The Collected Stories

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Grey concrete and steel and glass in the slow raindrip of the morning station, three porters pushing an empty trolley up the platform to a stack of grey mail-bags, the loose wheels rattling, and nothing but wait and watch and listen, and I listened to the story they were telling.

‘Seven-eighths of his grave he’d dug in that place down the country when they went and transferred him up on promotion.’

‘Took to fishing out beyond Islandbridge, bicycle and ham sandwiches and a flask of tea, till he tried to hang himself from a branch out over the river, but the branch went and broke and in he fell roaring for help.’

‘No use drowning naturally if you’d meant to hang yourself in the first place.’

‘Think there’s any chance they’ll have him up for attempted whateveritis?’

‘Not nowadays — they’ll give him a six-month rest-cure in the Gorman on full pay.’

They’d filled the trolley, the smile dying in the eyes as they went past, the loose wheels rattling less under the load, the story too close to the likeness of my own life for comfort though it’d do to please Lightfoot in the pub when I got back.

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