The early morning sunshine spilled through the glass panes into the deserted city station. It was too early for even the keenest commuter to be out and about. My heart soared to the lofty arches above me and, as I strode onto the empty platform, I gave silent thanks to whatever deity might be watching over me. A life-time’s dream was about be realised. Once again, I patted my inner jacket pocket, feeling the reassuring presence of passport and tickets. First stop, London, then Paris, Venice, Istanbul and the Far East.
“John! Just what do you think you’re doing?”
The querulous voice made me spin around. Nobody! I heaved a sigh of relief. That voice had dogged me ever since the day when, as a five-year-old child, I had watched my father walk out of my life, leaving me alone with my mother. She had become a very embittered woman and, because I looked like him, took all her anger out on me. When I was not at school, she always found work for me to do, cleaning, shopping, and doing the washing. Dissent met with a tirade of abuse, frequently accompanied by the force of her hand around my head. I still held painful memories of that little boy, skinny legs sticking out from baggy shorts, cowering from the blows, screaming “No Mam, no more, please!” That just caused the abuse to intensify. I was never allowed out to play and any school friends soon fell away. Life was bleak.
Until the day my life opened up. I found a discarded magazine featuring an article on the Nepal and the Himalayas. Photographs of magnificent peaks soaring heavenward opened my mind to other possibilities. I had eagerly thumbed the pages as colourful images danced before my eyes: people in exotic costumes, streams of prayer flags fluttering in the wind, wondrous temples. My imagination caught fire. I wanted to see them for myself. From then on, I would steal away to the local library whenever I could, always searching out books on the Far East. Such trips had, of course, to be kept secret from Mam; she would not approve. Over the years, a friendship had developed between me and the librarian. She had encouraged me to look beyond the places themselves and at the life, the art and poetry of far-flung places. I discovered a world full of wonder.“One day”, I told her, ‘I will see them for myself.” She had smiled encouragingly at me.
Those words, “One day,” had helped me to survive my brutal home life. I finished school with few qualifications and no prospects. A low paid job in a local garage gave me little opportunity to move away or to have a social life. Whenever, in our frequent rows, I did threaten to leave home, Mam would suddenly seize her chest and groan “My heart” and take to her bed for several days. I was trapped. She demanded that I hand all my wages over to her, not just for ‘my keep’ but, she claimed, to repay her for the expense of my childhood. Occasionally, she would grudgingly hand over a few pounds so that I could buy replacement clothing in the local charity shop. She would frequently snarl at me; words such as “You made my life a misery - couldn’t find a decent job because of you,” were frequently hurled at me, blighting my life.
Every Friday, I would be made to hand over my pay slip with my money which Mam always checked. How I detested the sight of her licking her fingers as she counted out the notes before tucking them tightly into her apron pocket. If she was in a good mood, she might grudgingly hand over a few coins back to me. She never knew that my employer, the garage owner, knew of my home situation and felt pity for me. Every payday, as well as handing me that official pay envelope, he would slip some cash into my hand. Week by week I added a little to my cache of money, secreted under a floorboard in my bedroom. Over the years, the savings slowly grew. They were there for one particular purpose; one I was now about to realis. After twenty years, ever since I had first started work, I had enough to realise my dreams. I bought a large rucksack and smuggled it into the house. Using a Post Office Box number, I obtained a passport and bought my tickets. Today was the big day. I was leaving my miserable past behind me.
“John. Where do you think you’re going?”
That voice again! A cloud drifted across the sky, blotting out the sunshine. I had so nearly managed to slip out of the house secretly; my hand was on the back doorknob ready to leave. Then that voice! Mam stood in the hallway, leaning on her stick, her face thick with anger.
“I’m leaving you. Finally. After all these years of abuse.”
A strange expression skimmed across her face. Had that been fear? I never had time to consider that possibility because she moved with a speed I did not know she possessed. She raised her cane and struck the backpack from my hand. It fell with a dull thump. I bent down to retrieve it, only to feel a storm of stinging blows across my head and back. I straightened up and pushed her forcefully. She staggered back, lost her balance, and fell backwards onto the tiled floor. There was a loud ‘crack’ as her head hit the tiled floor. I stood there panting, expecting her to attack again. Instead, she lay still, eyes closed with a trickle of blood seeping onto the chequered tiles.
I paused, not knowing what to do. ‘Should I call for help?’ If I did that there would be awkward questions and then, when she recovered, she would ensure that my escape route would be closed off. The blood had stopped flowing and she looked peaceful enough, lying there. ‘Surely, she would be all right when she woke up? ‘All I could think of was to get away and catch that train to freedom. With that in mind I had lifted my pack and opened the door. Sunlight greeted me. I lifted my face, enjoying its warmth and enjoying the refreshing air. Leaving the door open, I had strode purposefully down the path without a backward glance.
The sun now emerged from behind the cloud. I watched as the signal arm dropped. The train was coming. My heart quickened. Images of all those places I had read flooded my mind: scenes alive with vibrant life, wide-open spaces, and amazing monuments. I smiled as I watched the train steam into the station and grind to a halt. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the porter take up his stance, whistle in his mouth, flag raised to wave the train - and me - off on our journey. I pulled open a carriage door and slung my pack onto the floor. As I did so, I became aware of footsteps pounding across the platform. A late passenger no doubt.
I lifted a foot, poised to spring aboard. At that moment a heavy hand clamped onto my shoulder. A harsh voice rasped in my ear, “John Michael Jones, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of your mother, Mrs. Florence Jones. Whatever you say will be taken down and may be used in evidence against you.” A dark blue uniformed arm reached into the train and retrieved my bag. The door slammed shut, the sound echoing dully in my mind. A whistle blew. Steam gushed from the engine and the wheels began to turn. I stood there, tears rolling down my cheeks, as the train carrying all my hopes and dreams disappeared down the track and out of view.
A gruff, kindlier voice, muttered in my ear.
“Come on, sonny, let’s get this sorted out.”
With two policemen flanking me, each holding an arm, I walked past the curious onlookers and into the police car.
A travel magazine lay on the back seat next me. What irony! I picked it up and flicked it open. Tantalising glimpses of my secret dream lay before me. My future, though, now lay in a very different direction.
Bio.
Emmie Blake, B.A, had a peripatetic childhood, growing up in post-war Germany. On her return to England, she found herself an ‘outsider.’ That experience strongly influenced her life and led to her working with people on the fringes of society: people with addictions, ex-offenders, and disadvantaged communities. She has been writing for many years but only started writing short stories on her retirement from her full-time work as an ordained minister. She has won several regional competitions and has had stories published in an anthology as well as in ‘AWS e-zine, Issue I’. She currently lives in rural Wales with her husband where, alongside her recreational activities, she is involved in voluntary work in the local community and is Chair of the local Refugee Support Group.