Not surprisingly (assuming you read my last blog entry), I, too, wrote about the wonderful “Winter Week-Day Break in Paris” that Mary and I escaped to one February many years ago. After writing my blog yesterday I hooked out my file of old hand-written stories and found an unfinished, ( and much crossed out) story called “The Escape”. Like Mary, I began my account by waking up to the sound of birds on our first morning in Paris – it was magical and just as Mary depicted – and flashed back to the memorable train journey the previous day. Here is a just a section of the short story….
Our journey the day before had begun most promisingly with our excellent seating arrangements on the inter-city train; it was worth the traipse through four carriages to find the right seats – with a table and, even more importantly, facing a rather attractive man in his early forties and dressed for town in a crisp white shirt, tie and grey suit. “I see you like cricket,” I remarked, after some minutes of watching the man as he studiously avoided eye contact by pretending to read his book with a photo of Ian Botham on the cover. He seemed quite surprised to be spoken to but the man smiled when he looked up at the girls on the other side of his table. “Oh… I used to play years ago… before I got this, ” he replied, patting his stomach. I hadn’t noticed until that very moment that, indeed, the man had a small paunch. Suddenly, I felt embarrassed and at a loss for words. I was desperately trying to think of something sympathetic to say when Mary piped up with a touch of indignation in her tone, “What’s the matter with having a little fat tummy?” Straight-faced, she paused as if waiting for an answer and then cast her big brown eyes down to her own little bulge. All three of us looked at each other and burst out laughing. Being the younger sibling, and therefore always slightly behind, I very much wished that I had had the quick wit to say it first but I admired Mary all the more because she did have it. We sisters hadn’t lost the knack for making the most of a good train ride, as we used to in our teens, and James, the geologist, remained our happy and attentive travelling companion all the way to Paddington. As in the old days, we parted with an exchange of addresses, not really expecting to see James again (he was probably happily married anyway – the subject didn’t crop up), but content to know that the friendship could have become more than transitory had we so desired.
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Funnily enough, although twenty odd years have elapsed since I wrote that, I recognise myself in my writing and realise that I haven’t changed. I hope that’s not such a bad thing!