The Love Detective Page 9

  ‘Oh wow, yes, that’s me,’ I nod. It feels slightly surreal that in amongst all this disorder, there could be efficiency. A list. With my name on it. I’m impressed. It doesn’t seem possible somehow.

  But India, I’m learning fast, is full of surprises.

  ‘That is your train,’ he gestures to the platform behind me.

  ‘Oh . . . great,’ I smile. Well, that’s a result, it must have just pulled in, I think happily. I turn around with anticipation—

  Er, hang on. That’s the same train as before, I realise, expecting to see a different one, but no; it’s still the same train that’s got dozens of people dangling from it, like a heavily decorated Christmas tree. ‘I’m sorry, but I think there must be some mistake,’ I say, turning back.

  ‘No mistake.’ The official shakes his head, and lights up another cigarette. ‘That is the express train to Delhi.’

  That is the express train?

  My imagination, which has been whooshing along, suddenly screeches to a juddering halt. What happened to the luxurious cabins? Dining cars where I get to sip a gin and tonic? Romance and splendour evoking the bygone era when royal maharajas would travel across India in sumptuous style?

  What happened to The Darjeeling Limited and Adrien Brody?

  I suddenly feel like a prize idiot. What was I thinking? Those trips cost squillions and are just for wealthy tourists on five-star holidays. This is real train travel in India, not some glossy Hollywood version of it.

  And I don’t want it to be, I suddenly realise, as I turn to see a family of six climbing on board, and for a moment I watch them with a mixture of awe, disbelief and fascination. Carrying two huge suitcases, a ten-foot-long rug and what looks like part of a car engine, they’re determinedly shoe-horning themselves inside, the huge-bellied father squeezing himself in through the door like an expanded cork trying to fit back into the bottle.

  It’s like one of those record-breaking attempts at how many people you can fit inside a Mini and, sure enough, they manage it and all disappear inside. Apart from the little boy who reappears on the stoop and peeps his head out, glancing around the station with the feverish excitement of any small boy on a train journey. He catches me looking and – despite my predicament – I can’t help smiling. Suddenly shy, he pops back inside.

  The sound of someone chuckling causes me to turn around to find the official is watching me with unconcealed amusement. No doubt he’s used to lily-livered Western tourists unaccustomed to Indian train travel.

  ‘It is a very popular train,’ he grins, ‘there are many people travelling today.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that,’ I nod, feeling a flutter of nerves as I wonder how on earth me and my huge suitcase are going to squeeze aboard. Not for the first time do I regret buying all those pashminas.

  ‘You are very lucky . . .’

  Well, I wouldn’t go that far. I could be watching an in-flight movie and making the most of the free bar as I wing my way back home.

  ‘You have a reservation in AC2.’

  I look at him, nonplussed. ‘What’s AC2?’

  ‘It is a carriage near the front of the train with air conditioning and your own individual bunk for sleeping.’

  Hang on a minute, did he just say ‘air conditioning’ and ‘individual bunk’?

  In the stifling heat of his tiny office, I feel a sudden beat of joy. ‘You mean that isn’t my carriage?’ I ask, motioning outside.

  The official looks at me in astonishment.

  ‘I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that carriage,’ I add quickly. ‘It looks a perfectly fine way to travel. It’s just, well, it looks a little full and I was a bit worried how I was going to fit on there.’

  He suddenly bursts out laughing. He seems to find this hilarious.

  ‘Not that I haven’t travelled on a busy train before – you should see the London Underground at rush hour, there’s never anywhere to sit, and it can get really claustrophobic—’

  ‘Miss Miller!’ he interrupts. ‘There is nothing to worry about.’

  I fall silent.

  ‘Except that if you don’t hurry, you are going to miss your train.’

  I glance at the clock on the wall. The minute hand is nearly on the hour. ‘Oh bloody hell . . .’ I gasp, suddenly realising the time, then clamp my hand over my mouth. ‘Oh gosh, sorry . . . thank you so very much, you’ve been so very helpful!’

  The official smiles and lights up another cigarette. ‘Your ticket,’ he reminds me.

