeen minutes I had invited a perfect stranger into my home and into my life just because he had a nice smile. Nice one, Daisy.

Despite all of these thoughts swirling around in my head though, I would never have imagined the extent to which the man on the train would change my life.