Tag: creativity

The stationmaster’s office was a middle-sized room with a broad desk and a wide window facing the platform. There were charts and timetables on the walls and a shelf full of ledgers took up one side. The kettle was steaming on the small stove and a blue teapot stood next to an empty cup with a spoon in it, a light spray of sugar scattered about a milk jug. The huge bulk of the desk was littered with papers, letters and more ledgers, half hiding a few pens, an inkwell, and bright brass lamp.

Mr. Andrews, as the stationmaster introduced himself, pulled up a chair for Iris and asked her to please sit down. He took out a cup with a saucer from an open shelf and handed it to her with a small bow after wiping it briskly, looking oddly like a bedraggled butler. He poured out the tea and offered milk and sugar, asking Iris how her train ride was and if she liked the country so far. Iris answered accordingly, smiling politely when Mr. Andrews exclaimed, ‘Seven days! My, you must be glad to have arrived. Too bad you’re husband’s delayed.’ Yes, too bad indeed. Again the panicked thought that Christian O’Brian might have actually forgotten her tried to steal itself into Iris’ mind but she shut it out quickly. Once she let it in, all others would follow. It would not do to lose her head. It would be much better to drink tea instead. Iris took a sip and realized that the tea was actually fine.

‘I hope it’s not too strong, I’m still practicing making it,’ the stationmaster said a little anxiously, looking small behind his massive desk. Iris said it was perfect. Mr. Andrews smiled proudly and took a healthy gulp from his cup. He was about to ask another question when he suddenly turned to the window. Something must have caught his eye. He put down his cup and got up hastily, excusing himself before stepping out to the platform. Given dusk had fallen rather quickly and the stationmaster’s office was brightly lit, Iris could not see who Mr. Andrews was talking to, but she heard a male voice, younger and deeper than Mr. Andrew’s by the sound of it – her heart lept in her chest when Mr. Andrews said, ‘Of course, Mr. O’Brian. ’

Sitting as she was, holding her saucer in one hand and her cup in the other, Iris did not know what to do. Real nervousness was starting to spread. Iris carefully set down the cup and saucer and sat as straight and dignified as she could. She would simply wait until he entered. It was, after all, inevitable.

‘I just made some tea,’ she heard Mr. Andrews say, approaching. ‘I thought your wife wouldn’t mind a cup while she waited. Sad about the gates, though,’ Mr Andrews continued, ‘Callaghan should finally do something about them.’

Mr. Andrew’s was almost at the door by then, the sound of heavy boots following the stationmaster’s quick tread. Iris sat as still as she could, her heart racing.

‘Mrs. O’Brian?’ Mr. Andrews called. ‘I think your husband’s here.’

Seeing that she could not risk to look hesitant, let alone reluctant with the stationmaster watching, Iris rose calmly from her seat and turned to the door, just as Christian O’Brian stepped into the light.

He was taller than she expected. Iris registered a simple jacket, dark and clean, a white shirt without a tie, a buckled belt and denim. She finally looked at his face. He did not look half as severe as his photographic twin. He was not unsightly, which was a genuine relief. She had not known his hair color for the black and white of the photograph, but now she saw that it indeed was black after he removed his hat before stepping in. His eyes were hazel under two even eyebrows, eyes that looked back at her directly, as if he had always expected to see her in the stationmaster’s office.

‘Iris,’ he nodded and Iris remembered where she was and who was watching them. ‘Hello, Christian,’ she answered and, after a heartbeat of awkwardness, she stepped forward, offering her hand. He took it without hesitation and kissed its back as if he had always done this and this was not the very first time. He held her hand just long enough for it to look like a familiar greeting and then let go, stepping aside to let her pass through the door.

‘I’ll tell Jeremy to get your trunk then, Ma’am,’ Mr. Andrews said and hurried on past Iris into the dark, calling out for said Jeremy to hurry up and bring Mrs. O’Brian’s trunk up front, ‘get to it, lad!’ Iris stood between the light of Mr. Andrew’s office and the growing dark of dusk, fully aware of Christian O’Brian standing only a step away – he turned to her right then as he put on his hat again.

‘My apologies for being late,’ he said politely. ‘There was some trouble with the river again.’
‘Another flood?’ Iris asked. He nodded,
‘I had to wait till they could close the gates. I hope you didn’t have to wait too long.’

