God’s Waiting Room

One bright Saturday recently, Angie and I took a day trip to Eastbourne on the Sussex Coast. On the train from my suburb in South London to Victoria, we sat next to an old man with wispy white hair and a sharp features. Two young South African guys, obviously friends, sat opposite us, chatting. In a pause in their conversation, the old man joined in. At first, he asked where they were from and went on to some chit-chat. It’s odd when a stranger invades your personal conversation in a public space and even though it wasn’t my conversation, I felt uncomfortable. In London, it tends to be drunks and tramps and the psychotic who butt in with the confidence of those who don’t have boundaries.

He spent the rest of the 12 minute journey in a monologue, haranguing the young guys with his opinion on employment, unemployment, working on Saturdays and the state of the nation. They smiled politely but did not have the heart to disengage. When we arrived at Victoria, one of them said, “You have a good day now, sir.” On the platform, the old man strode off and from a distance, if you didn’t notice his wispy white hair, he might have been a younger man.

On the train to Eastbourne, we sat by the window. An old lady joined us. Angie was reading and I wrote in my journal. The old lady made a few attempts at conversation. She was immaculately dressed, her hair smartly brushed. I smiled politely and went back to my notes. She caught a young woman passing in the aisle holding a bunch of flowers. “What lovely flowers!” she said as the woman lurched past to the rhythm of the train, “Did you grow them yourself?”

“Uh, no…”

Angie read and I continued writing.

The old lady changed seats and soon, I could hear her behind me, striking up a conversation with an elderly man. He seemed happy to chat but most of the time, I heard her voice, commenting about the weather, the train, the fields that sped by.

I looked up at the golden fields, dotted with rolls of hay.

I wondered as if in a fable, did this neatly dressed old lady ride the train back and forth from Eastbourne to Victoria and back again, chatting to strangers, just to hear the kindness in another’s voice?

Later, in the bright crisp light you get by the sea, we strolled along the promenade. There were a few families and middle-aged joggers and roller-bladers. But the population seemed so fragile and pale. Old men and women moved slowly by with walking sticks and crutches. Some were wheeled in wheelchairs by people who were hardly any less old. Others had their own motorised scooters and whizzed by jauntily.

A woman limped by in khaki slacks and a white shirt, opened to reveal a light vest. Her hair was a burnished auburn and she had a rich tan. Only her skin and her unsteady walk gave away her age. A little while later, I noticed her on a deck chair on the pier, sitting alone, eating her sandwich.

As we headed back to the station, a beautifully dressed old woman with pearls and bright hair ready for a party smiled at us. “Are you enjoying your visit to Eastbourne?” I felt like a guest at a cocktail drinks she was hosting. We paused in the street and exchanged pleasantries. She told us about the active social life in Eastbourne and the society she belonged to where the Duchess of Devonshire had come to give a talk. She used to live in Brent in North London - “not the place for a widow on her own,” she said.

Back at home in London, after dinner, I lay my head on Angie’s lap as I often do in the evening as we chat before going to bed. We had had an enjoyable day out in the sun, refreshed by the cool breeze, calmed by the endless vista of sea. But the dark of evening surrounded us now.

Angie said, “I keep thinking about those little old ladies.”

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Photo: “Eastbourne Pier” by Angie Macdonald. “I took this picture because I’m on crutches at the moment and seeing these old ladies disturbed me. It made me think about how my future might be.”