7: Night train to Antibes

There is a tide in the affairs of man that if taken at the what’s it, leads to a cabin on the Riviera Sleeper, only not the French one, but the English one.  As I explained to my paramour, who has lately taken to calling herself my gentleman’s personal gentlewoman, there is in fact no night train to Antibes anymore, but that with a bit of imagination we could create our own. At which point I extracted a slim volume from my jacket pocket entitled Night Trains, The Rise and Fall of the Sleeper by one Andrew Martin, son of the railway and all round good egg.

We were at a table at the Market Café, idling away the evening hours before the arrival of the train.

‘You’re obviously enjoying your cod and chips. I’ll mark it up as a holiday treat. You do know there are plenty of posh seafood restaurants hereabouts that could offer you the same in more salubrious surroundings.’

‘So I would imagine, but not cod, chips and proper mushy peas, with a round of sliced-white bread and butter on the side and a mug of well stewed milky tea with two sugars to wash it all down. When you’ve had a real fish supper at Morecambe or Scarborough, it’s rather letting the side down to settle for anything less.’

‘I’ve noticed that; an occasional reference to real life in the North here, an old world cockney phrase slipped in there. What’s all that about?’

‘Just picked it up over the years I suppose, from some of the lads I hang about with. Ever asked yourself, how do I make more money at my job?’

‘Frequently.’

‘Leave the money from your salary in the bank, it becomes your savings. Never pay for anything you don’t have to, get as much of what you need written up as housekeeping. Then just keep a wad of cash made up from all your tips in your back pocket for emergencies.’

‘Just as you do with the Trust? So how do you cover this holiday? Don’t tell me you haven’t got some way.’

‘Well, some aspects of the journey will involve essential face to face café conferences with European colleagues.’

‘So give me the schedule.’

‘Leave Paddington early morning, underground to King’s Cross, walk back along the Euston Road for a brief appointment at the British Library, before boarding Eurostar at St. Pancras at about eleven I think…'

‘What are we doing at the British Library?’

‘Picking up an original document and walking out with it.’

‘I’ve never heard of that, I thought people spent hours searching for stuff and maybe got to copy some of it if they were lucky.’

‘Usually, but myself and a colleague are going to prove our identity, sign and then deprive the State of a significant historical document.’

‘How come?’

‘Because after a long and torturous legal process we have proved that we are the rightful owners of it, or strictly speaking, rightful owners of what the document refers to.’

‘There’s money at the bottom of this, yes?’

‘In the very long term, maybe. It’s more correcting an ancient injustice.’

‘And what are you going to do with it, immediately board a train and smuggle it across an international border?’

‘Alas no, it goes in matey’s office safe for a few years, until the rest of the world cotton-on to the fact that we control something of real value.’

‘Why do I have to drag along.’

‘Witness. Besides, when you see it, you might just approve of our skulduggery.’

‘Then Eurostar to Paris I presume, or can we go straight through?’

‘Er, no, not on the train we’re going on, besides tomorrow’s hot meal will be taken at the Buffet de la Gare de Lyon.'

‘Another greasy spoon I suppose?'

‘Read the book…'

‘You knew this would get me worked up, the narrow spaces, the moving train. The ladder is just perfect.’ So said Charlie, from the top bunk. ‘Can’t say I care much for our fellow travellers.’

‘Agreed, a dozen unidentifiable tourists, three sad looking businessmen and a couple of our terribly earnest MPs.’ After that brief exchange, we just seemed to be lulled into slumber by the train.

‘Refreshed?’

‘Bloody cold coming back onto the platform’, she said after we’d taken advantage of the showers at Paddington.

‘The sooner we get underground the better.’

We were swept along by the human hush of early commuters and the mechanical cacophony of the train; then, seemingly out of nowhere, Charlotte asked: ‘If I were to get pregnant, what would you do?’

Just as well I had my answer ready; ‘I’d insist that we had a proper church wedding with all the trimmings, 2.4 children and you and your offspring would be made for life.’ The smile was there, full as ever, but of course it told me nothing.

