Lithe Spirit
by David Rudd
First-class train travel was going to be a treat for Catherine; or so she had thought. Never before had she “indulged” herself, as she put it, but this was a special occasion. She was off to London to see her sister, Doris, the day before her sibling’s sixtieth birthday, which was on Wednesday, 14th February. So, when Catherine had been offered a last-minute upgrade, she took it, also treating herself to a new travel bag, a dark-beige trouser suit, and pale-yellow blouse. At this rate, thought Catherine, Doris won’t recognise me.
On the journey itself, Catherine had worked hard at making herself comfortable but, somehow, she couldn’t find a position in which she felt relaxed. It was ridiculous, she thought. Everyone else seemed to be at their ease, luxuriating in the extra legroom.
She’d thrown down her magazine in disgust. It was then that she’d smelled the aroma of fresh coffee. That was what was missing, she’d decided. On cue, a smart young steward had proffered her a cup — a proper china cup, too (not one of those awful cardboard things) — and presented her with a selection of biscuits. She’d removed her jacket and hung it up. “This is more like it,” she’d reassured herself. Except that it wasn’t.
Having finished the coffee, Catherine thought she’d located the problem: a cold draught at her back. Though no one else seemed to be suffering from it, she was sure it wasn’t her imagination. Thoughtfully, an attendant had turned up the heating for her, but that only made her skin prickle. Next, she’d requested a blanket, aware that the label “problem passenger” must now be prominent against seat C-03. The blanket made no difference either.
As she went to use the toilets, Catherine was aware she’d left the coldness behind. It was, indeed, a draught local to C-03, for elsewhere on the train, she experienced no discomfort at all. Had first class not been full, she would have asked to change seats. As it was, she ended up sitting in the non-exclusive buffet car for the greater part of the journey, foregoing the complementary refreshments and personalised service that, so untypically, she’d paid for.
* * *
Tom travelled only once a year, attending his annual school reunion, and always went first class. In fact, he always tried to reserve his favourite seat (“number three in carriage C”). Since 1957, when he’d become an “old boy” of St Paul’s in London, he’d hardly missed a year, apart from when his wife had been terminally ill. It now seemed more important than ever to be present, given how few of his contemporaries were still around. He always found it a shock when “Absent Friends” were toasted, each name being read out with a hiatus between, as though it were the school register being called.
This year, though, Tom’s visit was to be special. Not only was there the reunion to look forward to, but his daughter, Millicent, was performing in a revival of Noel Coward’s Blithe Spirit at the Apollo Theatre. The reunion was on Wednesday, 14th February, St Valentine’s Feast Day (though, as Tom had often said, Valentine himself didn’t even get to taste the starters). Tom had therefore booked himself a seat in the stalls (L15) for the evening before, along with a Novotel room.
However, shortly before the trip, Tom was diagnosed with a tumour in his colon and emergency surgery was needed. It was feared the cancer had spread elsewhere. His consultant was circumspect, but his son, Christopher, who had been present to hear the prognosis, realised that his father needed to put his affairs in order. For a start, his London trip could not go ahead. His dad, though, had been wilfully obtuse, refusing to countenance the idea that he’d be yet another “Absent Friend,” let alone missing Millicent at the Apollo theatre.
“Dad,” Christopher had said, “think of it like this. Instead of the Apollo, you’ll be starring in your own theatre at the Salford Royal Hospital!”
Tom had not been amused.
* * *
Most of the audience at the Apollo on that Tuesday had thoroughly enjoyed the play. The exception was the occupant of seat L15, who could not understand why he had been so disenchanted. Blithe Spirit was one of his favourites. As a young man, Norris Clarke had himself been in amateur dramatics, and his most spectacular success had come from playing the lead: Charles Condomine, a man plagued by the ghosts of his successive wives. In fact, after his thespian triumph, Norris had been quite the VIP in his hometown. But that was over thirty years ago.
It was an old friend who’d put Norris onto this production, and who’d managed to find him a seat on a late-ticket site. As Norris watched the current incumbent of the role strutting the boards — a well-known TV celebrity, so he’d been informed — Norris found himself becoming increasingly restless. “Nuance? Subtlety?” he’d wanted to shout.
He sighed. Perhaps he was being too harsh. Perhaps it wasn’t the acting at all that bothered him, for he was beginning to find fault with everything. Basically, he realised, he was intensely uncomfortable. It was a feeling he’d never previously experienced in the theatre. Usually, he was so absorbed that aches and pains held off until the curtain calls.
Norris knew how distracting it was to have a restive audience, but, for the life of him, he could not sit still. He’d half-anticipated a tap on the shoulder from behind: “Excuse me, my man, could you stop squirming?” Perhaps, thought Norris, I still have a bit of Charles Condomine in me, and I’m being goosed by my spirit wives!
Before he could curb himself, he found he was chuckling aloud at this idea. Unfortunately, it was at a moment when everyone else was silent. The resentment around him was palpable. Apologising, Norris got up and left. It was the first time, ever, he’d left a play prematurely.
* * *
From the other side of the proscenium arch, Millicent was perhaps the only other person who found the play an ordeal that evening. But it was understandable. Only a few hours earlier, Christopher had phoned her with news of their father’s sudden death.
“He survived the operation,” Christopher had informed her, “but then tried to get out of bed, tubes and all, shouting that he was off to catch a train to London, to see you on stage!” That had cracked her up.
“In the end,” continued Christopher, “Dad worked himself into such a state that he suffered a fatal heart attack!”
“Do you think he could have made it?” Millicent had asked.
“No chance,” said Christopher, presuming she meant the journey, not his overall recovery. “Fortunately,” he added, “I’d already cancelled the bookings.”
“Right!” said Millicent, not bothering to clarify her meaning. Christopher, she knew, was always one to look after the pennies. “No point in wasting our inheritance on phantom trips!” she said, pointedly.
* * *
Later that same night, Jessica had found herself at her wits’ end in her Novotel room. She’d booked it late, on a whim, so that she’d be ready for her job interview on the Wednesday. Initially, she’d been going to travel up to London in the morning, but she didn’t want to risk being late. This way, following a hearty breakfast, she could put on her make-up and new outfit at her leisure.
That had been the plan, but as Jessica continued tossing and turning in the early hours, she thought she might have been better staying at home. She couldn’t understand it: this bed was far more comfortable than her own, and bigger, too. The breakfast better be good, she thought.
As her clock registered 3:30 a.m., she became more convinced she’d made a mistake. Earlier in the night, she’d thought that the anonymity of the place was the problem, but she now felt the opposite. It was as though she had gate-crashed someone else’s room, someone who now wanted it back. The hints were none too subtle: she kept losing the duvet and, big though the bed was, continually found herself clinging to its edge. It was as if someone, or something, were trying to elbow her out.
At 4:00 a.m., Jessica gave up. She needed to escape, she decided. Having thrown on some clothes, she stealthily exited and crept down the corridor, anxious not to disturb others.
It was strange. Almost immediately after she’d left the room, she felt better, more relaxed, albeit dog-tired. Spotting a comfy chair near the lifts, she collapsed into it.
* * *
At the reunion on the 14th, the time came for the “Absent Friends” toast. At what would have been Tom’s table, his closest friends — already alert to their school-pal’s demise, thanks to his son, Christopher — listened to the roll call. Even so, their lips trembled as they heard the name “Tom Grimsby” ring out.
But this shock was as nothing to what each thought he subsequently heard. A muted but distinctive voice breaking the deferential silence: “Present!”
Copyright © 2023 by David Rudd
