The Silver Chain. Primula Bond

      ONE

      At last. At last. We jolt once, twice, then start to move. The rumbling from the diesel grows louder and more determined as the engine settles into gear. The vibrations under my seat are calmer, but they are doing nothing to quell the churning in my stomach.

      The grey paved platform, slippery from the rain driving in from the south west, rolls smoothly alongside as we pull away, but it’s still too slow, too slow. I feel like I’m on the run. My hands are shoved under my legs to keep them prisoner. My heart is juddering as if there’s still time for someone to slam on the brakes and arrest me. Why do I feel like that? This is as final as it gets. Everything alongside me, soon to be left behind, is finished.

      I’m free to go where I like, so why does this feel like the great escape?

      I wish I was sitting up front with the driver. Not to talk to him. I only want to perch quietly on a ledge or a stool up front, and stare out at the world.

      What a day job a train driver has. He’s probably sick to death of it, but what a view he has, all to himself. He clambers up to the cab at the start of every shift, yawning and cursing, carrying his flask of muddy tea, then all day and sometimes all night he’s king of the road. The big curving window, smeared with grease and smuts, spattered with rain, sometimes even with blood or guts or bits of animals, is a cinema screen showing the English countryside unfurling between the carved leafy embankments. The gleaming metal tracks converge in the distance just like the parallel lines you draw in art classes to learn perspective.

      Why doesn’t he step on it? We are still crawling, we still haven’t emerged from the canopy roof and ornate bottle- green girders of the station.

      The train is wrestling with the wind that blows viciously off the moors no matter what season it is, batting at the station signs as we gather speed. Let other people get off here and feel jolly. Let them think of that breeze as bracing sea air.

      Me? I’m turning my back. I can’t wait to get out.

      The train pulls away fast now, too fast to keep up if you were trying to chase after it, trying to grab the door handles to jump on. Jake isn’t trying to stop me. He’s not moving at all, in fact. Not that I can see him any more. I’m facing forwards, way past all the drooping heads and shoulders of the other bored passengers.

      Usually I like to weave a story around fellow travellers, maybe even catch the eye of an interesting-looking man or woman. I’m not as shy as you’d think, at least not with strangers. I always have something to talk about or show them, my pictures, my work. But this lot are faceless, all anoraks and shopping bags and mobile phones. They don’t even glance out of the window at the place they’ve passed through.

      Who can say what they’re thinking about behind their laptops and magazines? Work. Warring families. Hospital appointments. Running away. Tonight’s supper. Elopement. The car’s MOT. Adulterous assignations.

      As the distance between us stretches to breaking point the muscles in my shoulders, my eyebrows, teeth, my jaw, even my hair, all start to let go, relax. The headache hasn’t quite gone, but I drank too much last night so I’ve only myself to blame. I unbutton my new caramel tweed jacket checked with threads of faint blue. It’s a little tight because at the last minute I decided to shove my thick white sweater on as well. I smile as my ribcage expands and my breasts rise gently with relief.

      I unwrap my oversized royal-blue scarf and run my hand up my warm, slightly sticky neck to release my tangled hair. Horrible how hangovers make you feel. I didn’t realise I was still so strung up. Like banging your head on a brick wall. You only know how bad it is when you stop.

      I know it isn’t fair, but you only get one life. Not fair on Jake, I mean. He looked petrified just now, in the fossilised sense. I’ve never seen him so angry, or so still. All that fidgeting, the phantom drumming thing he does with imaginary sticks on every available hard surface, the constant foot tapping and knuckle cracking. All stopped.

      I didn’t want him to come here and see me off. Surely after everything we’ve said and done he doesn’t believe for a second that I’ll stay? I have no more energy for any of it. For him. Everything is focused on the future, on selfish little me. Those gleaming metal tracks are carrying me out of here, the big smoke is blooming with promise on the horizon.

      How many times can you say goodbye?

      Last night, holed up with him in his caravan on the cliff, was dreadful. What was I thinking? Everything had gone so well up until then. All my decisions, plans, all the arguments were over. I was so cool, sorted, strong. And then like an idiot I agreed