He looked at her then, as directly as before. Iris shook her head, looking away, acutely aware of the simple ring on her finger. She was here now, married to this man, and the extent of what this meant was just beginning to dawn on her. It had all seemed far away as long as it was just letters and signatures and a long ride on the train. Now, however, what started with a bright morning reading Mr. Godfrey’s paper ended with her standing on Riverton Station’s platform next to an absolute stranger by the name of Christian O’Brian. She should probably start referring to him as Christian now, though it felt so strange to be so informal to someone she hardly knew.

Iris held her purse tightly and did her best not to look how she felt, which was a wild urge to run and hide. She could not say why, Christian O’Brian did not look menacing, but the urge was there to simply find a place where she could hide herself until she understood what was happening. Not that she didn’t know, and yet the shock was real: she was here. She was really, truly here. It was what made her jump when Christian O’Brian motioned for her to proceed towards the exit of the station once Jeremy appeared, carrying her trunk with Mr. Andrews’ help. She walked around the building to a lamp-lit street where an empty buggy was waiting, the dappled grey pawing the sand. Mr. Andrews and Jeremy made short thrift with her trunk, tying it to the back of the vehicle, Christian O’Brian – she would have to stop with the O’Brian – tipping Jeremy and shaking hands with Mr. Andrews, who asked if the gates were filling quickly again.

‘Fast enough, but not like last year,’ Christian O’Brian answered.
‘Well, that’s something then,’ Mr. Andrews nodded.

He tapped his cap to Iris with a ‘Ma’am’ and waited until Christian O’Brian was seated before he nodded to him as well. Iris, sitting in the far corner of the buggy, saw how Christian O’ – Christian flicked the reins and suddenly they were driving down into Riverton, the grey trotting easily on the sanded road, the turn of the wheels and the horse’s tread the only sounds in the silence.

*

Iris sat as still as possible, her hands folded over her purse in her lap, searching for something to break the silence, but all she could think of was that Christian O’ – no, he had kissed her hand as if it was the most natural thing, and now they sat in this buggy as if they were really a married couple, which they were, and that he was probably bringing her to his house (which she had seen with her inner eye for so many days, she wondered if the truth would shatter her dream), not to mention whether what she had done was sensible or if it was what she felt right then: complete and utter madness.

She did not know this man and yet she was bound to him by all legal actions and even before God, if the blessing of the curate counted as well. Iris watched the quiet, dark landscape pass by, disturbed every now and then by homesteads with brightly lit windows. She watched in silence, trying to tamp down a rising sensation of panic. No, it would not do to fret, let alone lose her head, she was here now and so far Christian O’Brian, no, Christian had been courteous if not a little reserved, but considering his letters that should not be a surprise. It was still difficult for Iris to equal the C. O’Brian she knew from the letters with the man sitting next to her who was guiding the grey down the road, past houses and gardens and other buggies and carriages, whose passengers, thank God, were obscured by darkness. Iris kept to the shadows as best as she could, not wanting to be seen, or worse, having someone stop and ask questions. She sat as still as possible, waiting for her heartbeat to settle, though she doubted it ever would again.

© 2016 threegoodwords

Finally, after all the letters were written and all the papers signed, Iris found herself in her small room, a square box now that it was stripped of all her belongings. Two young men were carrying her heavy trunk to the hackney waiting in the street. She had informed Mr. Emerson only the day before that she would be leaving the city for good on the morrow. Mrs. Emerson, who was in the shop as well, said that nothing good would come of it, Iris was going to her destruction with her unthinking stubbornness, the Territories were a wild and ruthless country, and she was silly to risk her reputation and good health by doing something so rash. She had rather stay and meet George Leibowitz, the young man who always came to buy mints, he had already asked about her twice. Mr. Emerson said Mrs. Emerson should calm herself, Iris had always been an independent young woman, and it was best to let her go, which did not sound like a compliment coming from him but Iris did not comment. Instead, she said her goodbyes, though she only nodded to Carter, who thankfully was busy with a customer. Iris had taken one last look then walked out of the shop, grateful she would never have to enter it again.