Librarians with pretensions to scholarship, employed by a government agency - we needed the hour and a half I’d allotted, despite having an appointment and with all authorisations in order. Encased by Brutalist architecture, we endured the disapproval of the staff who managed to give the impression we were absconding with their personal property.

Afterwards we repaired at the old St. Pancras booking office, now a café. Our legal companion made an attempt to explain to Charlie what we had purloined. ‘Well it gives title to part of the land at Crawford Park, a part which the Park think they already own, but this specifically refers to a very small worked out mine underneath, which means access to and control of, what was always there underground and indeed what brought mining to an abrupt end; you see, the old adit mine simply ran into an underground spring.’

There was barely a pause before she turned to me; ‘And you want to bottle it?’

‘Well, that may not be economic, but we can easily run a pipe to the clubhouse. Then it is no longer the Park, its Crawford Spa with a capital S.’

‘Water should be free for all.’

‘Try telling that to your local water company, not to mention the manager of the of the filtration plant. You know before this wonderful train shed was turned into a shopping mall, I could have walked up to one of the clerks at the windows in the wood panelling over there, and asked for a ticket on the Midland’s main line, to Buxton via Matlock and Darley Dale. I’d have been travelling to take the cure, to benefit from the healing powers of the waters! In fact, were you and I setting out from Buxton for a walk in the Peak district today, we could fill our water bottles for free from the public fountain. Remind me, how much went on the card for that water you brought us not ten minutes ago?’

In the warm, quite isolation of the carriage, with Charlie sat alongside, I found myself starting to ramble, to free associate on the subject of railways; platform one at Paddington, the old 10,17, the refreshment rooms, Queen Victoria’s waiting room, staying at the old Great Western Royal… Then it was tunnels under London, wartime pilots using Boat Train 1 and Boat Train 2 to navigate by… Ashford, railway town. Railway carriages on ships. The Blue Train. Apple orchards like vineyards, Flanders field, Monet to the west painting trains, Gare St. Lazare.

‘You’re a bit of nerd, in fact more than a bit.’

‘Of course, besides the railways are a network, the Internet of the nineteenth century, especially since most telegraph lines used to run parallel with the tracks. Now then, Le Metro. How to get from Gare du Nord to Gare de Lyon, using the maximum amount of above ground and elevated track?’

‘I’m reading.’ She’d brought with her volume one of the fourteen volumes of the infamous domestic double act. ‘The young women in these stories are all bonkers, completely away with the fairies. And how can the narrator also be the fool?’

‘Yes, I’ve often wondered about that, it’s there in Sherlock Holmes too from an earlier era, of course then the relationship was the other way round!’

‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Charlie after we’d ascended the famous iron staircase with the stone steps and she’d got a glimpse of the salon, the painted walls and ceilings.

‘As long as we get to sit on a bonk-quette, you can have anything on the menu.’

A while later I approached a delicate subject. ‘You’ve been using the camera on your device quite a bit since we left the apartment. We’re going to need a policy regarding photography.’

‘More “impression management”?’

‘Well, up to a point. What do you want the world to know? Bearing in mind that every image has time and place embedded, and as long as you’re connected, you’re hackable!’

‘I always delete the crap ones or the too embarrassing ones immediately.’

‘Very sound.’

‘Everything I’ve taken, of you, us, is on this work phone.’

‘Okay, I suggest we both have to agree before anything is posted.’

‘No problem. What about the revenge porn?’

‘Well, if you can find a way of hiding it, you’re welcome to bring it up in court in twenty years’ time!’

‘We’re not actually on the fastest train are we?’

‘No, we’re on our first Grand Tour together, we travel for learning and pleasure, therefore take the scenic route, and with a bit of luck the sun will be not only lower, but behind us as we approach our destination.’

Once more into a trance; wine regions, varieties of vine, the width of rows, height of vines, type of pruning, spacing of the wires… Lyon and more ruminations on Antoine, the Comte de Saint Exupery... French Popes, funny bridges, the quality of the light and crazy artists, estuaries and wild cattle, men on horseback...

