RAILS
The bells did their thing. Not even real bells, he thought, but a recording from years ago – beautiful metal instruments now suffering the indignity of speakers, echoing along the railway tracks, up his bonnet and out across the suburban sprawl. She’d be able to hear them. Her hands would be in that sink, or picking up armfuls of toys as she herded the kids up the stairs, through the bath and clean and moist into bed. She’d look tired.
He turned off the engine, the tracks whistling and scratching as the freight train filled the air. Then his car wobbled as the machine began stomping by with its arduous weight, a procession of metal and black coal shuffling here and there with the momentum. How many freight cars would there be this time?
He looked at the red stoplights blinking intermittently at him. It all had such a familiar rhythm – the laden train, the wheels turning, the smell of diesel, and him, waiting. He adjusted the rear view mirror, their Mickey Mouse swinging to and fro from the handle in the back, one of its ears coated with dried spittle. He saw his own tired face in the mirror.
The thought of going home sunk something in him. The oppressive routine of simple conversation, over-cooked broccoli and their marriage, wilted and tasteless. Jump on a freight car and ride away, he thought. Keep driving. Live life, live the unknown.
Then the train was gone, just the bells sounding beautiful now after all the hubbub. He watched the last car go, it looked lonely to him, like a fledgling trying to keep up – it’s little red taillights gazing back, reflecting along the polished upper-side of the rails.
The bells stopped, the barriers climbing into the darkening evening. He looked down the tracks disappearing off round the corner where the freight had gone. He imagined himself beside them, trudging along on the stones.
A BEEP from behind made him jump – not a toot-toot of gentleness but a harsh blast. He thrust the gear stick into first and lifted the clutch. Nothing happened.
The world has a cold face, he thought as the engine turned behind the key. He over-revved, the clutch struggling to transmute the effort into movement, his head wobbling from side to side as he crossed the tracks. He didn’t look down them now, that tingle of adrenalin ebbing slowly back inside him.
He lifted his hand into the air between his seat and hers, thanking the impatient car behind. Wednesday, he thought, maybe it’d be her steak and kidney pie for dinner and something good on the box.