Normal

A short story

“Cheer up - might never happen!”

I find myself saying to the tall, slightly balding stranger in the railway station.

Must be a similar age to me. Thirty something. Expensive looking long coat, probably a wool blend.

Sensible in this weather.

He’s scanning his surroundings apprehensively.

Don’t know why I said it, really.

The ‘cheer up’ thing.

Hate when people say it to me - not like you can control these things.

Stupid shit like that and

“Turn that frown upside down!”

Ever had that one?

I mean, you can change the exterior, but not the interior. So why would someone expect you to do that for them?

It’s as though they fear your mood may infect their own.

So, why did I say it?

I suppose it was an attempt to break the silence, the tension. There’s just the two of us here, see.

And it’s night, well…..8ish.

A Tuesday, unsettlingly quiet.

Can get weird when there’s only a couple of you on a platform on a winter night, can’t it?

Especially when one’s a man, the other a woman.

Or at least, I think so.

Never know whether to start making small talk or clutching my keys for dear life in case…..

Fairly sure that you’re allowed to do that - use keys - if you think a man’s going to…….

But I don’t think that.

Doesn’t look the type.

Looks normal.

He ignores my remark about cheering up, looks me up and down, scrunches his eyes a little, before finally, softening his expression.

He’s fidgeting with his iPhone, checking and fumbling. Pacing.

“You here for the bus?”

He asks, a glint in his piercing blue eyes.

“Train!”

I correct him, gesturing to the signage.

His accent is posh. Pronounces ‘bus’ as ‘bas’.

Bet he’s never had to slum it and take public transport anywhere before in his life! This is Manchester and everyone around here says ‘buzz’.

“And yeah I am”

I add.

“No foolin’ you, eh Sherlock? I mean, this is a station”

I say, my sarcasm spilling.

He tentatively forms a smile.

“Ella?”

My expression must say it all and he laughs nervously before turning crimson.

“Oh……. I feel a little silly now. Sorry, I’ve arranged to meet someone here and…...”

“Like a blind date?”

I say, somewhat presumptuously.

“Yes”

He glances down shyly.

“And you thought…..”

Another cautious smile.

Well, we’ve broken the ice now at least, and on a freezing December night, that feels like a win.

“So, what can I call you then?”

He enquires.

“If not Ella”

Strange phrase that, isn’t it - “What can I call you?” Acknowledges the game of name. Nods to the notion that a person may not be who they profess to be.

“Ashley”

I say.

“Gabe”

He offers in return. It’s funny that he thought I was her, his date. They must have exchanged photos, surely? Do people still do actual blind dates? Feels like a quaint custom from another time. And who even goes out on a Tuesday night? Apart from people like me who go out because it it’s late night opening at the library, and I only go there because I get bored of looking at the same four walls.

I’ve never been on a date.

Or at least, not a proper one. Feels like a world not meant for me. Restaurants and cinemas, wine and roses………Besides, with all the stories you hear about psychos on the internet, you’d have to be mad, wouldn’t you?

Not that he looks crazy. Just antsy.

Probably wondering when she’ll show.

“What time was she supposed to meet you?”

“7.30”

“Think you’ve been blown out then, Gabe”

“You could be right!”

He concedes. And then;

“So……Ashley? Where are you heading? This frosty eve?”

His breath punches the air like steam. I peer at the ground and notice the twinkles begin to outsmart the grit.

“Just home.”

I say.

“Just home”

He repeats, parroting my northern accent. I’m not sure if he’s mocking me. But it’s more like he wants to roll the words around his mouth like a boiled sweet, try them on. I check his eyes to better understand his intention and find two sponges soaking me up, intrigued.

A message flashes up on the electronic display.

‘Line closed until further notice’.

Great!

I roll my eyes then wonder if it makes me look callous. And I’m not. Just want to get home. Is that bad? Not that I’ve much to get back for……

“Well, looks like it’ll ’ave to be the bus then. Gonna get some chips though first”

I say.

His face is a million miles away, glazed over.

“So……see you, Gabe”

He continues to stare vacantly into the night.

His lips quiver as I go to walk away. The way a child would, first time you leave them at day care.

“Would you mind if I come with you?”

He asks.

Sorry, what?

I don’t say that, but I’m certain my face does.

“Accompany you. To get some chips, I’m not from around here, don’t know where anything is and I’m absolutely famished.”