1: Charlie takes charge

Now then, touching on the matter of young Sparkwell, my PA, where do we stand? Some have gone so far as to assert that I’m totally dependent on her. Well, it is true I gave up trying to run my own affairs within weeks of her arrival. I’d only hired her for a few hours at the start, as a sort of physical therapist you know, but then somehow she seemed to be able to anticipate my every need.

It was one morning in spring that everything underwent one of those transformations that everyone talks about these days. I opened my eyes to find her standing over me. She was holding a class of water with a slice of lemon in it. ‘Drink this, sir. It will cleanse your system.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Dawn, drink it before going in the shower.’

‘I normally start the day with at least two black coffees, at about nine o’clock! Wait a second, how did you get in?’

‘I never left. I spent the night in the treatment room.’

‘In my spare bedroom you mean. But there’s no bed!’

‘I often sleep on my table.’ She turned to the mirrored wardrobe, slid open one of the doors and began to inspect the contents. I couldn’t help noticing, not for the first time, how her fitness trainer’s uniform showed off her undoubted - fitness!

‘Finish your drink, then into the shower.’ She asserted with crisp resolution.

‘I can’t, not whilst you’re here, I have an early morning erection, exposing myself would hardly be appropriate, as your employer.’

‘Glad to hear it, there is no natural reason why all men shouldn’t wake up with a stiffy well into their seventies. Pretend I’m not here, servants have been treated that way for centuries.’

When I exited the shower cubicle a short while later, still in a state of some arousal, she was standing there, holding my towel. ‘On reflection sir, a subservient relationship would not be therapeutic, since I shall be introducing elements of Tantra into the programme.’

Charlotte Sparkwell B.Sc. (32), graduate in Sports Science, qualified Yoga teacher and expert in Indian massage techniques, came to me on the recommendation of the employment agency. But as she stood there in the doorway the first time, holding her portable massage table, bedecked in various mobile devices and carrying a small knapsack, I realised we’d met before. ‘I say! It’s Charlie, one time waitress at the Harbour Cafe.’

‘Yes, well a girl has to make ends meet. Where shall I set up, sir?’ It seemed barely a matter of moments before she was sat opposite me, having left her shoes at the door, set up her gear in the second bedroom and returned with notebook, pencil and tablet in hand, announcing; ‘First it is necessary to do an assessment.’

‘Well the thing is, I know it’s all psychological really, there’s nothing truly wrong with me - my quack has told me as much. But pain is real, isn’t  it? I’ve just had a lot of aches and pains recently, muscular pain, difficultly relaxing, spent a fortune on talking therapy over the years, but that only seems to work for the duration of the sessions.’

‘Do you know from where your distress comes?’

‘Oh yes, my entire world, my pals and most of all my relatives!’

And so I tumbled out my woes for ten minutes or so, then she started to explain what she could offer. The body’s outer extremities, hands, feet, and face held the most nerve endings, were on a direct route to the brain and every other part of the body she explained, and you didn’t even have to take off your clothes. When I countered that it didn’t sound very scientific, she said she liked to stick with ‘heuristics’ since they could be instinctively understood by clients, something about ‘embodied cognition’ if I cared to look it up. ‘Touch has a direct line to the emotions, sir!’

‘Well, yes, there’s no denying that.’ I replied. There was something about this woman that I’d noted in her days at the café, but now close up, eyeball to eyeball as it were, became ever more apparent. It showed in the smile, a beaming intense smile, which at first one thought could never be maintained, but was. It had a hypnotic quality, and in its broadness seemed only just on the right side of madness. In other words she was brilliant, and isolated because of it. Or so I suspected. During our hour and a half or so in the spare room, she created the atmosphere of relaxation with convincingly eastern music and calm words, and delivered the most intense and thorough manipulation of feet, hands and scalp imaginable.

