Private Universe

Jack and the Women.

Jack

‘Wentbridge, Wentbridge. All passengers for Wentbridge. Excuse me? Young sir? You're getting off here, aren't you?’

Jack heard the voice and felt it was dragging him up from the bottom of a black lake. Exhaustion crushed him like a weight of water. The surface still an impossible distance above his head and him wanting nothing more than to sink back into the darkness, the voice came again, injecting unwanted buoyancy.

‘Are you alright, sir? You're looking very peaky. You are getting off here, aren't you?’

A sudden banging came from beside Jack's head. Glass, he thought. Someone’s rapping their knuckles against a window. He'd been asleep with his head resting against it and now someone was knocking from outside. He started and his eyes twitched, lids almost parting.

‘William! William! He's mine darling. Can you be getting him up for me? I've to drive him to the house.’

A woman's voice; Irish, by the accent. Muffled by the glass, but still with a bubbling huskiness almost enough to make Jack prise open his eyes.

‘Trying, Mrs Maguire, but I've seen slaughtered sheep faster to move than this one. He alright, is he?’

‘Ah, the poor love's been ill with the scarlet fever, so he has. Can you give him a hand up, darling?’

‘For you, Mrs Maguire, the very shirt off me back.’

‘A thousand thanks, William, but the boy's what I'm after and not your laundry. Yer mammy can do your shirts for ye.’

William chuckled and hands slipped under Jack's armpits from behind. His arm was raised and wrapped around skinny shoulders.

‘Upsidaisy. Up you come now, sir, can't be keeping Mrs Maguire waiting now, can we?’

Half lifted by William; Jack pushed legs like dead meat against the floor to help raise himself. His eyes fluttered open and colours danced for a moment before shapes coalesced. An old, old lady, clothed in something last fashionable when Queen Victoria was single, sat facing. She looked at him with concern.

‘Can someone fetch this young gentleman a glass of water? He looks faint. I fear the heat has been too much for him.’

Cut-glass accent, Jack thought. Home Counties? William sounded West Country. Mrs Maguire Irish. Where the Hell was he? Jack, lost in a mental fog, only knew he had to get off this train. He reached out a free hand and grasped the seat top. Wood. Solid and good to lean his weight on. Steadied between the seat and William, he tried to pull his mind to the jobs at hand: standing first, walking next, getting off the train. Luggage? Did he have luggage? He couldn't cope with luggage.

‘My bags?’ His voice croaked with the rasp of a hinge never oiled. His mouth was dry and he wanted a drink. ‘Where are my bags, please?’

‘Oh, don't you go worrying yourself over them, sir. They're in the guard's van and he'll get them off for you. Now, can you just come this way?’

William was Jack's height, but a skinny youth, and Jack's weight caused him to struggle. Jack, ashamed of his weakness, marshalled his will and directed his legs to walk. They staggered instead, but, grasping for the support of the seat backs, he and William lurched down the carriage to the door and the brightness of the sun beyond. He half fell into the arms of Mrs Maguire. Like falling into a warm bed, fresh laundered linen brushed his face and calmed his nerves. The flesh beneath smelled of lemons and sweet, summer sweat. He got an impression of red hair, strong arms and a generous hourglass of a figure that was soft in all the nice places.