Finding Henry Applebee. Celia Reynolds
beanie was staring at her over a copy of the Time Out Guide to Edinburgh. His question – along with his American accent – caught her momentarily off-guard.
‘Oh. Yes, he’s fine, thanks. He had a nosebleed. A pretty bad one, but it seems to be under control now.’
‘Nosebleed, huh? That’s a relief. I thought maybe he’d been in a fight.’ Beanie Guy’s deadpan demeanour segued into a broad, easy smile.
She waited for him to return to his book, but he held her gaze, his inquisitive brown eyes watching her closely, like someone examining something curious, something foreign or unfamiliar under a microscopic lens. A moment later he shifted forwards in his seat, his palm pressed to his chest.
‘Hi, I’m Travis Farlan. I’m guessing we’re going to be sitting across the aisle from one another for the next four and a half hours, so I thought I may as well live up to the cultural cliché of the gregarious American and introduce myself.’
As he spoke, Ariel noticed a battered music case lying on the window seat beside him. The case was liberally plastered with a ragtag collection of stickers, the majority of which were scuffed and fraying at the edges. She caught the word ‘Chicago’ emblazoned across one; ‘Monterey’ on another. A couple of friends from school had wandered the hallways with stickered cases like that. Violins and flutes, mainly. The odd French horn. Every once in a while one or other of them would get pounced on in the schoolyard. One boy even had his viola tossed into the recycling bin. She never understood why they were targeted like that. She always thought they were cool.
‘If you’re the gregarious American, does that make me a classically reserved Brit?’ she countered with a smile.
Travis held up his hands and laughed. ‘Touché!’
Ariel leaned her elbows on the table, taking care not to disturb the precise alignment of the crockery any more than was absolutely necessary. ‘I’m Ariel Bliss, and he’s –’ she pointed vaguely towards Henry’s empty seat – ‘Henry.’
She hesitated, unsure what more to add, then decided the truth was as good as anything under the circumstances. ‘Henry and I met in the station this morning. I went over to make sure he was okay, and when he found out we were both travelling to Edinburgh he offered me his spare first-class ticket as a thank you.’
‘For real? That’s awesome! You and I are kindred spirits. My first-class ticket was a gift, too.’ He uttered a low chuckle. ‘We’re like a pair of high-class railroad bums. I guess both of us landed on our feet.’
‘Sorry?’
‘It’s a train-hopping reference. Or don’t you guys have that over here?’
Ariel gave him a blank stare.
‘Maybe not…’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘So…’
Travis seized his cue. ‘So basically, there’s this whole subculture of homeless people who ride freight trains all over the U.S. – illegally, obviously. They’re like modern-day hobos. They haven’t got any place to live, so they use the rolling stock as a means of putting a temporary roof over their heads. Some of them cover hundreds and thousands of miles a year hopping from one freight carrier to another. Some even travel with families, kids as young as five or six.’
‘Sounds dangerous.’
‘Uh-huh. Imagine risking your life every time you jumped! They’d argue it’s worth it just to have the chance to kick back in one of those old, open boxcar carriages and watch the world fly by. You need some balls to do it, though.’
Ariel nestled deeper into the folds of her multicoloured scarf. ‘Can’t say I’d be up for it on a freezing cold day like today.’
Travis rubbed the back of his neck and shrugged. ‘They stuff their clothes with newspaper to keep warm. Apparently.’
She shot him a questioning glance, but Travis just smiled and shook his head. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking… I’m a New Yorker, born and bred. I’ve done my fair share of cross-country travelling, but never like that. I’m a professional musician. There’s no way I could jump on and off moving trains and risk injuring my hands. I wouldn’t be much of a sax player without fully functioning fingers.’
He draped his arm affectionately over the top of his saxophone case and gave it a gentle pat. ‘Train hoppers have to contend with a shower of loose ballast if they fall between cars. They can lose limbs. Wind up dead. I like to think of myself as a free spirit, but those guys are fearless. I’m way too attached to life to risk it all for a cinema-screen view of the American landscape, no matter how awe-inspiring it might be.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the slamming of carriage doors and the piercing trill of the guard’s whistle. Ariel stared out of the window as the train began its slow, steady advance from the station.
‘Right on time,’ a voice announced at her side.
She turned to see Henry looking a million times better. ‘Hi, Henry. That was quick!’
Beneath his jacket he was now wearing a plain white shirt and light green tie. He’d washed his face and neck. Even wiped the specks of blood from his shoes. His complexion was still a little drawn, but overall she thought he looked pretty relaxed, considering.
He dropped his soiled clothing into a Tesco carrier bag which he flattened and slipped inside his suitcase, immediately above the elasticated straps. He clicked the case shut and bent over to lift it onto the luggage rack.
Travis sprang to his feet. ‘Can I help you with that?’
‘Oh, not to worry, I can manage. Thank you,’ Henry replied.
The loose, crêpey folds of skin on his neck stretched and tautened as he arched his back, and with quivering arms slid his case overhead. Lowering himself at last into his seat, he cast a final glance through the metal bars running above him.
‘We made it!’ he said to Ariel. ‘I don’t know why there’s always such a tangible sense of achievement about boarding a train. It almost makes you feel worthy of a medal just for negotiating your way to your seat.’
He clasped his hands in his lap, leaned his head against the back of his seat and closed his eyes.
Elsewhere throughout the carriage passengers shifted and settled; announcements were made over the loudspeaker; newspapers, books and laptops were opened; tablets switched on; earphones wedged in ears. Seduced by the rhythmic rocking of the train, a sea of heads lolled left and right.
Ariel gazed out of the window at the flat, industrial grey of the urban cityscape whizzing by. They were picking up speed now: ca-choo ca-choo, ca-choo ca-choo, ca-choo ca-choo.
Before long they slithered through a tunnel, and then, not even twenty minutes from King’s Cross, the train was flanked by a retinue of fields, and a bank of leafless trees rose to attention like balding consorts on either side of the track. The train barrelled onwards, the sun scrambling from behind a cloud to shine upon the trees’ outstretched branches, infusing them with an oddly mystical glow.
Exactly twenty-three minutes from London, the first cow lumbered into sight.
Ariel sank back into her seat.
The long journey north had begun.
It was dull and stuffy inside the shop, and she’d grown tired of sitting curled up in the window, her finger tracing the underside of the green and gold lettering on the far side of the glass.
She lifted the back