by Cathy Pearson
 "Day
return to St Pauls", I shouted above the noise of an incoming train, whilst
rummaging through the contents of my bag for a credit card. If I missed this
train I would be late for my job interview; not an auspicious start. I was
already getting a bad feeling about this day, there was a lingering doubt about
my choice of clothes and the fact that my hair had refused to respond to every
hair product known to the bathroom cupboard, did little for my confidence. I had
reached the railway station with my nerves still on edge from my run to the bus
stop and then the bus's slow progress through the rush hour traffic. Now
grabbing rail ticket, receipt and card I ran headlong towards the platform
stairs, dodging and pushing my way through the descending crowds on their way to
work. As I reached the top flight, the train was still waiting but I could see
the stationmaster poised with his whistle. As the whistle blew, I was running to
the nearest door, leaping into the carriage as the automatic doors bleeped their
warning. Heaving a thankful sigh, I made my way to a pair of free seats where I
could spread my paperwork and think out my interview responses. The train sped
along and I was quickly oblivious to anything around me.
After about 20 minutes I felt calmer, reassured that my
preparations for the interview in the preceding days had remained in my mind. I
was excited by the prospect of working in London. I'd had enough of small town
solicitors, the predictability of every working day. This job offered travel and
a good salary and the prospect of escaping the narrow-mindedness of town life;
all I had to do now was to persuade them to employ me. I packed up my papers and
sat back, watching the fields turn into industrial estates and houses as we
reached the outskirts of London. It was a glorious spring day, clouds of pink
and white blossom amongst the trees lining the track made me hopeful of summer
and a change to my life. I gazed around the carriage at my fellow passengers.
They seemed untouched by the scenes of spring outside the window. Weary
travellers who made the same journey every day, the scenery held no surprises
for them. The middle-aged man opposite me was engrossed in a copy of The
Times, neatly folded in quarters so that he did not occupy the personal
space of any other person on the train. A young man in the next aisle was
sprawled with his feet up on the opposite seat. He wore a dark checked suit with
a pink striped shirt. He was loudly explaining to his friend that he had
borrowed his tie - a tasteless design of hot air balloons - from a man he had
met in a pub the previous night. His friend, similarly attired, showed little
interest, both were listening to their personal stereos, the relentless drum
beat of the latest dance compilation album the only discernible sound.
The noise of the personal stereos made me realise that the
train was slowing, the clatterings of high speed had drowned out the sound
before. I checked my watch anxiously, but the train was ahead of time so we
could afford to lose a little speed. The train ran slowly alongside a cemetery
and through a tunnel and, as we emerged on the other side, it drew to a grinding
halt. The sound of sparrows came shrilly into the train through the tiny open
window. On one side of the tracks ran the cemetery and on the other a row of
dilapidated terrace houses. The back garden of each house had been severely
fenced in from the intruding gaze of train passengers, only whirling washing
lines were visible above the fences, their washing flapping up and down in the
breeze.
It was then that something caught my attention. In the
branches of an overhanging tree, a small black cat was swiftly clambering to the
highest viewpoint. The tree was bereft of leaves but new growth had produced
some pliable branches which swayed and shook as the cat made its way along them.
Seconds later the cat had reached the topmost branches and stood swaying and
triumphant. I smiled to myself but almost at once my pleasure at the cat's
progress turned to fear. The branches were being whipped about in the breeze
and, unable to take the cat's weight, were bending perilously over the railway
tracks. At the same moment the cat appeared to realise the danger and began to
look for a route to descend. Finding no easy pathway down, the cat turned around
on the branch, its tail streaming out in the wind in an attempt to defy the laws
of gravity. Seeing no other alternative, it looked straight at me and opened a
small mouth to mew pitifully. Forgetting where I was, I jumped out of my seat
but then realised I was trapped in the train, the automatic doors impervious to
wayward travellers. I sat down again transfixed by the cat's plight, yet unable
to do anything. Surely someone in the house would see the cat but, the house
looked lifeless, shut up for the working day. My fellow passengers too had not
noticed the cat's plight; in true commuter fashion they had resorted to sleep at
the first sign of a delay.
The cat was still crying plaintively, but I could only see its
mouth opening and closing. The sound was inaudible, crushed by the oncoming
rumble of a train. As I craned my neck to look backwards I could see an
Intercity train speeding along the outside track. It was not to be held up by
any delays and overtook our stationary train with a whistle of superiority, the
carriages merging to a blur as they sped past my window. I dared not look into
the tree above but I
was aware of a black figure flattened along the branch,
clinging with all its claws as the train passed underneath. The end of the train
shot past and I ventured to look up, relieved to see the cat still swaying in
the tree but only for a moment. The current of air following in the wake of the
Intercity hit the tree sending its branches upwards in the force and throwing
the cat into the air. I watched in horror as I saw the cat turning in the air as
it fell crouching to the ground. It landed on the clinker at the side of the
track. I held my breath, fearing the worst, as the cat lay motionless but,
suddenly it shook itself, seemingly only stunned by the wayward nature of trees
and began to clamber over the harsh gravel towards the fence. A new thought
struck me as I watched its awkward progress; had it broken a leg? I could see
the cat's difficulty in walking on the clinker which gave way beneath its paws.
When it reached the fence, the cat scrabbled up the interlaced boards and stood
on the top unperturbed by the recent events.
Relieved, I became aware of the fear and tension draining away
from my clenched hands. A crackle from the train's intercom signalled a message
and a voice loudly announced an apology for the delay and intimated that the
train would shortly be underway. The clash of brakes being released drowned out
the reason for the delay. I looked out to check if the cat was still safe and
saw a pair of arms reaching up to the fence to pick it up. I could see the cat's
owner smoothing its fur but, as we pulled away, the cat struggled free and
determinedly began its progress up the tree once more. I wondered how many more
train passengers, idly gazing out of train windows would be shaken by the cat's
antics that day.
Ten minutes later we drew into London, only a few minutes
behind schedule and leaving enough time for me to reach my interview. A black
cat had narrowly crossed my path; would it be a good luck omen?
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