Small Pleasures

by Clare Chambers

December 4 when two trains collided in thick fog under the Nunhead flyover. The 5:18 from Charing Cross to Hayes and the 4:56 steam train from Cannon Street to Ramsgate had been delayed by the poor weather.

The Hayes train had stopped at a signal outside St. John’s at 6:20 p.m. when the steam train plowed into the rear coach. This was just the beginning of an unfolding disaster, which left more than 80 dead and 200 wounded.

It was one of those generous impulses that had begun as a favor and had now become a duty, performed with dwindling enthusiasm on one side and fading gratitude on the other.

“The last thing I want is to cause any trouble.” In the months ahead she would remember this remark—so sincerely felt—and marvel at her own innocence.

“Aunt Edie was in a collision with a horse trough,” Howard explained. “It was the trough’s fault, apparently.” She swatted him with Dashiell Hammett and he laughed.

For a minute Jean allowed herself to contemplate an alternative reality in which they had never met and her life consisted of no more than the Echo, Mother, house, garden for all eternity. Considering the thousands of insignificant chances and choices and paths not taken that had led to their meeting, it was nothing less than a miracle.

But romance shouldn’t be the preserve of young people, should it?” “No, certainly not.” Jean felt the injustice of any prejudice that might one day apply to her and was determined to smite it. “I’m sure inside they feel the same emotions as an eighteen-year-old. The yearning for approval and love doesn’t change. The aging body is just cladding.”

Jean sat so long at the table rereading these words in a daze of happiness that the milk boiled up all over the stove, into the gas jets, and left a burned ring on the bottom of the pan. But that was fine, because there was no chore in existence that could dampen her spirits now. He wanted to see her. Life was suddenly beautiful, precious and full of meaning. She cleaned the hob and made a fresh mug of Allenburys, and when it came to bedtime astonished her mother by throwing her arms around her and squeezing her tightly.

In our increasingly hectic lives, and with more and more of us having access to a private telephone, the art of letter writing may soon be in danger of dying out. This would be a great pity, as a thoughtful and well-written letter can bring immense pleasure to the recipient, and can be revisited again and again in the way that a phone call cannot.

All I did was guzzle her apple brandy and almost pass out on her lawn!” They laughed at the memory—that day seemed long ago now, chased into the past by the dramas of recent weeks. “That wouldn’t necessarily have counted against you.”

The pub was bright and crowded with drinkers enjoying their Saturday night. Jean bought twenty Players. Even though she often ran out and had no intention of giving up the habit, she couldn’t quite bring herself to buy in bulk. It seemed to demonstrate too hubristic a faith in the future.

There was a time when the prospect of an empty house would have been precious beyond imagining; a whole evening to spend or waste in solitude just as she chose. But she was too tired and anxious to enjoy it and her feet were so sore from walking in shoes that pinched that she could think of nothing more luxurious to do than collapse on the couch and examine her worries, one by one.

Someone had brushed her hair back off her face, destroying what was left of the curl, and giving her a severe and somewhat masculine appearance, which would have horrified her if she had been able to see it. Looking around, Jean noticed with dismay that the other patients had been treated to a similar grooming regime and now looked like members of the same androgynous tribe.

It was only at moments like these, when she saw her belongings through another’s eyes—even those of an uncritical ten-year-old girl—that she was ashamed of how shabby they were.

The record had finished and there was nothing to hear apart from the rasp of the needle on vinyl. “What?” said Jean. “It’s happiness. Can’t you hear it?” She put her hand up blindly and found his. “Yes,” she said, in a whisper, because happiness was shy and easily scared off.

Jean wheeled her bicycle back down the slushy gravel of the driveway deep in thought about this stealthy bedside angel with his gentle hands. Kitty’s testimony had unlocked a door now, and Jean felt that only by returning to St. Cecilia’s and standing in the room where it all took place would she come to a proper understanding of what had happened to Gretchen in the summer of 1946.

Having done the right thing was nothing like the consolation she had hoped. Without constant congratulation, virtue was a lonely business.

Small pleasures—the first cigarette of the day; a glass of sherry before Sunday lunch; a bar of chocolate parceled out to last a week; a newly published library book, still pristine and untouched by other hands; the first hyacinths of spring; a neatly folded pile of ironing, smelling of summer; the garden under snow; an impulsive purchase of stationery for her drawer—had been encouragement enough.

The journey into love was so effortless and graceful; the journey out such a long and labored climb.

Insight, overdue but dazzling, opened Jean’s eyes to the truth that when help is accepted, both parties are enriched. She gave Mrs. Melsom a grateful smile. “Nothing serious, but the truth is, I was feeling rather low. When I look at the future everything seems a bit . . . bleak.”

Previous experience taught her that the pain would not be unending—but neither would it subside smoothly, incrementally, but rather in a series of crashing waves, some of which might still knock her off her feet.

I didn’t know whether there was an ‘us.’ ” He took off his woolen scarf and wound it around her neck, not needing to be told that without one she must be cold.

Happiness flowed and was smooth, but reality had rough surfaces and sharp corners.

She had spent a lifetime on the sidelines, observing, noting, learning; the little details that other people missed were not lost on her.

He was elated to discover that the 5:18 to Hayes was still on the platform,

A flurry of movement, whistles and the slamming of doors suggested that departure might be imminent, so he jumped on one of the rear carriages and found a space to stand between the seats.