  It’s still lying on the desk, and I snatch it up. I have a train to catch and a sister to rescue. And, grabbing my suitcase, I leg it out of his office.

  By some miracle I manage to find the right carriage and as I slide open the door and the air conditioning hits my skin, a delicious shiver runs up my spine. Gosh, I never thought I’d be so happy to be in the cold. At home I’m always freezing but, after the sweltering temperatures outside, this is wonderful.

  I start looking for my seat reservation. My eyes sweep down the fluorescent-lit corridor and the rows of metal berths. On one side, they’re laid out in single file above the window with two seats underneath, and on the other side of the aisle they’re arranged like vinyl bunk beds into compartments, each separated by a curtain. At the bottom of each berth is a sheet, pillow and a blanket placed in a tidy pile.

  I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s basic, but it’s clean and there’s plenty of room. Compared to the packed carriages I spied earlier, this is sheer luxury. The official was right, I’m very lucky. In fact, it’s much better than British Rail. There the seats barely recline, even in first class, whereas here I have my own bunk bed with a pillow and everything!

  Though what is slightly worrying is that there appear to be four berths in each compartment. Two up, two down, on each side. Which means you’re sharing with three total strangers. Men and women, I realise, as a very large Indian man appears from the toilet and plonks himself on the bottom berth opposite. He starts shelling pistachio nuts whilst staring at me unblinkingly.

  I’m fast realising foreigners are an object of curiosity and I give him a polite smile but he doesn’t look away. Instead he continues to stare at me, transfixed, a little pile of shells beginning to pile up around him. Still, it’s not like that’s a big deal. I’m only on here for a few hours, I remind myself, happily sitting down opposite. I’ll just read a bit of my guidebook, have a bit of a snooze, and I’ll be there.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  I’ve just laid out my blanket and am getting all comfy, when I hear a voice. It’s male and, by the sounds of it, its owner is American.

  ‘Um, yes?’

  I look up from my book and see there’s a man standing at the end of my berth. Only his top half is hidden by the berth on top, and I can only see a pair of faded khaki shorts, tanned, hairy calves, and bare feet in flip-flops. I have a thing about feet, and I can’t help noticing his are very nice.

  ‘I think you’re in my seat.’

  I frown. All nice thoughts about this stranger’s toes quickly evaporate. ‘No, I don’t think I am,’ I say, to the feet.

  ‘This is number eighteen. This is my seat,’ he says, a lot more firmly.

  I feel my hackles rise. Here I am, reading a book and minding my own business, and this faceless person has to come and disturb me.

  ‘Well I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ I bristle, ‘but you’re wrong. Eighteen is my seat.’

  Seriously, what was I thinking? He’s got dreadful feet. His little toes are all wonky.

  ‘No, you’re wrong,’ he says flatly.

  What? I’m startled by his reaction. Honestly, what is his problem?

  ‘Look, I don’t want to have an argument—’ I begin, but he cuts me off.

  ‘There is no argument. You obviously haven’t learned how to read numbers properly.’

  I’m aghast. Talk about rude!

  ‘No, you’re the one who can’t read numbers,’ I retort, peevishly. Well, if he wants to a
ct like a child, two can play at that game. ‘Now, if you don’t mind—’

  There’s a pause. Good. That must have done the trick. He’ll go away now.

  I give a startled jump as a face suddenly appears underneath the berth.

  ‘Are you always this stubborn?’

  He’s got hazel eyes, the whites of which look really bright against his tan, and appears to be around my age, with short, dark messy hair, and stubble. I notice he’s wearing some kind of beads strung on a piece of leather around his neck and an old straw fedora.

  Oh God, he looks like one of those really annoying traveller types. I bet you anything he’s carrying a drum and a copy of Shantaram.

  ‘I think you should check your reservation,’ I say tightly, and with as much as authority as I can muster. Honestly, the ego on some men.

  ‘I’ve checked it. That’s my seat you’re sitting in, lady.’

  Lady? I feel myself physically bristle at the way he says it. God, he’s so patronising!

  And he’s not budging, I realise, as his horrible feet stay planted to the floor and his face remains inches away from mine.