*

Standing in her empty room the following morning, Iris looked at the small golden band that spanned her ring finger, made on commission by Sanders, Sanders & Jones, as an initial wedding ring until Mr. O’Brian gave her his own. Mr. Sanders explained it was part of the MCA service, since one could not expect a married woman to travel such long distances alone without the sign of her family status. Mr. O’Brian’s last letter had been short but cordial, confirming the particulars of her journey that she had sent him after receiving her train ticket from Messrs. Sanders and Jones. She would be taking a sleeping car with full board and it would be a total of seven days until she reached Riverton, the coastal town where Christian O’Brian lived. Iris straightened herself, stepped out of her empty lodgings, and closed the door behind her. She had already said goodbye to Mr. Godfrey, Young Hamish, and Mrs. Rose too, who was at first shocked, then irritated, and finally almost benevolent when she saw Christian O’Brian’s picture during their last Sunday tea. ‘It seems you are as clever as your mother always said,’ Mrs. Rose had said then. She embraced Iris when saying farewell and insisted Iris write to her about her life in the Territories.

The train ride was long but pleasant. Iris spent most of her time alone during the first day, watching the landscapes, stations, and towns pass by when she wasn’t reading the book on housekeeping Mrs. Rose gave her as a farewell present. It was written by a certain Mrs. Beeton, an Englishwoman, and apparently was Mrs. Rose ‘infallible guide’ during her first years of marriage. She insisted Iris should have it, ‘all alone out there as you’ll probably be for a while’. It made Iris realize that her clever plan had become an actual reality, since Mrs. Rose obviously believed it too. On the second day of her journey, Iris was accosted by a widow by the name of Davidson during her lunch. Mrs. Davidson descended on the dining coach out of her first class domain, swathed in black and pearls, her portly frame filling out almost the entirety of her side of the red-leather bench. Iris’ table was the only free one at luncheon, and Mrs. Davidson was determined to have a partner during her meal, she was in sore need for conversation, train rides were otherwise very depressing. Mrs. Davidson was very curious as to why such a young woman was traveling alone, unless of course, silly me, she was going to meet her husband, which made Mrs. Davidson smile widely and ask innumerable questions about Mr. O’Brian.

Iris had practiced getting used to being called Mrs. O’Brian and so did not look startled when Mrs. Davidson called her so. She did her best to answer the widow’s questions without revealing too much of the truth of her situation, grateful she could show Mrs. Davidson a picture of her husband, smiling when the older woman said, ‘My, he is a handsome fellow.’ Iris no longer knew if this was true, or if she had looked at the photograph for so long with pleasant, amiable thoughts that Christian O’Brian now seemed to her quite a handsome man. She was still flattered by the widow’s comment, though she was glad when the subject turned to Mrs. Davidson’s children and grandchildren, most of all her youngest daughter who had just born her first child, a healthy boy by the name of David (to honour her father, you see). It was this daughter Mrs. Davidson was going to visit, since she was now in need of her motherly help and advice. Everyone had thought the child would come in two weeks’ time, but alas, Nature could not be stopped, but Mrs. Davidson was on her way and glad about it.

After her lunch with Iris, Mrs. Davidson would have no one else for a partner during her meals, and so Iris had a long conversation three times a day. It did not matter whether she felt no need for breakfast as she did on the fifth day: Mrs. Davidson wanted company and promptly appeared at her door with a pot of coffee, cups, spoons, milk and sugar, and a couple of hot cross buns she ordered specifically from the cook, the scallywag, insisting that Iris at least drink some coffee, she couldn’t stand young people who were too busy to eat well.

They had a pleasant though slightly crowded breakfast in Iris’ small compartment, Mrs. Davidson saying goodbye after their meal since her stop was soon to come. She also left her address, since she was curious to know how Iris experienced the Territories, not to mention how it was to see her husband after such a long time. ‘I know I’m being abominably curious, Mrs. O’Brian, but humour an old woman, if you don’t mind, I always like a lively correspondence.’ Mrs. Davidson left the train late that afternoon, and though Iris missed her amusing questions and loud laugh during dinner, she was also relieved to have the last leg of her journey to herself. Iris felt she needed the peace and quiet of her own compartment to prepare herself for her first meeting with Christian O’Brian, especially after a comment on Mrs. Davidson’s side put the alarming thought into Iris’ mind that the photograph she had might not be an adequate portrayal of Christian O’Brian. Iris felt foolish that that never crossed her mind but it was the simple truth: she would never have sent a false picture of herself and thus expected everyone else to do the same. For a few agonizing hours she went through all the horrendous possibilities until she resolved to patience, it was the only choice she really had. And, if Mr. O’Brian did turn out to be an ogre, she could still live as a housekeeper and return to the city and start her old life again. She would wait and see.

