Sarah was allowed to go to the railway station with him unaccompanied. They stood on the empty platform, exhausted mentally and physically, obliged to cherish these last moments together, both secretly, guiltily wanting it to be over.
He picked up her hand and kissed the ring. ‘Don’t worry, Sarah.’
‘I’m not worried.’ She smiled. ‘This time next year.’
He hadn’t thought about the actual marriage at all, once she’d made it clear she didn’t want a quick wedding. Next year was a lifetime away. Perhaps even a bit more. He watched a pigeon walk along the edge of the platform, raw feet clicking on the concrete. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s walk along.’
They stopped under the shelter of the roof, for there was a fine rain blowing. White northern light filtered through sooty glass. Sarah’s face was pinched with cold.
‘Write as soon as you get there,’ she said.
‘I’ll write from London. I’ll write on the train if you like.’
She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m glad you told your mam anyway.’
‘She was delighted.’
She was horrified.
—Marrying a factory girl not that it matters of course as long as you’re happy but I’d’ve thought you could have done a bit better for yourself than that.
His father was incredulous.
—Married? You?
—Oscar Wilde was married, Dad, Prior had not been able to resist saying.
But then his father had come to the station to see him off — first time in four years — and he’d to get out of bed to do it, because he was on nights, and he was wearing his Sunday suit, and he’d shaved, and he was sober. Jesus Christ, Prior had thought, all we need is the wreath.
A small hard pellet of dismay lodged in his throat. Premonition? No-o, nothing so portentous. A slight sense of pushing his luck, perhaps. This was the fourth time, and four was one too many.
‘I expect they’ll invite you over.’
Sarah smiled. ‘I think I’ll wait till you get back.’
He glanced covertly at his watch. Where was the bloody train? And then he saw it, in the distance, crawling doubtfully along, trailing its plume of steam. No sound yet, though as he stepped closer to the edge of the platform he felt or sensed a vibration in the rails. He turned to face Sarah, blocking her view of the train.
She was looking up at the rafters. ‘Have you seen them?’
He followed her gaze and saw that every rafter was lined with pigeons. ‘The warmth, I suppose,’ he said vaguely.
The roar of the approaching train startled the birds. They rose as one, streaming out from under the glass roof in a great flapping and beating of wings, wheeling, banking, swooping, turning, a black wave against the smoke-filled sky. Prior and Sarah watched, open-mouthed, drunk on the sight of so much freedom, their linked hands slackening, able, finally, to think of nothing, as the train steamed in.
The Ghost Road, Pat Barker.
