JUDGING BY APPEARANCES
by Liz Rowlands
"I’ve had such a lovely day," Miss Pringle said to herself, and she smiled contentedly as she sat on the railway station bench waiting for the train to take her home. She had been to visit her old friend, Mabel, whom she hadn’t seen for several years. Of course, they had conversed on the telephone and had written the occasional letter during those years, but it wasn’t the same as sitting comfortably together and chatting over a cup of tea about days gone by and catching up with news of friends and acquaintances. Letters and telephone calls always left so much unsaid. Miss Pringle often thought she should make a list of things she wanted to say before picking up the phone, as her memory wasn’t so good these days. She frequently reprimanded herself when she had replaced the receiver with, "Oh dear, I meant to say such and such."
"Yes, such a lovely day," mused Miss Pringle, "and how nice of Mabel to go to so much trouble for my sake, baking scones and her special fruit cake, which was always a favourite of mine. How thoughtful of Mabel to remember that. I’m so glad I made the effort; after all, the train journey only takes about an hour. We should have got together a long time ago. It’s too easy to be afraid of travelling alone, but one reads such terrible stories in the newspapers about men attacking women." Miss Pringle let her mind wander on until, at last, the train arrived. Gathering up her copious handbag and the large bunch of daffodils Mabel had given her to take home, Miss Pringle boarded the train.
To her dismay, she found herself in a closed carriage. She had heen so preoccupied with her reflections that she hadn’t paid much attention to the carriages of the train. She scolded herself for her disquiet and found a seat. She was pleased to observe that she had several fellow-passengers. "Safety in numbers," she reassured herself. "There’s nothing to worry about."
She glanced round at her companions. There was a young girl in the corner reading a book. The girl was dressed in jeans and a baggy jumper. Her hair flopped over her face as she read and the girl habitually swept it back with a swift gesture of her hand. "What a shame young people do not dress attractively," thought Miss Pringle and her mind drifted back to the elegant dresses she had worn in her youth. Apart from the girl, there was a woman with a little boy and a grey-haired man. The woman was busy trying to keep the child occupied with some drawing game and the man was reading a newspaper. "Some kind of businessman," considered Miss Pringle, "judging by his suit and well-groomed appearance."
She settled back into her seat and took her knitting from her handbag. "Oh well, only six stops before home." Before long, the knitting dropped onto her lap and the rhythm of the train lulled her into a gentle doze. She woke as the train pulled into the next station and noticed that the woman and the child had left the carriage. The girl in the corner was still reading and the man opposite was doing the crossword in his paper. As the train started again, her eyes closed once more. It had been a long day, after all, and travelling usually tired her.
Miss Pringle did not know how long she had slept, but when she next awoke, the girl had disappeared and the businessman had been replaced by a youth. He sat diagonally opposite her and averted his gaze when she looked up. He was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt with some slogan written on it which she could not read. His long untidy hair flung lankly around his unshaven face. He was wearing headphones and she could faintly hear the sound of the guitars and drums on the cassette he was listening to. With some consternation, Miss Pringle tried to resume her knitting, but her hands were trembling and her attention kept being drawn towards the compulsive movement of his foot as it jerked in time to the music.
She looked up again and found him gazing at her. They both looked away as soon as their eyes met. Miss Pringle felt decidedly uneasy and wished she could have moved to another carriage. She wondered if she would have time to disembark at the next station and board another carriage. She dismissed this idea. If the train pulled off before she had time to re-board, she had no idea what time the next train was due and it would be getting dark soon. She did so hate returning to an unlit house on her own.
Everything suddenly went black and a thundering noise filled her ears. The train had entered a tunnel. Miss Pringle sat bolt upright, her hands gripping the arms of her seat and she stared straight ahead of her desperately trying to see through the darkness. With a flash, they re-emerged into the daylight. The youth had turned off his music and was leaning towards her.
"Excuse me," he said politely, "you wouldn’t by any chance have a match, would you?"
She noticed he was holding an unlit cigarette in his hand. Rather startled and disarmed by his polite tone and charming smile, she stammered, "N-no, I’m sorry, I don’t smoke."
"Oh well, not to worry," he replied cheerfully. "It’s just that I’ve mislaid my lighter. I really ought to kick the habit, but you know how it is."
Miss Pringle wondered whether she should make some riposte about willpower, but decided not to chance it. Instead, she just smiled.
"Do you know," returned the youth, "I thought British Rail had been pressurised to replace these old-style carriages years ago after those horrific attacks were reported in the press." Miss Pringle looked at him with alarm, fearful that this remark might be the prelude to just such an attack. She found him looking at her candidly with the same charming smile. "Yes," she replied. "It’s no wonder many people are nervous of travelling on their own."
"Another example of commercial interests over-riding social requirements," rejoined the youth. "The plague of modern-day society."
As their conversation progressed, Miss Pringle relaxed. In fact, she enjoyed the latter part of her journey so much that she was rather sorry when the train slowed down before her station.
"What a nice young man," Miss Pringle said to herself with a sigh as she found herself on the station platform. After their invigorating chat, she felt quite refreshed and ready to undertake the fifteen minute walk to her home. She had considered catching a bus, but it was a pleasant evening and the walk would do her good.
She turned right outside the station and walked parallel to the railway line before turning left into Rochester Road. It was then that she became aware of heavy footsteps behind her; deliberate footsteps, slightly menacing. The road inclined quite steeply and she slowed down, expecting her pursuer to pass. To her surprise, the footsteps stopped. Glancing round, she saw a middle-aged man in a rather worn suit stooping to tie a shoelace.
She hurried on as best she could. The footsteps behind seemed to pace themselves in line with hers. Apprehensively, she clutched her handbag tightly.
As the road levelled out, she quickened her pace again. Crossing the road ready to turn right into Chestnut Avenue, she glanced back again. The man was still following, but was now some way behind her. Her homing instinct bore her round the corner and she was relieved to see a young girl sitting on the garden wall of a neighbour’s house. Miss Pringle slowed down and smiled at the girl as she walked past. Suddenly, a hand gripped her arm and something was pulling on her handbag.
"Givvus yer bag, Granny," the girl’s voice screamed. Her bag was wrenched from her grasp and she felt herself lose balance as the girl pushed her aside and sped off. Miss Pringle fell to the ground, Mabel’s daffodils strewed around her.
"Are you alright?" a man’s voice was enquiring gently.
"Here, let me help you," he said, as he gathered up the flowers.
THE END
Copyright © Liz Rowlands, 1998
LIZ ROWLANDS lives in Berkshire. She has appeared before in Sol. In Sol 29 she had a poem, Going With the Flow, and before that, in Sol 26, Park Benches. In Sol 23 she had a long article about Milton's Portrayal of Satan in Paradise Lost.