I scan for irregularities. Peculiarities. A reason to say ‘no’. Maybe if his shoes had looked too polished, his nails dirty or his keys jangling in his pocket, I’d have found myself objecting. As it is, I find nothing to take issue with. Besides, I feel a bit sorry for him, having been stood up. To my surprise, I find myself saying;

“Okay”.

Five minutes later, after a short walk under the arches into town, we’re entering a harshly lit late night cafe. To the left of the doorway, like a marauding troll on a bridge, an imposing drunk slumps in a rust coloured sleeping bag. Directly above him, a charity billboard featuring a cotton wool haired lady, warns of Christmas loneliness.

“Don’t you be giving me pennies…..because I’M worth MORE than that!”

The drunk slurs, staggering to his feet and wagging a finger as we pass. Gabe rummages in his pocket before announcing apologetically:

“Sorry, I only carry cards these days……but would you like me to buy you some hot food?”

“Fuck off ya lying cunt”

Comes the reply, and the drunk proceeds to reposition himself, wheezing as he puffs warm breath on to his calloused, nicotine stained fingers. The cotton wool lady seems to slide her eyes away disapprovingly.

The hum of electricity hits us like a futuristic force field, physically felt. There is a fluorescent light that attracts flies to dazzle and kill them, an insect ‘Las Vegas’ they’d do well not to gamble with. Not sure how necessary these devices are in mid December. Do flies exist in winter? Do they frequent squalid cafes? As if to answer my question, every now and again I hear a crackle and fixate upon what might have met its end at the hands of an artificial glow. How we’ve all fallen at some time or other, for false light!

I consider the way you can buy Christmas lights in both warm and cool tones. I’ve always wondered who buys the cool ones. Whoever wanted a blue tinged Christmas? That said, fir trees do come from cold places. But they’re not alive when they’re in your house, are they? Strange to celebrate by bringing a dead thing into the house really, isn’t it?

Did I mention I’m an overthinker?

So, this place……

It’s one of those joints that sells everything. From kebabs to pizza to traditional English scran. Maybe it’s more of a takeaway or diner. Some of the offerings are showcased in a heated glass cabinet. Pie crusts wither, battered sausages shrivel and chips languish as batons of brittle next to overcooked samosas. It is by far the most unappetising display of food I’ve ever clapped eyes on.

I suddenly feel a tad ashamed bringing a stranger to this place. A posh stranger at that. An eatery that’s never seemed so bad before, when it was just me.

Why was it alright for me to eat this deep fried brown gloop but not someone else?

‘Self love’ is not my strong point.

The young girl serving is of Mediterranean appearance and has a heavy accent. She’s well versed in Mancunian twang but clearly stumped by my new mate’s plumminess. An amusing exchange ensues in which he requests chips and it is checked back several times as ‘sheeps’.

“Chips” he repeats for the umpteenth time.

“Yes! That’s what I say to you. Sheeps!”

I imagine in his leafy suburb, he has never once had anyone take issue with his perfect Queen’s English…….or do we say King’s English now?

There’s something compelling yet mildly distressing about observing awkward interactions. It’s like watching a funny sketch you’re not permitted to laugh at. You walk the wobbly pier of another’s clunkiness, willing the scene to end, yet simultaneously curious to see where it leads.

The young girl points to the word ‘Chips’ on the flickering neon sign above, only to realise the ‘C’ is missing.

“Heeps” she says with a giggle, and the finale is complete, the chips are ordered.

Gabe and I sit down upon the picnic style seating that juts from the grimy, cracked tiled floor. Looks like giant playmobil in glossy royal blue and cherry red plastic. There are bottles of vinegar and large salt pots that look like white daleks.

We are confronted by the brutality of our reflections in the stark adjacent mirror and I find myself wincing at all I am. My large frame and lank mousey hair. The merciless lighting spotlights my fair skin, my fawn freckles interspersed by thread veins weaving through my cheeks like wireworm. Here I am, next to this good looking, smartly dressed man and all I want to be is invisible, or if not, at least airbrushed.

Normal.

Mirrors! Everywhere these days, aren’t they? Reminding us of what some of us want to forget. My eyes flit to the heated cabinet, find myself gorping at pie crusts with blackened edges.

Stop thinking.

You’re overthinking again.

It’s written on my wrist as a reminder.

STOP THINKING

“Is that a tattoo?”

