A smart, serious-looking gentleman sat opposite me on the train back from London the other night. At a station twenty minutes or so into the journey, his daughter boarded the train.
They chatted about her evening. She’d been to a friend’s house for the day (Lottie, who’s mum had cooked lasagna, if you’re wondering). “They’re such nice people, daddy,” she explained excitedly. “And her brothers are really nice.’
At this point, reality and fantasy set off down separate paths. In the former, the father chatted happily away for the rest of the journey. In the latter, he’d started to enquire just how ‘nice’ the boys were; he’d noticed that he jacket gave off the unmistakeable aroma of cigarette smoke; he’d begun probing in more detail. Actually, her friend’s parents had been out for the evening. A few boys from the local village had called round with some vodka…
He’d raised his hand to silence her confession: “I don’t want to hear any more. We’ll deal with what you’ve told me when we get home.” And when their station came, he’d taken her firmly by the wrist and led her off the train and to his car. They’d journeyed home in silence; she’d been sent straight to her room; his thick, doubled-over belt had impressed on her that there was a considerable difference between asking for permission to visit Lottie for the evening and going to a party. She’d have cried herself to remorseful sleep that night. Poor thing: I almost feel sorry for her…!
Just when I thought I found a favourite story you write this post, Abel!