“It’s a caterpillar!”

He thought that he had lost track of time. It seemed to him that he was waiting at the station for so many hours that the exact time, it’s division into minutes and seconds was completely gone, just to be replaced by this vague passing of the hour, that you cannot count, but it’s only there, hanging from somewhere around you.
He estimated roughly that he must have arrived around nine o’clock this morning, or it was before that, he really could not remember, it seemed odd that his mind had stuck so badly at this issue of time.
Still though the train had not come, his train that is.
A small crowd was gathered now in platform two of the Bath Station, his platform for London, which at times was reducing its colourful size when a train for some other destination was arriving and then increased it again in as more and more people were arriving.
There were no trains to London, none so far. Some mumbling voice had announced via the speakers for sometime now what it seemed to have been heard as ‘some fault on the line’, or he thought that this was what the voice was saying, he had only understood the words train, line, and fault. He had strained his ears to hear better, it seemed that the voice was eating words, he had really made an effort to understand, but nothing more could reach him. He even asked a lady near him, ‘sorry,’ she had said, moving her head in despair too, ‘you see they employ all those foreign people who have horrid accents, it’s awful, they should not be allowed to do this.’
He had returned twice to the Information desk, the man there had simply shrugged his shoulders with indifference, ‘I don’t know much more,’ he had told him, ‘as soon as we will have any more news we will tell you, they haven’t told us much either.’
They did not have another announcement for more than two hours now other than continuous apologies for the delay.
His appointment was for half past two, ‘I will have plenty of time,’ he had told himself in the morning, ‘if I will catch the ten past nine train, brilliant, I will have time to prepare.’ Obviously it was no chance for this now, what, what next then?’
‘ Look, oh look mother, it’s a caterpillar!’ A shrieking voice of a child attracted the attention of some people around, his too. He lift his head not knowing why the noise of this voice had attracted him, the others as soon as they realized what it was turned back to their waiting positions in the platform, not him.
It was a pretty, little girl of no more than four years old that had shouted with joy. She was now squatting on the platform watching carefully some thing that was moving slowly there.
He didn’t know why the whole scene had attracted him, but he approached to see what was there.
‘It’s a caterpillar mummy, look!’ The girl shouted again with more joy, as even and this brown, hairy, tiny thing moving on the cement of the platform was now the centre of her universe.
‘Yeah,’ said the mother indifferently, spending less than a second to look before returning to the magazine she was reading with more interest.
She was sitting in one of the benches in the platform next to a pile of bags, the top one with the picture of a fairy outside.
He squatted too next to the girl, as if suddenly this little thing was worth so much of attention.
‘It’s a caterpillar,’ she lifted her head to him when she saw him approaching.
‘Yes I know,’ he told her, the mother lifted her head to look at him before returning back to her magazine once she had satisfied herself that he was of no danger.
‘Do you know what kind of caterpillar it is?’ He asked the girl.
‘No, only that it is a baby insect.’
‘That is partly correct, well done,’ he said, ‘but do you know what baby insect is it?’
‘No, do you then?’ She lifted her head again to him.
‘No, I admit I don’t, you got me there,’ he smiled to her. ‘It’s a shame isn’t it?’
‘Yes, ‘replied the girl, rather annoyed, ‘you should know.’
‘Perhaps, you are right.’
‘Sophie enough, ‘ the mother spoke now from the bench without even lifting her head from the magazine.
The little girl continued to observe the hairy thing on the ground moving ever so slowly towards one of the metal pillars.
Big, dark clouds started looming above the metal canopy of the platform.
‘It might now rain as well,’ he thought, ‘as even everything else was not enough for today.
He got up and went to a quieter corner of the station, if even and that was possible now as more and more people were gathered there from the other cancelled trains to London, forming a colourful and distressed crowd that like the caterpillar was changing positions in the platform, the more daring ones visiting frequently the information desk.
He took his mobile out of his pocket and waited for an answer from the other end. He had already called another three times for his appointment to tell them about the cancelled trains.