He says, half clocking it.

I fiddle with the cuffs of my grey puffa and conceal it.

“Yeah! Got any?”

“No”

Well, there’s a surprise!

“I’m going to sit on this table instead, no ketchup on that one”

I announce, moving to a different table. That mirror was way too close.

The plastic ketchup bottle whistles eerily as I squeeze it, grappling with air like an audible red lung as I zig zag liberally across my chips.

I dutifully return to chat, talking ten to the dozen. Do that when I’m nervous.

I’m an overtalker too.

In fact, I probably ‘over’ everything.

I distract him from his abandoned date by telling him my ‘Manchester’ stories. About the time I met Bez on an anti-fracking demo, the z-listers I’ve seen at Manchester Airport. After a while, he loosens up. I moan about the shit tasting vinegary ketchup and make him laugh by saying ‘barm cake’.

I sound so convincing sometimes, I almost believe the words are mine. That I haven’t studied social media as scripts, cues……..a crude guide to life. Silence is so much harder though. Words are lubricants, easing and smoothing the path of connection. They take those long jagged corridors and sand away the scary edges.

“I’m sorry. Just chatting at you aren’t I?”

I say, aware I might be overdoing it

“I just don’t like pauses”

“Ditto. They give you too much time to think”

Gabe says.

“I like it, Ashley. Your stories. Takes the pressure off when someone else fills in the gaps sometimes, doesn’t it? Puts the other person at ease.”

Suppose it does.

Good.

“Can I ask you something?”

He says, leaning in.

“Have you ever felt a misplaced nostalgia for something you never had?”

“What do you mean?”

“Ever hear a record from another era and thought you should have lived then? Like you were meant for another time?”

He continues.

“Maybe it’s a fragment of a past life making itself known.”

He takes a spindly chip and holds it nightward like a magic wand.

“I hear your voice, your tales….. and I envy that belonging. I have a yearning for your memories.”

If only he knew!

Still, not good to burst a bubble.

“Well….. you must come from somewhere”

I say

“And somewhere nice by the sounds of it. I dunno…..Surrey or somewhere?”

“Do we all sound the same? Us Southerners?”

He jokes, his blue eyes dancing. And then;

“Streatley. Streatley upon Thames. Or at least that’s the closest I’ve ever felt to a home town. My father was a military man, so my childhood was for the most part spent on bases - Germany, Cyprus….always the new boy in class. People ask where I’m from and truth is, I don’t know. But……..well, you have to choose somewhere, don’t you? And we did settle briefly in Streatley. It’s the only place I’ve ever felt a slight affinity with, so when people ask, I say there.”

I enjoy his monologue. My ears delight in the timbre of his voice, the way he sounds every syllable. He talks like an audio book narrator. Slowly. Deliberately.

“What’s it like there, Streatley?”

I ask.

“There’s a river runs through it. The Thames.”

“Obviously….”

“It’s very middle England. Green. Running deer and ancient oak trees. Hedgerows with nests intact. Veils of soft mist that trail the water’s edge like the kisses of restless ghosts……”

Yes, definitely missed his calling as an audiobook narrator.

He pauses, pondering the place with affection.

“And when you’re here, I’m told that you

Should mount the hill and see the view;
And gaze and wonder, if you’d do
Its merits most completely;

The air is clear, the day is fine,
The prospect is, I know, divine –
But most distinctly I decline
To climb the hill at Streatley”

“Did you write that?”

I enquire.

“No. It’s by Joseph Ashby-Sterry, 19th century. I can’t write anything like that. Or much else, sadly.”

“But you’d like to?”

“Once. I’ve given up now. I work in high end insurance. Arranging bespoke policies for people with more money than sense. Spend my days corresponding with loss adjusters about carats.”

“Prefer carrots meself”

I jest.

“It’s awfully dull, Ashley.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t like it. More of a people person.”

I say.

I’m a bloody liar.

That’s what I am.

“Some people are natural connectors…….and others…….well, we’re washed up after we’re swallowed up. Our existence, a tale of Jonah and the whale, consumed by something bigger. Spend our life trying to get free of it, longing to escape something.”

“But you do know that Jonah got out of the whale, right?”

I offer brightly, recalling the Bible stories my father had read me.

He ignores it.

“Look at me……..unremarkable. You probably walk past dozens of guys like me every day. Non descript. Go on! Describe me!”

He challenges.

