'THESE TITANIC DAYS' Kirsty McColl

Cnt mt Eust. Car in dok. Sjst tk tube (nthn line) 2 HENDON CENTRAL –
M wll pik yup on m/c comb

I stare in disbelief at the screen of my Nokia.

Whilst on the train, I sent a text message to my brother giving our ETA and instructing him to meet us at the station. Now, after hanging about the concourse of this Gothic monument to the age of steam for what seems a lifetime, I receive this.

- What’s up? Asks Carole
- Err… just a slight hitch. Hector can’t pick us up at Euston: problems with the car. We need to take the tube to Hendon and… he will arrange transport from there

Carole rolls her eyes upwards, and swears

- I’m developing arms like a friggin’ chimp from carrying these cases
- Well, mine is bigger than yours
- Yours has got soddin’ wheels on it. Swap me!
- Well, I would, but my back still isn’t right. Come on. There’s the escalator

And, before giving Carole time to argue further, I set off, pushing my suitcase (on the aforementioned wheels) ahead of me, bulldozing a way through the crowd.
Carole follows, muttering something I choose not to hear.


I have been experiencing a lot of flatulence lately. Carole has remarked upon it.

- You can take something for that, you know
- Take something for what?
- For all that farting you’re doing


Can you? I wondered if, as you grew older, your plumbing developed a few kinks, bulges, in weak spots. This could cause wind to get trapped, and then suddenly released by a sharp body movement.

My dad had something called ‘diverticulitis’, which is a ‘pouching of the bowel’ – well that is what my mother said, anyway. He also had a stomach ulcer, but he did not let it affect his beer drinking. Every night, before he set out for his ‘local’, he would drink a glass of some gooey white stuff which, he said, lined his stomach. He did not drink whisky - or any spirits – just mild beer which he used to call ‘flat-rib’. I’ve never heard anyone else call it that. I never saw him drunk.

Anyway, for the moment, I am trying to keep it quiet: the wind.

My ruminations on the state of my plumbing, as I hang from a strap in a grossly crowded carriage, are rudely interrupted by Carole, poking me hard in the ribs

- Isn’t this where we are supposed to get off
- Bloody hell. Yes

We make a dive for the doors. I accidentally drag my wheels over the bare toes of a diminutive, sandal-wearing Asian lady. Her gasp of pain has barely time to register before Carole pushes me out of the doors, mumbling apologies on my behalf. Not a moment too soon. The doors whoosh shut and the train moves off, leaving the usual smell of electricity and rubber.
On the platform, I have barely time to reflect upon the damage done to the cause of multiculturalism by my clumsiness, before Carole presses me for details of the transport arrangements. I tell her.

– Well I’m getting in no bloody sidecar.

I assure her she needn’t worry, as I will be riding in the sidecar; she will be on the pillion. Her response is such as to cause two sailors to come over and ask her to moderate her language.
So I say okay, she can take a taxi (and the luggage); and, since it can’t be very far, it won’t cost her much. Carole wants to know why I will not be accompanying her in the said vehicle, since it would cost no more. I point out that Myra will be on her way and it would be extremely bad manners – not to say, getting off on the wrong foot – if my sister-in-law were to arrive and find she had had a wasted journey.
As the car drives off, Carole is signing to me through the back window that the driver had said it was two miles. I thought it would have been a bit further than that.

There is a man in that doorway; he’s lying on a sheet of cardboard. He isn’t begging: he looks like he’s trying to sleep. He is on his side, facing away from the pavement; the homeward returning commuters avert their eyes.
A policeman passes, glances briefly at this apparition in the long greasy overcoat – his only protection from the already chilly evening air – and strolls on.

Suddenly, I feel incredibly sad. And very alone. Yes, I know I am alone but it’s more than that. It’s an aloneness that comes from somewhere deep inside. I feel abandoned. Like in those dreams. Part of me knows it’s unrealistic. But another, more important, stronger part, knows that it is the greater reality. I really am alone, and it is all my fault. Then comes the old familiar feelings: guilt, followed by the self-doubt, followed by panic: what do I really think I am doing? Here in London? With all these strangers hurrying past, ignoring me. And I feel a close affinity with the cardboard man. Such a fine line it is that separates us.

Carole was right: I need help. Why did she let me persuade her to come to London. No question mark there. It’s an accusation.

I have always seen life as a sort of exam: I had to pass it, get good marks. That is why I have spent so much time looking for ‘answers’. But now I want to tear up the paper, and walk out of the examination room. Will I have the courage to do that?
I turn and head back to the trains.