‘I am sorry, my train is still delayed. It seems like some disaster has happened,’ he lied, ‘I am awfully sorry, I am waiting here for hours.’
‘OK,’ said a woman’s voice, ‘but Mr Bradley is going only to be here until three thirty, after that he can see no more candidates.’
‘May I make another appointment to see him then tomorrow?’
‘I am afraid not sir, today is the last day he sees anyone who applied.’
He looked again at his watch, ‘well I still have some time if finally the next train is mine.’
‘I hope so sir.’ She hung up.
The noise of a train’s engine approaching was heard suddenly. The crowd moved as a well synchronised automaton towards the yellow line close to the edge of the platform.
Newspapers and books were closed, and each one tried to get the best position at the front, may be the correct one at the spot where the doors will open, to secure a seat, on what seemed that it would be a very full of passengers train. ‘At last ,’ said someone, ‘brilliant,’ he thought, ‘perhaps I will make it after all.’
‘The train approaching is the delayed nine forty three to London Paddington, ‘said from the speakers the voice of a man, a little clearer now, ‘there will be no other trains until ten past four. This train cannot, I repeat cannot stop in this station due to severe disruption to the signals. Please move away from the edge of the platform. We are sorry for any inconvenience caused. I repeat the next train for London Paddington will be the ten past four this afternoon.’
He wanted to kill someone, ‘but it was fault on the line they said before,’ he told himself loudly, indifferent of what the others might thing for seeing him speaking to himself.
Few passengers near him agreed by moving their heads.
The other ones started to move, alarmed now, in the platform, some leaving the station to catch a bus, or any other means of transport to reach London. Annoyed voices were heard here and there whilst conveniently the station officials had disappeared.
The little one had now a tiny space only to watch the movement of the caterpillar, as the feet walking nervously around the platform had now multiplied.
He felt numb, not knowing what to decide doing, and as if the girl and the caterpillar had become the best point of destruction, or assistance to his problem, he approached them again.
‘Look, look, it’s moving again,’ she shouted joyfully to him as she saw him again near.
‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘it’s good, isn’t it?’
‘It does not walk quickly though.’
‘But it’s only a baby insect, that’s why.’
She turned again to him and smiled pushing behind a thick fringe of her blond hair that had fallen to her eyes.
‘Bloody hell with your trains,’ a fat man said loudly to no one around, ‘all this time waiting like idiots and now this,’ and he sneezed spreading saliva to his chest and turned quickly around towards the steps at the end of the platform to leave the station, flattening to a spot the caterpillar and nearly knocking down the little girl.
She got up and opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out, she looked towards her mother who quiet uninterested continued reading.
He looked at his watch, he had no time now to arrange any other transport for the city. He searched for his mobile, then changed his mind and put it back to his pocket, it couldn’t have been of any use now to call anyone.
A light pull on his trousers took his thoughts away, the girl was holding him, pointing with her little finger to the spot that the hairy presence once stood.
He saw it.
Some drops of rain started falling. A mist like a grey shroud was surrounding the hills opposite the platform.
‘I am sorry love,’ he said to the little one bending over her, ‘I am sure they will be around a lot more caterpillars, look there are so many trees here and they are all full of insects. Don’t worry, you will soon find another one, besides you are going to have a nice train trip now and you will soon forget about it.’
The mother turned around again watching them for few seconds before returning to her reading again.
‘Are you going to be with us then in the train?’ She found her voice.
‘I don’t think so, I have to go home now.’
‘Why? You forgot something there?’
‘No but it’s of no use to go to town now.’
‘Why? What you were going to do in town?’
‘Find a job.’
‘Ah, mummy and I are going to stay with granny for some
months mummy says, now that daddy has left.’
‘Ah,’ he said, not knowing on what else he could say, ‘may be granny has some trees with insects.’
‘I wanted this one.’
He smiled, ‘so did I,’ he told her, ‘ good bye for now then.’
‘Bye,’ she said, still standing near and watching the spot were the hairy dot once was.