“Well……you’re smart.”

I begin.

“Smart-clever I mean. But you are smart in the other way too, well turned out. And you’re…….”

I pause before I say it, hanging on to the unfamiliar word as singeing sugar on my tongue.

“Handsome”

There, out of the box.

“Handsome”

He repeats in disbelief.

“Yes”

I say.

We’re looking at each other, but via the mirror, now a comfortable distance away. A strange sensation, taking in another via the soft break of something else. It tempers the scrutiny, the smears on the glass removing imperfections.

For a moment, I start to feel ordinary. The normal that seems to come so effortlessly to everyone else.

I admire his strong jaw, the fullness of his lips. I can see him doing the same to me. Like barcodes simultaneously held to a divine scanner, checking for validating bleeps. The mirror steams a little and I am glad of it. It obscures my blush.

“Is Gabe short for Gabriel?”

I ask, suddenly becoming self aware and changing the subject.

He nods.

“Never met a Gabriel.”

“I’ve never met an Ashley”

You still haven’t, I think.

But I had always wanted to be one.

An Ashley.

Like the Olsen twin. She’s older than Mary- Kate by two minutes. Blonde, pretty, petite. Everything I’m not.

“I’m sorry…….keep rambling at you, don’t I?”

I say, snapping myself out of it.

One mouth, two ears!

Sometimes, I write that on my wrist too.

ONE MOUTH TWO EARS.

Some days, I go out and my wrists look like they’re covered in red bangles. Right up my arm they go. My messages. Always red ’cause it’s my favourite colour. Sometimes people think it’s blood.

Like I’ve been cutting.

But I’ve not done that in a long time.

I’ve not.

I’m pretty sure I pass as normal.

I do.

I AM passing as normal.

To him, now.

I am!

“You know, Ashley…...tonight, I…..”

He begins, then stops himself. Reins it in. Whatever he wanted to say.

Wish I could tell him I like him.

Wish I could tell him I’m a hot mess.

That beneath the banter I’m a car crash. That I’m on three lots of meds and under a psychiatrist.

But I don’t. Instead, I say;

“Well……finished my chips. Suppose I should be going”

“The bus”

He whispers, gently.

We leave the garish cafe and head towards the bus station.

“Thanks for tonight”

Gabe says.

“Well…. we’ve all been there, stood up….”

I lie again. I haven’t.

“Where you off now then, Gabe?”

He mumbles that he’s going to try and find a budget hotel. Wonders if there’s a Premier Inn.

“Enjoy!”

I say with an excitable lilt. Like the Premier Inn’s a fucking cream cake.

And I go home.

Back in my bedsit, I cut.

And cut.

I draw blood, it ebbs and flows, I tense and release.

And I cry.

Sob my heart out for the life I’ll never have.

Sure, I can fake it. For an hour or so. Like tonight. I’m good at that.

FUCK guys like Gabe with his posh voice and his fancy job and trying to find love on the bastard internet. His ability to recite poems to fucking strangers! Who even does that? Who?

I catch sight of the words on my arm.

STOP THINKING.

My blood joins the fading red ink and it’s dripping like a grisly Halloween font.

“I can’t stop thinking”

I say out loud.

“I CAN’T STOP FUCKING THINKING!”

I scream it over and over, until finally I fall asleep in a sticky heap, bawling my frazzled little heart out.

****

Strange what you find out later sometimes, isn’t it?

After.

A few weeks on, I’m reading a news story.

About a young woman who’d thrown herself under a high speed train. 21st December.

Same night I’d met Gabe.

Same station.

The night there’d been an ‘incident’ on the line.

Thirty two, red head. Girl next door type.

Apparently she’d planned to do it with someone else, a man she’d met online. They’d made arrangements to ‘catch the bus’ together, but last minute she’d changed her mind and decided to go it alone.

Ella Carpenter.

Ella.

Ella.

Damn you Gabe!

Damn you!

FUCK this pretending!

I switch off the screen but her face is still there, imprinted on my mind.

She looked kind.

Looked ‘normal’.

And I wonder if life is really a masked ball. Each one of us desperately clinging to a false identity. A disguise. Hoping to fool others who are also clinging to their own well worn disguise.

As tears streak my face, I take my chewed red biro from the jarring kitchen drawer.

Shaking, I write something on my wrist I’ve never dared write before.

Block caps.

“I LOVE YOU”

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