And so now, as my body gives way, my mind is still restless, conjuring images of how Bill might be without me, wondering if I’ve been selfish, if I’ve broken the promise I made to the man I love. Even though I know Aleks will call if she can’t settle him, I still can’t quite allow my mind to rest.
As I attempt to observe my thoughts, emotions and body – the way I learnt to do years ago during the seventies – a thumping draws my attention away, and I discover Flynn, tapping the microphone on the lectern at the far end of the carriage.
‘In our day we just shouted,’ jokes an elderly gentleman, dressed in grey slacks and a double-breasted blue blazer, who has appeared at my side.
‘Things were definitely simpler when we were younger,’ I say, the poignancy of the comment not loston me. I push aside memories of when Bill was able of body and mind, and we used to attend festivals in our twenties and dance through the night, and lived happily in a commune without either running water or electricity.
‘May I join you?’ he asks, pointing his brass-tipped cane towards the armchair next to me and removing his worn brown felt fedora which reveals soft, wispy white hair.
‘Please,’ I reply, moving my bag so he doesn’t trip.
‘Frank,’ he tells me, once he’s settled, reaching out his hand.
‘Elsa.’ I shake his large hand which, considering his age, is surprisingly strong.
‘Very nice to meet you, Elsa. What brings you on this trip?’
‘That’s a good question,’ I laugh, a little nervously, not wanting to dive straight into the story of Bill. Frank watches me with his razor-sharp blue eyes, made no less piercing by their slight cloudiness. ‘One of the authors and the bookseller are family members; I came along as umpire,’ I jest, hoping that sounds suitably neutral, aware that underneath the humour is the reality that Fran and Carly can struggle sometimes. There are times when I worry that I am to blame in some way for their lack of closeness, their friction, that I took Carly under my wing too much in her younger years, when her mother was busy, creating a bond more like grandmother and daughter than family friends and housemates. ‘How about you?’
‘My family bought me a ticket for my ninetiethbirthday. They know I enjoy Christopher Rose’s novels. My granddaughter calls it my “guilty pleasure”.’
‘No pleasure should be guilty,’ I say, the guilt of leaving Bill welling again.
‘Quite right, life is for enjoying,’ Frank agrees, his worn gold wedding band tapping the top of his walking stick. ‘It took me too long to realise that.’
Intrigued by Frank’s comment, I want to ask him something of his life, but the moment is lost when Flynn clears his throat to introduce the author about to give her talk.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he begins. ‘I hope you enjoyed your morning coffee and are settling into these beautiful surroundings. I’m delighted to introduce the first of our authors delivering talks this weekend.
‘Marleen Hewitt, as you will know, is a renowned Australian writer, journalist and peace activist. Her work has graced publications across the globe, and her activism has taken her several times round it. Now at almost eighty years of age her latest piece of non-fiction,Freeing Fear, a compelling memoir of finding compassion in times of hardship, has been recognised internationally, and has recently been nominated for a prestigious prize for non-fiction. Her plaudits speak for themselves. It is my honour to welcome Marleen Hewitt.’
I watch with interest as the audience applaud and Flynn makes way for Marleen, a slim woman with elegant short grey hair who looks not a day past sixty. As she takes to the lectern, I am struck immediately by her confident poise.
‘Thank you, Flynn,’ she says, smiling serenely. ‘It is my pleasure to be here with you today on this glorious train.’
She pauses, closes her eyes for a moment, and takes a breath before beginning.
‘I stand before you,’ she says, her tone deep and warm, ‘in a world gripped by fear and lacking compassion, in a world where those who want to help others are often too busy and burdened to do so.’
Her eyes scan the carriage, though it feels as if her gaze has landed squarely on me.
‘The question I explore inFreeing Fearis, how do we find the necessary compassion to free ourselves of fear? And by compassion, I mean loving-kindness, equanimity, insight and joy. Please, allow me to begin.’
There’s something in the way Marleen speaks that captivates me immediately, and something in what she says that affirms I was meant to be here, that for all my dread of leaving Bill at the care home, in some small way, it might just be what we’ve both been needing.
10.
CARLY
‘What makes you the lucky one?’ Nicolas asks when I tell him I have to return to the bookstall, to restock before the author events end.
‘Lucky how?’ I ask, not entirely sure what he’s referring to.
‘To be Flynn’s chosen bookseller on this beautiful train? You must be lucky, or special, no?’ he says, following me back to the stand.
‘Then I must be lucky,’ I say, trying to make what’s left of the book selection look more than it is, not wanting to leave the stall unattended to grab some more. ‘My mum’s one of the authors on the train. We’re sort of a two-for-one package.’
‘Which author?’