Despina Katsirea.

Pont des invalides

Madame Dellesert was crossing le pont des Invalides, looking around her, but completely unaware of what she was seeing.
She had just finished her shift of cleaning at the hotel ‘La Residence du Roi’, and was heading home, far behind Place d’ Italie, where her little studio flat, which she was renting for the third consecutive year now, was waiting for her to clean and tidy it a little, before allowing herself to have some rest.
Food was scarcely her problem, she could have anything, either the stale croissants from the morning’s breakfast at the hotel, or any of the left over rolls with jam and butter. When that was not possible, anything small from her neighbouring shop, or any shop in her way, was fine.
Her woollen scarf tight around her head, the old coat buttoned up to her neck, and the thick cotton socks, all creased around the ankles, demonstrated that she cared very little about appearances.
All she wanted was to keep herself as warm as possible, considering that despite the fact that it was the middle of March, and spring was giving a hint of its arrival from the little flowers here and there that had dared to come out in the Tuileries Gardens, the sharp Parisian wind, whenever blowing, was enough to penetrate any clothes, and reach the body with a razor blade like, chill.
Madame Dellesert could not afford to catch cold, as monsieur Fenet, her boss, would replace her in seconds, should she had failed to show up for work.
A thin sun was appearing and disappearing quickly beyond the clouds, at a whim. By the time the golden statues and lanterns of the Pont d’ Alexander, nearby, were glowing at its touch, there it was going again.
However despite the grey colour of the day, the beauty and elegance of the surroundings of Madame Dellesert’t fine landscape remained unaffected.
The Seine was rolling its green waters quickly, whilst few passengers of the Bateaux Mousse, were clicking cameras non stop, capturing in film, the big, fascinating building, Eiffel, at the distance, before turning to the side, to photograph Notre Dame, and whatever else they could frame in their cameras, that were all carrying around for this reason.
Madame Dellesert was looking around but the buildings, the Seine, the tourists, were registering only behind the list of things she had to do going back home. Not the she did not have any feelings for all those things around her. On a good day’s work and going back home with less problems, she would have lingered around for a while, before catching her bus, just to look at things, and reassure herself that really she had been very lucky to live in such a beautiful city.
Right now however she was bothered with something else. She was saving some money, as much as she could, for her knee operation during the holidays, waiting all this time for Monsieur Fenet’s good mood, when perhaps she would dare as to ask for some increase to her salary, all the others had it already, and maybe still for sometime off.
Then, it was the problem that she had to find what else she could perhaps cut in order to save some more money, and her little cat that needed someone to look after her when she would have been in hospital.
Madame Dellesert was living with no one. Her son had died at infancy from meningitis, and in few years afterwards, her husband died in Algiers, where he was sent with his army unit.
Her little Francois was a brave man, but weak, as most men, and he was not quick enough to show some fake illness to avoid going there, as some others had done, so there he went and killed himself.
No pennies left, or a house, or anything, she had taken up cleaning hotels soon afterwards.
She had never been rich, or well off, or with anything more than work, but at least things had been a little more comfortable.
Madame Dellesert noticed the woman coming towards her from the other side of the bridge, only when she was already close.
She had a rather tall, elegant figure, wrapped in a brown coat with a fur collar, that she had raised high, around her neck to protect her from the wind. Her chestnut hair were mostly hidden inside the collar of the coat, but looked shiny, and their warm colour had little difference from the one of her coat.
As the thoughts for the operation and savings, gave Madame Dellesert for few seconds way to the real life around, she was quick to see that the woman was clutching, fiercely, near to her body, her suede handbag, matching in colour to the rest of her outfit.
The dark glasses, behind which the lady was trying to keep her eyes from the absent, mostly now, sunshine, could not hide from Madame Dellesert, that this was a sad person indeed.
She was walking slowly, looking carefully at everything around, the river, the buildings, the bridge, occasionally even Madame Dellesert. Then, she stopped at the parapet of the bridge, and indifferent to Madame who was the other pedestrian near her, as well as the passing traffic, put her elbows at the stone, and focused her look on the river, as if she was searching for something.
Madame Dellesert’s studio flat, savings and operation, had now disappeared and the world around her took back its shape, and timidly but decisively, as only women of her generation knew to be, approached the lady.
‘Can I help?’ She asked.
The lady turned quickly, as caught in naughtiness, glancing Madame , who quickly noticed two tears rolling down beneath her dark glasses.
‘Can I help in something?’ She asked again, and soften a little the abruptness of questioning that her generation also had.
‘No, no thank you,’ replied the lady, ‘it’s so cold and my eyes are running,’ she took off her glasses, and holding them in her one gloved hand, retrieved with the other a white tissue from the pocket of her coat, and wiped them.
‘Yes, ‘ said Madame, fully in disbelief for the other’s explanation.
‘I was just returning to my hotel, Place Francois Ier, is nearby isn’t it?’
Madame Dellesert turned her body to the direction behind her, and raised her hand to point to the correct spot that la Place was.
‘Are you visiting?’ She asked the woman
‘Yes, I am here for few days work. I thank you for your kindness. The bus I took dropped me some stops away, it was turning towards Saint Germain, I thought to get off here, I am not far I said to myself.’
Madame smiled vaguely and doubtfully as she prepared to leave the lady.
‘Have a good afternoon then,’ she said and moved away.
‘Are you going far?’ She suddenly asked Madame behind her back.
‘Excuse me?’ Madame Dellesert turned a little surprised for the question.
‘Is your home far?’
‘A little,’ she replied now annoyed.
‘You are very cold, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Madame Dellesert, it’s winter, it’s usually cold.’
‘I am sorry, perhaps you think that something is wrong with me.’
‘I thought that from earlier on,’ replied Madame, ‘that was why I asked you if I could be of help.’
‘Kind of you but you can’t really’ said the lady.
‘All right then, good bye.’
‘Do you think you can have a coffee with me perhaps, somewhere around here?’
‘No’ said Madame, totally alarmed now.
‘All right then, thank you.’
Madame Dellesert quicken her step to cross the bridge, trying not to turn around again.
She was disturbed now and all her thoughts for the operation, the cat, the savings and monsieur Fenet, had gone quickly, with the buildings, the statues, the river, and the cold of the afternoon.
By the time she was going down to the traffic lights at the end of the bridge, she heard a loud noise and a high splashing of water right behind her, and rushing to turn around, she saw the woman smiling and moving towards Place Francois Ier.
Madame Dellesert rushed to go near the parapet of the bridge and look at the water which was still circling in round, big circles whatever the lady had thrown into it.
A couple, who was also walking now on the bridge, came near her to look too at the river.
‘Drugs again perhaps’ said the man.
‘What do you mean?’ Madame asked him.
‘Oh, they throw down to the river stuff they don’t want to be found in them, either because they stopped taking that kind of thing, or they are scared that someone has betrayed them, or the police is chasing them, oh they are so many different editions of this story, nasty business.’
The circles in the water had become smaller now.
‘Ah,’ said only Madame Dellesert, hardly capable to swallow what had happened, ‘ah,’ and raising her head from the river noticed her bus passing quickly from the bus stop at the other side of the road, ‘ah,’ she repeated once more, and looked shocked the man who had spoken to her.
The operation, the cat, the savings and monsieur Fenet had lost any importance for her right now.

Despina Katsirea.

© All content copyright Despina Katsirea.