Delay- Originally posted by mllejennifer

The 10:44 from Newport is late. George’s body is positioned stiffly on his seat; he already has a waxy sheen to his skin and his muscles are locked in grim inevitability. In contrast to his black suit, the surrounding upholstery is a faded motley, chosen no doubt for its ability to incorporate stains into the pattern. His hair is neatly parted and greased, his eyelids delicately closed and his ticket clamped between his pared fingernails. Imagine him as you will, it no longer matters; history will remember him from his portrait as a man in his forties, well-built, moustache, dress uniform. Contrary to his last wishes, he is not alone. A grave woman sits in a corner, fleshily filling up a small segment of his carriage.

He is only fifty-seven years old. Some are bitter about it but he has always known, as we all do. We all have a lifetime to prepare, down to the last second. All in all, he is glad to finish now and hand over to William. In fact, the Billy's father had already begun to redirect some business towards the company and paper had fallen on his desk like snow since March. The lad was dependable, from good stock. A sigh escapes George’s body. Pity his own sons are not yet of age but there is hope they will follow their father’s example soon enough. The second-hand of his watch slips ponderously from second to second. 10:53.

Billy would take care of things; he was a solid protégé. Under George’s tutelage, the lad now commanded the respect and obedience of the entire staff. Still, big meeting today. He had wanted it earlier that week but had known in his gut it would be today – of all days. He saw it as a test of his character, a cold mental battle against the weakness of his body; even a man like George must be vigilant against futile thinking from time to time. And now, on top of this, the train is late. Billy better not upset his ambitions – but no, enough. He’ll be fine; he must have gone through it a hundred times. His father had groomed him for business and now he, through William, will prepare a legacy for his sons. Boys fool around but men work together, a little gem he hopes his sons will take to heart. Clearly British Rail are not yet men.

He made the final arrangements the day before. He’d taken particular care to straighten out his desk, which was large and heavy; dark oak with faux leather inlay to impress. None of this Swedish nonsense many of his contemporaries chose, although he had indulged in a mobile the year before. George is still sitting stiffly but concentrating on these last acts soothes him, given that it’s already 11:01 and there hadn’t been even the slightest explanation for the delay over the tannoy. He’s going to be late, he can feel it. But he won’t allow himself to panic, not when he’s so close, and so gradually his breath leaks out as from collapsing lungs. It’s fine – it’s fate, it has to be fine. So, enough. Think back to the desk. He could visualise the three piles to the right, as instructed in the Handbook; the testimony to his life represented by those bound tomes, columns and columns of numbers certifying his success, ready for the admiring eye of his heirs.

A noise from the carriage startles him from his trance and for a moment he thinks the air is rattling out of the chinks and whipping away into the dust outside - but the train isn't moving and the sensation subsides. He is alert now, suddenly conscious of the potential dangers of his peculiar situation and so he takes heed when it begins again, quieter this time. It may have been happening for some time. With dread, he steals a glance at the grey silhouette behind him and its enough to confirm his suspicions; the woman had gone Type Four on him.

Suddenly the mawkish reminder of the approaching time repulses him and he feels abused. 11:08. No! Mind over matter, mind over matter. Nothing to fear but fear itself, nothing grievous but to yield to grief. Focus, focus on the trophies on the desk. What else? There was the back-up disk in the top draw and the note for his eldest. The woman rattled noisily again. Had he remembered to leave the note? He shakes his head irritably; Dr. Johnson was right, snivelling and infantile chattering are certainly the worst of social crimes. If he could boot her out of the carriage he would.

A choked sob around 11:14 causes him to rub his forehead in exasperation and now he can see that the woman has overflowed into weeping. He wasn’t trained to deal with Type Fours. Why wasn’t she dealt with before? Wasn’t that what his taxes were for? George concentrated on his achievements: three times Parish Council Chair; five times Community Witness; distinguished member of the golf club; benefactor to the industry apprentice scheme...

