Do steam trains go from Kings Cross to Scotland? Lydia asks. Her
father sober smiles. Are you eloping with the Benny boy of yours? He
says. Big eyes staring; blue large marble like. Whats eloping? She
asks, frowning. Running off to be married secretly, the daddy says. No,
Benedict and I are only nine, so how would we be eloping? Practice run?
No no, she says. Nibbles her buttered toast her mother gave. You be
mindful, busy that place; crowds are there. He sips his tea. She nibbles
more toast, staring at him. How are you getting there; too far to walk?
Dont know; Benedictll know; he knows these things. Underground trains
best, the daddy suggests. But how to get the money for fare? He asks;
his eyes narrow on to her. Dont know, she says, looking at the
tablecloth, patterned, birds. Has your Benny boy the money? Sober, good
humoured, he smiles. Expect so, she says, doubtful. See your mother, ask
her, he suggests, smiling, as if. Well, must be off, work calls, he
says. Where are you today? She asks. Train driving to Bristol. Is that
near Scotland? He smiles, shakes the head. No, Bristols west, Scotlands
north; do you not know your geography? The daddy says. She shrugs. Sober
he shakes the head. Well, Im off. See your mother about the fares. She
nods; he goes taking a last sip of tea. She eats the buttered toast,
cold, limp. She sits and gazes out the window. Sunny, warm looking. The
birds on the grass; the bomb shelter still there. Wonders if the mother
will. Money for fares. Knock at the front door. Her daddy answers. Opens
up. Your Bennys here, Princess, he mocks. See you mind her, Benny boy,
shes my precious, the daddy says out the door and away. Lydia goes to
the door. Benny is standing there looking at her daddy walking through
the Square. Her mother comes to the door wiping her hands on an apron,
hair in rollers, cigarette hanging from her lip corner. Whats all this?
her mother asks. Lydia looks at Benny. He gazes at the mother. Kings
Cross, he says. Is he? The mother says. Train station, Benny adds
unsmiling. So? We thought wed go there, Lydia says, shyly, looking at
her mother. How do you think of getting there? Underground train, Daddy
said. Did he? And did he offer the money? No, said to ask you. Did he?
The mother pulls a face, stares at Lydia and Benny. Am I to pay his
fare, too? She says, staring at Benny. No, Ive me own, he says, offering
out a handful of coins. Just as well. If your daddyd not been sober
youd got bugger all permission to go to the end of the road, her mother
says, sharp, bee-sting words. Wait here, she says, goes off, puffing
like a small, thin, locomotive. Benny stands on the red tiled step. Your
dad was sober? She nods, smiles. Rubs hands together, thin, small
hands. How are you? Fine, excited if we go, she says, eyeing him, taking
in his quiff of hair and hazel eyes; the red and grey sleeveless jumper
and white skirt, blue jeans. He looks beyond her; sees the dull brown
paint on the walls; a smell of onions or cabbage. Looks past her head at
the single light bulb with no light shade. Looks at her standing there
nervous, shy. Brown sandals, grey socks, the often worn dress of blue
flowers on white, a cardigan blue as cornflowers. They wait. Hows your
mother? Ok, he replies. Your dad? Hes ok, he says. They hear her mother
cursing along the passage. He says ask for this, but he never dips in
his pocket I see, except for the beer and spirit, and o then it out by
the handfuls. She opens her black purse. How much? Dont know. The mother
eyes the boy. How much? Two bob should do. Two bob? Sure, shell give
you change after, Benny says. Eye to eye. Thin line of the mothers
mouth. Takes the money from her purse. Shoves in Lydias palm. Be
careful. Mind the roads. Lydia looks at her mother, big eyes. Shyly
nods. You, the mother points at the boy. Take care of her. Of course.
Beware of strange men. I will. Stares at Benny. Hes my Ivanhoe, Lydia
says. Is that so. Go then, before I change my mind. Thin lips. Large
eyes, cigarette smoking. Take a coat. Lydia goes for her coat. Hows your
mother? The mother asks, looks tired when I see her. Shes ok, gets
tired, Benny says, looking past the mothers head for Lydia. Not
surprised with you being her son. Benny smiles; she doesnt. He looks
back into the Square. The baker goes by with his horse drawn bread
wagon. Hemmy on the pram sheds with other kids. What you doing making
the fecking coat? The mother says over her thin shoulder. Just coming,
Lydia replies. Shes there coat in hand. The mother scans her. Mind you
behave or youll feel my hand. Lydia nods, looks at Benny, back at the
mother. Mind the trains; dont be an arse and fall on the track, the
mother says, eyeing Benny, then Lydia. Shes safe with me, Benny says.
Ill keep her with me at all times. Youd better. I will. Eye to eye
stare. And eat something or youll faint. Ill get us something, the boy
says. The mother sighs and walks back into the kitchen, a line of
cigarette smoke following her. Ok? She nods. They go out the front door
and Lydia closes it gently behind her, hoping the mother wont rush it
open and change her mind. They run off across the Square and down the
slope. Are we eloping? She asks. What? Us are we eloping? No, train
watching. Why? The daddy says. Joking. Sober. Benny smiles, takes in her
shy eyes. Whats eloping? He asks. Running off to marry, Daddy says. Too
young. Practice run. Daddy said. Not today, Benny says, smiling,
crossing a road. Looking both ways. Not now, not in our young days.