  Right! That’s it.

  Irritated, I close my guidebook and reach for my bag. I start digging around for my ticket. I’ll show this jumped-up . . . annoying . . . rude . . . sexist . . .

  ‘See!’ I declare triumphantly, thrusting it at him like a fencer in a dual. ‘Eighteen!’

  Ha! See what you have to say about that.

  I wait for the realisation, the embarrassment, the grovelling apology—

  ‘That’s a thirteen,’ he replies matter-of-factly.

  What?

  ‘A little smudged maybe, but it’s still thirteen.’

  As he hands me back the ticket, I stare at it incredulously. I feel a sickening thud as I realise he’s right. The number’s all smudged. I read it wrong. It’s not 18 at all. It’s 13.

  ‘Unlucky for some,’ I hear him say, and look up to see the corners of his mouth turning up slightly, in the most irritatingly superior smile.

  I have to grit my teeth. ‘Right. OK,’ I say, in a staccato voice. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I think that’s you over there.’ He motions to the other side of the carriage where, underneath a fixed upper berth, there appears to be two single seats opposite each other. One of them is occupied by a young Indian guy wearing badly fitting earphones, out of which is blasting tinny music. ‘You’ve got the lower berth. Kind of a bummer, as you can’t go to sleep until he wants to.’

  I look back at him in confusion.

  ‘The side berths are different to the rest. They’re narrower, so the bottom two seats are only converted into the lower berth at night, which is when he climbs on top . . .’ He breaks off and I swear I see a flash of amusement in his eyes. ‘I meant, onto the top berth, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ I reply hotly, my face burning. Gathering up my things, I start pushing them roughly into my bag and get up from the berth. ‘Excuse me,’ I say sharply, not waiting for him to stand aside so I can get by.

  ‘Hey!’ he cries, as I wheel my suitcase over his foot.

  Purely by accident, of course.

  ‘I might be a lady but it’s pretty obvious you’re no gentleman,’ I mutter, stalking past him.

  ‘It’s been a long day, I need to sleep,’ he says unapologetically, moving swiftly into my berth without the merest hint of shame at turfing me out.

  And to even think at one point I was envisaging thoughts of an ice-cold gin and tonic and Adrien Brody.

  ‘Any decent man wouldn’t make a girl move, they’d just swap seats,’ I retort, plonking myself down on my hard plastic seat as he makes a big show of stretching out fully on my blanket.

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ he says, punching the pillow.

  God, I hate how men do that. Why do they always feel the need to beat up defenceless pillows?

  Ignoring him, I stare resolutely out of my tinted window.

  ‘You want me to give up my seat for thirty-one hours? Are you serious?’

  Er, hang on. What did he just say?

  Propped uncomfortably upright, in a seat that does not recline, I swivel my gaze sharply across at him.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I demand.

  ‘The ride to Delhi,’ he replies, folding his arms lazily behind his head. ‘Over a thousand kilometres, and thirty-one hours . . . didn’t you read that in your guidebook?’ He motions to it lying on the side.

  ‘It only covers Goa,’ I reply hotly.

  ‘Shame,’ he shrugs.

  I look away, determined to ignore him. He’s just trying to wind me up and annoy me, that’s all. But I can feel anxiety starting to prickle. ‘I don’t understand, I thought this was an express train,’ I say, stiffly turning back to him.

  ‘It is. This is India,’ he says, looking at me as if I’m stupid.

  Suddenly it hits me. It’s not a wind-up.

  My thoughts start spiralling. Oh my god, this cannot be happening. This cannot be happening.

  ‘If I was you I’d get some sleep,’ he yawns and tapping the brim of his old fedora, pushes it down over his eyes.

  I stare at him speechlessly, the horror of his words slowly sinking in, then suddenly I hear a slight snoring and realise he’s fallen asleep.

  Asleep! While I’m sitting here, bolt upright!

  I’m distracted by a blast of jangly music and turn back to see my travelling companion turning up the volume so it blasts out of his headphones. After the stress of the day I almost feel like crying. How did my relaxing week’s holiday turn into this? One minute I was lazing on a beach, drinking out of coconuts with a straw, and now I’m trapped on this train for thirty-one hours.