She visited twice a week after that. Worked me over, I relaxed and her touch did indeed seem to connect to all parts of the brain and body. Pain relief led to sexual arousal - which was okay apparently so long as I focused solely on the breath, watching it rather than trying to control it, and just ‘let go’. I was instructed to practice flexing my PC muscles. ‘Our aim is go beyond sex.’ That pronouncement came during the evening session before my unscheduled dawn awakening.

Still a little shaken from Ms Sparkwell’s sudden shift in behaviour I made haste for the kitchen as soon as I was dressed, unwilling to face the world unfortified. My favoured bread appeared to be missing. On closer inspection I found other items gone from the fridge and cupboards. I was about to call out, but the scent of this indecently healthy and fertile Cheshire cat told me she was already present.

‘I took the opportunity to detox the area, if you give me fifty pounds I can restock with more appropriate items before preparing a light lunch, say for one o’clock?’

‘I normally lunch at Crawford Park.’

‘I couldn’t recommend it, sir.’

I instigated a long pause. ‘Are you angling for a job Charlie? A relationship? Perhaps you’re just temporarily homeless?’

The smile was there again, but a little more relaxed around the edges. ‘I can get plenty of work; yoga teaching, sports massage, reflexology, whatever! But I could never afford to live in a place like this. All this space, the view. Sometimes I just want to be in the window and meditate for hours. But I can’t do relationships, I’ve tried. The thing is, what with the intimacy of what I do, I’m on all the fucking time. I just have to be in control, it’s the way I am…’

‘Okay, stop there, otherwise you’ll tell me too much. Anyhow you don’t know nearly enough about me yet. I think I know an answer, but I’ll have to think it through. In the meantime, here’s the fifty for the housekeeping. I look forward to lunch!’

‘Very good, sir.’ And with that, she was gone.

Reviewing the situation, I knew it could be made to work. There was a kind of understanding between us. But what might scupper it from the outset was the attitude of the rest of the world. At school, and later at university in the early Nineties, our lot were sometimes referred to, a little glibly, as ‘trust fund brats’, the assumption being that money was never a problem, that an endless supply was there simply by virtue of reaching adulthood. But for nearly all of us, we never had money as individuals, we were beneficiaries as children of the family trust, and as adults, trustees of the family trust. As older relatives died off, younger ones found themselves signatories to funds which brought with them responsibilities and liabilities as much as assets. The older members had the authority, but increasingly with age required more of the readies.

Contrary to popular opinion, we may be time-rich but we are never idle. Staying rich requires effort, spending money can be an investment or a waste. My pals and I are the Web generation and in this world the nerd and the geek rule! Understand that and you are half way there. The majority, in their post-modern politically correct bubble may regard us as outliers to be labelled somewhere on an autistic spectrum, but we know we are more sensitive not less, flooded with impressions of pain - and that is what gave me the edge in approaching an understanding of young Charlotte.

Lunch as I feared looked less than appetising, but when a chap’s gone without breakfast! ‘Aren’t you going to join me?’

‘I prefer to eat standing up.’

‘Bye the way I’ve decided you can live here, you can have bed and board and whatever cash 48 hours per week of the living wage comes to. On paper you’ll be my Personal Assistant, with this as your home address, but once the rent for a room in a place like this is worked out, income tax, national insurance, council tax, health plan, pension, six weeks paid leave etc. etc. The bit of paper you’ll get from the office will, if I’m any judge, show a salary not far short of 30k. What do you think?’

‘Parking?’

‘Actually that might be the trickiest to fix, I’ll do what I can.’

‘I’ll prepare today’s treatment.’

‘Oh! Charlie. One other thing, you must try to stop thinking of life as a series of puzzles, as a search for meaning, of why questions or mysteries; start thinking of it as a game, after all you already behave that way.’

The spare room was looking even more like a therapist consulting room. ‘I’ll require you to be naked from now on. I need to be able to fully monitor your responses.’

‘If this turns out at all sexual Charlie, I’ll only go along with it if you let me do something for you, reciprocity and all that, you’ll just have to make it bleedin’ obvious what you need, cause I’m a bit slow on the uptake sometimes.’

‘As you wish, sir.’