No good. It’s the sort of sound that grates the skin off the palms of your hands, a sound one cannot politely ignore. Reluctantly, he turns to her, coughs to engage her attention and hands over his handkerchief. She looks up. Behind the smeared egg-white of her tears, he half-expects to see remainders of a beauty now passed. Instead, he only sees droopy cheeks and flabby lips. Like her sobbing, she is distastefully drawn out and limp. Her tear-soaked eyes interpret his distortions as compassion and so she snivels into the proffered handkerchief. Oh Lord, it was 11:21 and still no sign of movement. What a way to end his journey, trapped by a frumpy grey woman and her quivering jaws!

George picks up a soggy piece of paper from between her feet and peels the clingy edges apart. It is a commiserations card, cheap and tacky. Someone had scrawled their name in biro, Mark or Mike perhaps, alongside three other illegible names in blue pencil. He offers it her but she covers her face, disguising her voice.
‘They gave it to me this morning. They wanted to watch me open it. Of course, I, I smiled and said I was thankful but... I just thought they would... I had to smile and say thank you and then, then I had to do the school run. I asked my husband to do it but – he didn’t even say no. He just looked horrified.’

Of course he did. These kinds of women shame their husbands. He should not have given in to the sentimentality of a card; evidently it led her to temptation and now she is a danger to society. Thank goodness she isn’t trying to escape; there were reports of grisly chaos when people tried. He'd never heard of anyone succeeding and it just caused havoc for everyone else. George stares at his watch, willing it to chew through the rubbery minutes. 11:25. He is tempted to check if it’s working properly but he knows himself and had told his wife to have it fine-tuned a few days ago. He had not left her a card.
Deceptively, the woman had been quiet for a few minutes, tears smearing across the handkerchief. But now she looks up savagely. ‘I can’t do it. I, I gave up everything. I don’t want to go like this. They can’t make me go like this..’ With that she springs up with her last battle cry and starts wrenching at the emergency door release. ‘You can’t make me, don’t make me, let me out, please, oh my god, please let me out...’

No! She mustn’t! That’s not how it is supposed to be! He goes to restrain her but a violent lurch throws him back into his seat. The woman still clutches the bolted door despite the train having suddenly picked up her iron skirts and is now plunging forward in terror. Agony escapes from the mother’s lips and flushes his cheeks.

Oh thank the Lord, thank God they’re moving. A little fast but hell, that could only help. 11:28 – they might even make it. Even with the wind taunting the woman’s pleas and pinning George to his seat, he is distracted by her act. What did the woman expect? That's what she was there for. Life rolls over you, you give your best to your sons and, when it is time, it leaves you. That is enough. He was not the one who ordained the time but he could choose to go with dignity. How close this woman had come to ruining him with her shameless descent into vice! He tries to close his eyes in peace but the wind peels back the lids.

Come on, come on... 11:30. Only a minute to go and even at this speed, with the wheels screeching and straining to escape their tormentor, even at this speed they might not make it.
If it doesn’t happen they would be robbed of the honour. They needed him to be on time.
Suddenly George wonders what it would mean for him, if he were late. Would he be able to go at all? He grits his teeth against the dizzying speed. He’d built his life for this moment. What if it didn’t happen?

The woman is silent now, finally. Her eyes are creased up with loss and old tears, hands with new bruises have recovered her face. But he is filled with a new sound, rushing in to glut his mouth his ears his nose and blinding his eyes. He panics once more about the speed as he stares at his watch hand hovering, as though thick blood is building up behind it, until it cascades over into the next portion of time, scattering its load only to gather it up again and again and again. 11:31. Now he can taste it, the blood, and laughter bubbles out of his mouth, frothy from the speed. Everything hurts and cries out, oh god oh god oh yes, yes, yes...

George’s last thought before the crash was of satisfaction as the second-hand clicked into place just in time.