  I shift in my seat, trying to get comfy, then give up. Oh god, it’s hopeless. And turning to look out of the window, I watch the station disappearing into the distance as the train slowly creaks its way on its long journey northwards.

  Chapter 11

  Saying that, thirty-one hours isn’t that long.

  As the station gives way to the outskirts of the city and we move into the open countryside, I do a few calculations in my head. After all, let’s face it, it’s easy to kill time, isn’t it? I only have to pop into Zara and an hour disappears. Or turn on the telly and whoosh, a whole evening has gone, just like that.

  And I can’t even look at a DVD boxed-set of Downton Abbey without losing an entire day. In fact, on a recent trip to Mum and Dad’s, an entire weekend vanished into thin air because I discovered they had series two and three. Seriously, David Blaine’s got nothing on Cousin Matthew when it comes to magic tricks.

  In which case this journey isn’t going to be a problem at all. There’s lots I can do to pass the time – like, for example, I need to give myself a manicure, I realise, looking down at my fingernails and noticing what a mess they are.

  And that’s only for starters . . .

  Feeling all cheered up, I dig out my nail file and get to work. At this rate I’ll be in Delhi before I know it!

  I had no idea how much fun killing time was.

  After finishing my manicure – in which I get to apply two careful coats, not my usual rushed one – and let them dry properly, instead of smudging them as I’m too impatient to wait, I send my sister a few texts telling her I’m on the train (to which she doesn’t reply, but then I’m not surprised; just because she’s eloping, why should she change the habit of a lifetime?), order some food from a man who comes round with a small list, all of which is in Hindi, and none of which I understand, and spend ages sorting out all the junk in my wallet.

  Honestly, I have no idea who half these business cards belong to, I muse, rifling through a huge stack of various colours and fonts. I stare at ‘Deborah Seymour, Conservatories Are Us’ in Times New Roman and wrack my brain for some recognition. Nope, nothing.

  I screw up Deborah. I’m sure she’s a really nice person. I probably met her at a party and thought ooh, she’s lovely, and she gave me her c
ard and I promised to ring.

  And now here I am, scrunching her up like an old chocolate wrapper.

  Feeling a twinge of guilt, I’m distracted by a baby’s giggling laughter and glance across the aisle where a large, boisterous family has spilled out of their compartment. Sitting cross-legged in the corridor, three generations are passing around food, playing cards, and jiggling a baby who looks like a beautiful, kohl-eyed doll on their knees. I watch as she reaches out a chubby, gold-bangled fist, trying to eat a pistachio shell that has scattered from the large mound on the berth next door.

  ‘How old is she?’ I ask, breaking into a smile. Babies have a wonderful way of doing that to people, whatever the circumstances.

  ‘Nearly one year,’ the mum replies proudly, her face lighting up.

  ‘She’s very beautiful,’ I nod, pulling a silly face as her daughter stares back at me with huge brown eyes, framed with the kind of eyelashes no lash-building mascara could ever hope to achieve. She smiles at me shyly, then buries her head in the bright blue folds of her mother’s sari.

  ‘She is very shy,’ laughs the mum, jiggling her daughter encouragingly.

  She glances at me from underneath her eyelashes and I pretend to hide behind my hands, then reappear. She giggles loudly, then buries her face again, and together we play peek-a-boo, me hiding behind my hands, her hiding inside her mother’s sari, both lost in the game until it’s time for her to be fed.

  As she’s passed to her grandmother to be given her bottle, I turn back to gaze out of the window. I wonder what time it is? It’s probably getting really late. I must have been on the train for hours already.

  I glance at my watch.

  What?

  Quarter to? That’s all?

  I’ve been on here for . . . I do a quick calculation . . .

  Forty-five minutes?

  I stare at my watch in disbelief, then look around me. A lot of people have already fallen asleep. Opposite me, the young Indian guy has fallen asleep in his seat, mouth open, headphones blasting, whilst across the aisle the man shelling pistachio nuts is snoring loudly.