The Wallet by Jeanette Winterson

[kat_lair]

razorxrosary  asked about this and I thought it might be something others would enjoy too. 

My travel wallet has a short story on it by Jeanette Winterson, commissioned for the 60-year celebration of the British Art Council. The travel wallets were handed out for free last year at the stations across the UK. 

I can’t find an online version of the story anywhere, but seeming as it was, as said, handed out for free, I don’t think it breaks any copyright for me to retype it here for others to enjoy. The story catches a lot about what I love about railway stations (and bus stations and airports and harbours and…); that feeling of possibility, chance and change and daring. Every arrival and every departure is a choice that can be made or unmade every single time.

The Wallet by Jeanette Winterson

ONLY THE IMPOSSIBLE  IS WORTH THE EFFORT

 

Railway station. Point of arrival. Point of departure. A transit zone. How light she looked with just a suitcase she could carry in one hand. Inside that suitcase was a life of which I knew nothing. Inside that suitcase were doors I had never opened into rooms I wouldn’t recognise. In that suitcase were bad dreams and secret hopes. The dirty linen was in a special nylon compartment.

Her childhood was in there, and her husband was in there, or maybe he was strapped to the side, where you keep the lifeboats. I looked at the suitcase, suddenly heavy; too heavy to carry. ‘Let’s just walk away’, I said. ‘You’re crazy!’ ‘Italy, Ireland? Where do you want to go? Paris?’ ‘You can’t do that’, ‘If you’ll give up your past, I’ll give up mine.’ (She looked at her suitcase) ‘I’ll bring clothes, books, and the cat.’ (Her suitcase was getting bigger)’We can start again with the furniture. Make new friends.’ (Her suitcase was filling the waiting room) ‘We’ll rent an apartment overlooking the river.’ (Her suitcase was pressing against the walls) ‘With a bed, a chair, and the morning sun.’ (Her suitcase was pressing against my chest) ‘When we open the window we’ll be like birds.’ (Her suitcase was in my ribcage) ‘Our happiness will be like the flight of birds.’ There was an announcement. The train was standing at Platform 7. You stood up. You picked up your case.

You are the person I love. I can work anywhere. Where the roof is, and where the food is, doesn’t matter. The train, the station, the noise, are meaningless. Your leaving is absurd. I sit down and take your hand. ‘Come with me. Come with me now.’

Two minutes to go. I’m holding your hand. The woman reading Hello magazine is clearly disgusted at the sight of real feeling and gets up to sit somewhere else. The iPod boy props his feet on her seat.

The train is leaving, leaving now. I can’t come with you. You’re not coming with me. The whistle blows. I have to stand up, forcing apart the closing doors.

Then I’m outside again, walking down the platform, walking faster and faster, miming at you to pull the Emergency cord. Just pull it. The train will stop. You can get off, leave your bag, come with me. I’m running now. There’s still time, still time. Then the train moves ahead forever.

Two minutes to go. I’m holding your hand. The woman reading Hello magazine smiles at me. She’s sorry for me. Dear love, risk everything. There is no other way.

The whistle blows. I stand up, still holding your hand, and suddenly you’re on your feet, and we’re both out of the closing door as it shuts on your past, shuts on your suitcase, and the woman is miming desperately that you’ve left your bag. The train is gathering speed now, taking time with it, and we’ve found a second where there is no time. The second that beats between your life and mine.

Then the clock is ticking again, but we’re together. The train moves ahead without us.

 

 

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