At five thirty-three in the afternoon of the seventh day, the train stopped at Riverton Station. Iris followed the boy who hauled her trunk onto the platform, tapping his cap when she gave him his tip, and found herself in the centre of a crowd of strangers, feeling strangely separate from all the talk and laughter and busy bustling.

*

She was still there, on Riverton Station’s platform, standing next to her trunk, watching as the platform slowly emptied without any sign of Christian O’Brian. Iris turned left and right, searching anxiously for a tall frame, if he was tall that is, or the telling hat, yet all she saw were loggers and families leaving and an empty station hall, until finally the platform was deserted. This was Riverton Station, was it not? Yes, it was. The sudden whistle of the stationmaster startled her, and the first churn of the enormous pistons filled the air. Turning, Iris watched the train slowly pull out like a giant steaming bull, while the lamps inside the train were lit one by one with dusk falling in dazzling colours of royal blue and blazing crimson and gold. It was a fiery sunset, dramatic and bright, though she could not see all of it until the train had retreated into the growing gloom like some ancient beast and finally disappeared.

Only then did Iris realize that she was standing on a platform of a town she had never seen before, wearing the ring of a man she did not know, with all her worldly possessions carefully packed in her trunk, though by the way the boys at both stations had hauled it up and down, all the order must have been destroyed by now. Still, she was here now, and there was no changing that.

Iris stroked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, and looked down herself just to be sure that she still looked the same: a simple starched blouse under her slim-cut jacket matching her deep brown skirts; her boots, though well worn, were well-tended and very comfortable, the tips peaking out from under the hem of her skirts; her hat, a simple straw piece, yes, but it fitted to her appearance which had nothing extravagant about it, nor any frills. Mrs. Davidson had commended her on choosing simple clothes for the beginning until she got used to living ‘upstate’ as she called it. ‘It’s a rough country up here, even though Riverton’s rather civilized. It still shows you have good sense, though, Mrs. O’Brian, your husband is a lucky man. Many girls come here thinking they’re going to the Governor’s Ball, so you can imagine the disappointment when they find out it’s all woods and water and only a dance every other week.’

And it was all woods and water, Iris could see the vast expanse of forest behind the station’s barracks and storage houses, dark pines shooting up into the sky, bright leaf-trees speckled in between, and if she was not mistaken, a mountain range not very far off. Here she was in this wild country, a city girl who only knew trees from the ones she saw in parks and gardens, a young woman who couldn’t imagine how a flood really looked like, though she remembered how the streets a block away from her little room had been covered with rainwater and sewage when one of the pipes burst. It was not a nice scene and the acrid smell had lingered in the air for days.

‘Miss?’ someone called behind her right then. Iris turned and saw an elderly man wearing a blue railway suit come towards her, the stationmaster who had just whistled the train out of the station. His whiskers were smoky grey and his blue eyes looked friendly, his quick steps loud on the planks when he approached her, bowing his head.

‘Excuse me, Miss, I mean Ma’am,’ he added quickly, seeing the ring on her finger, ‘but I saw you standing there and thought you could need some help.’
‘Well, yes, in fact,’ Iris answered, not knowing what else to say.
‘Your husband forgotten you then?’ he asked in a friendly tone.
‘I…’ Iris started, and then stopped. Why lie if the truth was so obvious? And humiliating.
‘It would seem so.’
‘It can happen around these parts,’ the stationmaster said, smiling kindly. ‘Something gets in the way, and suddenly you have to run up the mountain to fix it. I’m sure he didn’t forget you, he’s just delayed. Happens all the time. You come straight from the city then?’ he added. Iris nodded.
‘Yes, I thought as much,’ the stationmaster smiled. ‘It’s good to see another one of the lads got settled enough to send for his wife. It makes things respectable to have women around, you know, and it calms things down. I say, I just put on a pot of tea, the Missus said I should stop with the coffee for a while, what with getting no sleep and all, but anyway. Would you mind some while you’re waiting? You can leave the trunk here, Jeremy will keep an eye on it, though I don’t think there’s anyone here who’d want to take it anyway. None of the lad’s would want women’s blouses now would they?’ he chuckled.

Iris smiled a little. There was a moment of hesitation when the stationmaster motioned her to proceed, but seeing there was no one in sight who looked remotely like Christian O’Brian, Iris walked on. She did her best not to feel frustrated, or worse, scared. What if he had forgotten and wasn’t just delayed? What if the picture didn’t in the least resemble the real Christian O’Brian? What if she had made a terrible, terrible mistake?

© 2016 threegoodwords